A/N - yo sorry its two days late, hopefully the length will compensate for that. im not entirely sure about this chapter - i dont like it very much, but hey ho. i find it rather amusing that sherlock is emmas ice contact tho (in case of emergency, just fyi if you dont have that in your country)

anyway, enjoy, and please please please give me a review :)

Chapter 11 – Strawberry Fields Forever

Sun streamed in through the windows of 221B, the front room filled with a brightness that made Emma's head spin. She felt hazy, but maybe that was just because of how warm the room was. It was February, but somehow it was hot, and she felt sweaty and heavy, as if she was being boiled like a lobster. She was sat in John's armchair, watching the television, which was blank, though she didn't know why. She couldn't blink, couldn't take her eyes off of the screen.

The screen flickered. The edges were fuzzy but the image in the middle of the screen was clear.

Sherlock sat in his armchair, looking up at the camera. Emma recognised the video that Sherlock had sent to John for his birthday. The blogger had shown it to her in an attempt to make her laugh at Sherlock's awkwardness. Emma hadn't laughed then but she found herself giggling now. Giggling uncontrollably. Why was she doing that?

She stopped herself, frowning.

Some unseen presence pressed play and the image began to move, saying the same words it always had,

"Hello, John," The screen flickered like the television was losing signal, which was impossible, "I'm sorry I'm not there at the moment, I'm very busy," The screen flickered again at the last word, and the sound became distorted. For a moment she swore she could hear his voice, "However, many happy returns."

The screen went completely white for a split second, and when the picture came back it was blurred and flickering. Sherlock paused, his image fuzzy, before the screen came back into focus.

But Sherlock wasn't there anymore. Jim was sat in Sherlock's chair, using his penknife to carve into a deep red apple. He was smiling, grinning up out of the television at her. Emma panicked, her breathing becoming faster.

"Oh, and don't worry," He spoke the same words as Sherlock, but they drove fear into her, her stomach knotting, "I'm going to be with you again very soon." He winked; turning the apple so what he had been carving was visible on the screen.

WOLF

Emma shivered. Jim only grinned wider and stabbed the penknife into the apple. Blood poured out of the wound, dripping down the fruit and covering Jim's hand with crimson. The screen went red and cracked down the middle. Emma was frozen, she couldn't move no matter how hard she tried. Something was running down from the cracked glass, leaving a trail behind it – something that shone in the sunlight.

Blood. The television was bleeding.

She tried to turn her head, forcing it to the right to try to see what was happening around her. Her neck was stiff and her movement was jerked, but she managed to see the windows. They were open, the curtains whipping around them like there was a hurricane, and blood was pouring through them like a waterfall, splattering on the floorboards, splashing on the wallpaper.

Emma started hyperventilating, and forced her hands to move from the chair arms. Her feet felt wet and she looked down to see red liquid seeping up from the cracks between floorboards, soaking into her socks.

She fought against the invisible bonds pinning her to the chair and flung herself forward, crashing into the television and forcing it to the ground, the glass screen smashing and blood flowing from inside, coating her arms.

She was knee deep in it. It covered her hands and arms and soaked into her jeans. She couldn't breathe. She felt faint.

She had to get out. She had to get out or she'd drown.

Emma pulled herself up, using the broken television as support, and steadied herself. She turned towards the door, beginning to make her escape but found the exit blocked by a familiar face.

Jim grinned at her, but said nothing, his eyes wide and his smile even wider. Emma screamed at him and he laughed. She waded through the blood – now up to her thighs – trying to reach the door, trying to reach Jim to wipe that twisted grin off of his face.

She felt something grab at her ankles and kicked out behind her. There was something in the liquid, something that was trying to catch her. A hand gripped her leg and she fell, splashing down, becoming completely submerged. Blood covered her face, caught in her hair, swam in her mouth. She screwed her eyes up against it, her hands finding the floor and pushing herself back up. She was crying, tears leaving streaks in the red that was painted on her face. She couldn't breathe. All she could taste was blood.

"Help me," She screamed it at Jim, spitting blood, "Help me!" The consulting criminal did nothing. He just smiled manically, his eyes bright.

It was up to her waist, and the hands kept grabbing at her legs trying to pull her down as she waded toward the exit. She kicked at them, screamed at them to leave her alone but they persisted.

Up to her chest – she was finding it hard to breathe and every move she made splashed the warm liquid into her face. She was barely a metre away from Jim but he did nothing, only stared. She balled her hands into fists, raising them out of the blood, pulling her right back and thrusting it forward, into his face, it was inches away as she screamed at him before –

A hand caught her fist and she panicked, trying to pull it away from the body that was gripping her. She was awake now, she could tell, but she was too terrified to open her eyes. What if it was Jim? What if he had found her in the hospital? He obviously knew where she was after sending her the envelope the night before. She was hyperventilating, her lungs couldn't take in enough oxygen, her face was wet with tears. Someone was speaking to her but she couldn't hear the words, everything was muffled and nothing seemed real. The person let go of her hand and she felt them touch her face, forcing it up to face them.

"Open your eyes," Their speech was short and the voice deep. It didn't sound like Jim, so who was it? "Emma, look at me."

Emma shook her head. She couldn't. She couldn't look up knowing that he could be there somewhere. He knew where she was. He was going to find her. He was going to find her and he was going to break her.

"Emma Stoneheart, listen to me," The voice was calm, but spoke quickly, "You are in Saint Bartholomew's Hospital. It is five-seventeen and 51 seconds in the morning and there is no one here but me," There was a pause in which the owner of the voice sighed; "you're safe, you can open your eyes. He's not here."

Emma continued shaking her head, her movements small but fast. She was muttering under her breath, her body was shaking violently, "No no no," She muttered, bringing her hands up to cover her ears, "I don't believe you, I don't – he's always here, always watching, how does he know everything? Why won't he leave me alone? No, I don't – I can't believe you, just leave me alone, please leave me alone."

"Emma, I am not leaving here until I am sure you're okay," the hand on her face moved and the person gently moved her hands from her ears, but did not let go of them, "look at me."

Emma stopped muttering, realising who the voice belonged to. The hands were cold and bony, but gripped her own softly. They weren't there to hurt her; they weren't going to mislead her.

They were all she had left.

She opened her eyes slowly, raising her head to look at her father. He looked concerned, his brow furrowed and a frown on his lips. The room was dark – lit only by the clinically white lights in the corridor outside – and quiet. Sherlock didn't speak, he seemed to be waiting until she said something first, the light from the corridor falling on a face in such a way that he looked much older. Emma's breathing slowed slightly, though still remained shaky, each breath rattling her body.

She glanced behind her, just to make sure he hadn't been lying, just to make sure that they were alone. There was no one there, lurking in the shadows, grinning out of the gloom, but Emma still remained on high alert, tense.

She looked back at Sherlock and spoke, quietly, her voice shaking, "He killed them," She whispered, "He killed them but I don't –" She stopped herself, taking a few breaths to calm herself, "I don't remember it, not specifically, I just remember... blood. A lot of blood. I don't know whose it was."

Sherlock shifted towards her slightly in his chair, "Try to focus on something else, now is not the time to panic."

"Well, when is?" Emma's ribs were stabbing with every breath she took, and Sherlock's grip was making her bruised hands ache.

Sherlock was silent for a moment, before releasing his grip on her hands and wrapping an arm around her shoulder. The caution he used told her it was an experiment – he knew she didn't like to be touched and was avoiding another near-punch in the face – and so he was surprised when Emma collapsed into him, burying her face in his coat. It took him a moment to register what had happened, Emma noticed, as he paused before hugging her tightly, his chin resting on top of her head. It was the first hug she had ever received, and Emma felt overwhelmed, her shaking fingers gripping her father's coat collar with no intention of letting go. Her bruised body was aching, but she didn't care, she just buried herself further into him, huge sobs shaking her body.

They said nothing, just sat there in complete silence in the gloom. Sherlock placed a kiss on the top of her head, before moving his hands so that they were on her shoulders, and pushing her back so that he could look at her face.

"He wants you alive; he won't come and find you here."

"He already knows where I am." Emma turned to pick up the wooden wolf on her bedside, and leant down – hissing as her ribs seared – to take the envelope from the floor, before putting them both in Sherlock's hands, "He sent these to the hospital for me."

Sherlock turned the envelope over in his hands several times, first examining the ink and then the seal, "A pig?" He looked up at her, "I've seen these envelopes before, but none had this seal."

"So it's not connected then? It's part of something else?"

Sherlock nodded and resumed his examination, opening the envelope and peering at the straw inside, "Some kind of warning?" He pondered, "Obviously he's talking about the Three Little Pigs but... it doesn't add up, what's the significance?"

Emma shrugged at him, and sniffed. He frowned at her, before leaning over to place both envelope and figurine on her bedside table and collapsing back into his chair.

"What day is it?" Emma asked, realising that she still had no idea of how long she had been out. Sherlock yawned, wide like a cat, and answered her quickly,

"The twenty second of February."

Emma nodded slowly. She had lost three days, that wasn't so bad, "What about that kidnapping?"

"What about it?"

"Tell me what happened," She lay back down on the hospital bed, her dark hair spreading across the pillow, pulling the sheet around her tightly.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, "You want me to tell you a story?" He seemed amused, and chuckled lightly.

"You need to make up for sixteen lost years, dad." She laughed at him, but he paused.

"Sixteen?"

"The twenty first is my birthday. You missed it; I expect a present when I next wake up." She raised her eyebrows at him.

"Consider it done." He smirked, leaning back in his chair and pressing his fingertips together beneath his chin.

"So," Emma looked up at him from where she lay, "Were these children important?"

"Oh yes, very, they were Rufus Bruhl's children, the ambassador to the US. Taken from under everyone's noses at their boarding school down in Surrey." He was staring at the wall opposite, sounding distant.

"Rich, then – you'll be able to get me an expensive birthday present." Emma mused quietly, her voice muffled by her pillow, "So, how'd you find them? I always enjoy how you figure things out." She asked sleepily.

"Footprints – they had traces of vegetation, brick dust and all the other typical things; but then, surprisingly, chocolate." He looked to Emma for her reaction, and she raised her eyebrows drowsily, "after considering every factor together the factory was the only place they could have been."

"The same place I was?"

"Yes, down in Addlestone. He'd been feeding them chocolates in wrappers painted with mercury."

"That's nice," Emma commented, no longer listening properly, her eyelids drooping.

"The boy's still unconscious, the girl's in shock. They're down in the main ward, down the corridor."

"Mmm hmm."

"Lestrade's going to question the girl today, so I'll have to leave." His voice was quiet. He seemed so far away. Emma nodded her head against the pillow in reply but didn't answer. She heard him stand up, felt him place a hand on her arm, "Goodnight, Emma."

Emma felt drowsy. She had done all day.

It was probably all the morphine, but she wasn't complaining. The ability to adjust the amount of the drug pumped into her system at any given time had provided her with sufficient entertainment in a day that had mostly consisted of napping, if she had enough of the stuff she felt like she was floating. No one visited her, though that was probably due to the kidnapping case – after all, those children were much more important than her – she didn't mind, though, after she realised that other people's faces were starting to swim before her eyes.

Just as it began to get dark, the drowsiness took over and she was pulled into a deep sleep, free from nightmares. All that accompanied her slumber were swirling lights and music, calming her, freeing her from the panic that had so suddenly taken a grip on her life.

'Let me take you down, 'cause I'm going to Strawberry Fields / Nothing is real / and nothing to get hung about, Strawberry Fields forever'

She was woken up by the sound of her phone vibrating loudly on the bedside table, the buzzing pulling her abruptly from her sleep. There was a moment of panic as she tried to remember where she was and what was going on, but she stopped herself, taking in deep breaths that ached in her side until she could think straight. She scooped the phone from the table and unlocked it, almost shocked to see that the text was from Sherlock and not John.

Sherlock Holmes (ICE) – 19:58 22/2/12 – Meet me at 221B as soon as possible.

Emma paused, staring at the screen, frowning.

Emma Stoneheart – 20:00 22/2/12 – I'm in hospital - I can't just leave, there are tubes sticking out of my hands and everything, what if I die?

Sherlock Holmes (ICE) – 20:00 22/2/12 – You're only hooked up to morphine for God's sake.

Emma Stoneheart – 20:01 22/2/12 – I'm also sort of super injured.

Sherlock Holmes (ICE) – 20:01 22/2/12 – Please.

Emma sighed. Sherlock never asked nicely, he never begged, so it must be important. She leant forward in the bed to listen out for people approaching down the corridor and, once she was satisfied that the coast was clear, threw the sheet from over her and turned on the spot so that her legs were dangling above the floor. Her left knee was black with bruising, and she wasn't looking forward to trying to walk on it, so she swung her leg forwards and backwards a few times to test it out.

She had to stop, wincing, because the pain was making her eyes water.

She sighed again, closing her eyes and bracing herself, before sliding off of the bed so that she was stood. Her knee buckled, and she caught herself on the bedside table, before steadying herself and straightening up. Looking down at the needle in the back of her hand, she shuddered, before unpeeling the plaster from around the outside and then sliding the thin needle out of her vein. It immediately started bleeding, and she bunched up the material of her hospital gown and pressed it to the back of her hand, putting pressure on it until the bleeding stopped. Her clothes were in a bag at the other side of the room, and her coat lay over the back of the chair on the other side of her bed. Emma groaned, knowing that she would struggle to get anywhere at this rate. She sensed that it would be more efficient to just put on her coat and get a taxi to Baker Street, but then realised that she had no money and scratched that plan.

Still, she didn't think taking half an hour to try to put her clothes on before walking several miles was what Sherlock had meant by 'as soon as possible', so she leant over the bed, pulling her coat back over to her and putting it on, before finding her shoes, which were under the bedside table, and slipping them on, not bothering to tie the laces.

When she buttoned it up the coat covered her hospital gown completely, making her look like a flasher. Emma sighed, mentally preparing herself to be yelled at by drunks in the street, before taking a step towards the door.

It felt like somebody was stabbing her leg, the pain shooting through her knee with white hot rage that made her eyes water. She winced, releasing her breath through her teeth in a hiss, screwing up her eyes. She suddenly missed the morphine, and she needed it a lot.

Her phone buzzed once again, signalling another text. She slid a thumb across the screen, unlocking it, before reading,

John Watson – 20:06 22/2/12 – How are you doing? Haven't heard from you all day :)

Emma Stoneheart – 20:06 22/2/12 – Been asleep mostly, to be honest, would like it to stay that way.

John Watson – 20:07 22/2/12 – Sorry, sleep well.

Emma felt bad for lying to John, but she didn't know whether Sherlock had been with him or not. She couldn't risk messing anything up.

She took a few more steps, becoming more used to the aching in her leg, and by the time she reached the corridor she could almost walk like a normal person, only a slight limp as she stepped on her left; though her eyes were full of tears.

As she reached the main corridor, she recalled something she had heard Sherlock saying a few weeks ago – you don't need a good disguise, you just need to act like you belong. Emma didn't really know how she was going to get out looking quite how she did (she had seen, in the reflection in the glass walls, that her face and neck were heavily bruised, and the cheek that Jim had cut had swollen to almost twice its normal size, and was violently red), however she saw no harm in trying. She braced herself, shook her head to clear it of the fuzziness that the morphine had left, and stepped out into the open.

Doctors and nurses marched up and down the corridor, holding clipboards and pushing patients up and down, none of them taking a second glance at Emma, who looked around quickly for directions to the exit. She started off following the signs over head, walking at a leisurely pace, her head high, like she belonged.

"Excuse me?"

Emma was stopped with a hand on her shoulder, and turned towards the nurse who had spoken. She looked tired, overworked, and had long dark hair pulled back into a messy bun,

"Are you okay?" The nurse asked, eyeing Emma's face with suspicion.

"Um, yes thank you." Emma used the tears in her eyes to her advantage, and spoke with a degree of sadness in her voice, "I'm trying to find the exit? I need to get in touch with my aunt – my," She paused, faking a sob, "My dad just died, we were in a car crash."

The nurse's suspicious look immediately dropped to one of sympathy, the hand on her shoulder's grip releasing, "I'm so sorry," She smiled weakly, "The exit's just down there." She pointed the way Emma had been walking, and Emma nodded,

"Thanks," She sniffed loudly, allowing tears to roll down her cheeks.

The nurse turned and walked away, and Emma's face dropped. She wiped away the tears as she limped on, quicker now, eager to not be stopped again. The automatic doors slid open in front of her, and she stepped out into the bitterly cold air. The chill bit at her aching joints, making it harder to walk, and she wrapped her arms around her middle in an effort to keep warm.

She walked down several streets in the dark, staying quiet save for yelling a few choice curses at men who dared to wolf-whistle at her, keeping her head down. Ahead of her a taxi pulled up at the kerb, and someone jumped out of the back door and ran to the front.

"What was that?" The man sounded surprisingly like Sherlock. Emma squinted at the figure, who was clutching at the cab as it drove away, trying to make out the features. No, that was Sherlock.

And he was standing in the middle of the road.

"Sherlock!" Emma yelled at him in warning as a car approached quickly behind him. She started running, wincing every time her foot slammed on the pavement, but she wouldn't get there in time. The car sounded its horn and Sherlock began to turn towards it, when a figure ran across the road, dragging the detective out of the vehicle's path. Emma reached them just as Sherlock reached out to shake the man's hand, muttering his thanks, and was about to announce her arrival when -

Three gunshots. The man fell to the ground dead.

Three gunshots.

Emma screamed, though she wasn't sure why. Blood was pooling on the ground around the man, pooling around him like it had around her brother.

That was it. That was why she was screaming.

Moran had shot her brother – shot him in the head, right in front of her.

She was shaking again. Screaming and shaking and crying and – she didn't know what was going on, didn't know where Sherlock had gone. She called out his name between great, rattling sobs, but she couldn't see straight, her whole mind was whirling.

"Emma?" She could hear him, he was close, "Emma, get up."

His last command confused her, and she shook her head at him, moving her hands to rub her eyes, to try to clear her sight. When it eventually came back she found herself sat on the pavement, so she assumed that she must have fallen. Sherlock was crouched in front of her, his eyes hard and cold, there was no trace of the sympathy he had shown her that morning. He took hold of her arm and helped her to her feet, but her knee was weak and she could barely stand with her own strength. John seemed to have arrived, though from where she didn't know, and was shouting,

"What is she doing here? She told me she was at the hospital!"

Sherlock didn't let go of her arm, keeping her steady, "I need her here," He said shortly. John was angry,

"Look at her, Sherlock; she needs to be looked after!"

"Well, you're a doctor."

"She needs to go back." John glared at the detective, who tightened his grip on Emma's arm, "Take her back there, before she gets any worse."

"I'm totally fine," Emma croaked, rather unconvincingly, waving an arm at John, who scowled.

"I called an ambulance for Sulejmani – get them to take her back," He spoke to Sherlock, ignoring Emma's comment. Sherlock tutted and Emma looked up at his face, which, she noticed, seemed troubled.

The ambulance arrived little under ten minutes later, taking away the body of the man but leaving Emma, who had hidden around a corner so that they wouldn't spot her. John had been angry for a while, but his attention was pulled another way once the paramedics had left,

"That – it's him, it's him. Sulejmani, or something; Mycroft showed me his file. He's a big Albanian gangster, lives two doors down from us."

Sherlock didn't seem to be listening, "He died because I shook his hand." He said, his fingers twitching fretfully.

"What d'you mean?" John asked, his brow furrowed. Emma looked up at her father, who seemed to be frustrated,

"He saved my life, but he couldn't touch me – why?"

Sherlock sighed, dropping his hands to his sides and marching away. John looked around at Emma, reaching out and arm to put it around her shoulders, before helping her follow the detective as he hailed a taxi. She climbed in after her father, who was still flexing his fingers feverishly, staring into the distance. She glanced up at him, considering asking him what was wrong, but decided against it – every time Sherlock had looked like that before all he had done was tut at her when she tried to speak.

John was watching her warily, and she raised her eyebrows at him as if to ask what he wanted.

"I'm still not happy that you're here." He answered her. Emma shook her head at him, indicating to Sherlock with a thumb,

"He asked nicely."

John raised an eyebrow, smirking, "Well," He admitted, "I don't think he's ever done that before, it must be important."