Chapter 10- You Make Me Better

Mallory

I sat next to Sherlock's bed in St. Bart's Hospital, absently running my fingernails over the stitches in my right hand. After I'd grabbed the broken edge of the pipe, I'd managed to slice my palm open pretty badly, but it was quickly resolved with eight stitches. In fact, I was the one who'd gotten out of Rotherhithe Tunnel in the best shape: John had suffered a concussion, and Sherlock had sustained too many bruises and breaks to count, plus some internal bleeding. They'd rushed him into X-rays as soon as we got to St. Bart's, and from there into the operating room. He was sleeping off the anesthesia now. John, after staying for about an hour, had gone home to get some rest, promising to come back as soon as he was well again. There have been a few familiar faces who've stopped in to visit: Molly, to check his medication, hear the full story, and offer many words of comfort; Donna, to ask what the hell I'd done after I dropped her off at the other end of the Tunnel and to help keep up Sherlock's vigil; and Lestrade, for a complete debriefing and to tell me that it looked like we were in the clear, as far as Internal Affairs was concerned.

"Of course, they might not see Sherlock's disappearance as a national emergency," he said, "but they'll be too proud of his dramatic rescue to mar the story with those ugly details. Nah, they won't raise a fuss if the story makes the Yard look good."

"The Tunnel didn't flood, did it?" I asked. "It runs under the Thames and we set a grenade off inside it."

"Clearly, you have little faith in London's architects," Lestrade replied. "The Tunnel held up, but still—don't go setting off grenades in submerged traffic tunnels anymore." He stood up and patted my shoulder bracingly, glancing out the window. "The sun's gone down, Hudson. You can't stay here forever. Get home soon, and safe, okay? You've still got a week left of sick leave."

"Yes, sir," I promised. Lestrade nodded at me and left, leaving me alone with a sleeping Sherlock. I leaned forward, wrapped my hands around his left one, and waited for him to wake up, falling asleep in the process.

I was suddenly woken up when someone yanked my chair backward, tipping it and me onto the floor. The wooden back crashed against the linoleum and knocked the wind out of me, and I tried to roll onto all fours, but the sole of a stiletto-heeled boot appeared upon my throat, crushing my windpipe.

I recognized my attacker by the light of Sherlock's monitors. Pieces of her red bun were falling out, and her purple business suit ripped and dirty, but it was definitely her: Deborah Mattern.

And she looked as angry as a bull.

"Sergeant Hudson, caught off guard? Seems like the stuff of legend," she whispered threateningly. Still waking up, I struggled against her boot, thankful that the heel had missed my jugular. "Screwing with your friends has been divine, but killing you right in front of your cyborg boy-toy is going to be a privilege."

I grabbed her heel and tried to drag her boot off my throat, but I only succeeded in snapping the heel clean off. Not one to be easily discouraged, Mattern shoved the entirety of her boot onto my throat, enjoying my agony. My confusion and her rage gave her the upper hand, and soon enough, black spots were teasing the edges of my vision.

"You killed my brothers," she snarled as my struggles against her vengeance grew weaker. "You know I'm a vengeful woman, Hudson. What do you think it would take for me to stop?"

Suddenly, a bare arm wrapped around her middle and yanked Mattern backwards, the pressure of her boot on my throat easing up. As I took a great, rasping breath and rubbed my throat, I watched Mattern's face go from angry to scared as a pale hand holding a huge, needled syringe suddenly appeared and stabbed the needle into the side of her neck.

I crawled away, keeping one hand on my now-bruised throat, as Deborah Mattern's limp body fell to the floor. Behind her, clutching the bloody needle in his hand and breathing heavily, stood Sherlock.

"Well, it's all over," I said hoarsely, sitting down at Sherlock's bedside. "Her body's cleaned up, I've been debriefed, and you're cleared of all charges." I took a sip of my tea. "Thanks for that."

"No problem," Sherlock replied, fidgeting uncomfortably against his restraints. "Why do they have to tie me down?"

"You did just kill a woman," I answered. "I don't think they want to take any chances. How on Earth did you manage to wake up just in time?"

"I had burned up the anesthesia mostly, and I was just sleeping by then," Sherlock said. "The sound of your chair hitting the floor was sufficient enough to wake me up."

"Where did you get the syringe?"

He shifted his left arm. "It was close by."

Suspicious, I set my Styrofoam cup on the hospital tray table and reached across the bed to his left arm, twisting it so the wrist was facing up. In the center of his forearm was a ragged, bloody hole.

Right where a syringe would've been.

"You ripped it out of your own arm? Sherlock, are you insane?"

"You were about to be killed, I couldn't dawdle!" he retorted. "I thought of something quickly, and I acted! If I hadn't, you'd be dead instead of her." He looked away from me. "I couldn't stand the thought."

Why did he have to be so self-destructive and so romantic at the same time? The tension drained out of my shoulders as I said, "Please don't do it again, okay?" I leaned down to gently kiss him and sat back down, resolving to keep a closer eye on him.

"By the way, I had us both checked out for STDs," I said. "They took some of your blood while you were asleep. We're both clean, and I'm not pregnant." That incredible night we shared seemed so long ago after everything that's happened.

"Right," he said absently.

"I brought some cold case files for you, to relieve the boredom," I said. "Since your hands are literally tied I guess I'll read them to you?" When he didn't answer, I shrugged and opened the first file. "Evan Burke—"

"He was right," Sherlock interrupted. "Moriarty. He was right."

I closed the file and stared at him. "What medications do they have you on?" I asked. "Sherlock, since when is Moriarty right about anything? He's insane!"

"He said I was becoming more emotional, more sentimental," he replied. "He was right. I am more emotional, and now my emotions are influencing my actions. If I weren't so panicked for your safety, I could've probably found a way to keep both you and Mattern alive. I was so scared that I did the first thing I thought of, not the most logical. And as a result, Mattern ended up dead."

How could Sherlock think emotions were a bad thing? Was this honestly how he went through the day, divorcing himself from emotions in favor of logic? I had to turn this around, now.

"Sherlock," I began hesitantly. "Can you think of any possible way Mattern could've come out of that alive?"

His eyes darted from side to side as he calculated Mattern's odds of survival. "…No," he answered.

"So why are you beating yourself up?" I said, scooting my chair closer.

"Because what if I take another life when they could be spared?"

"Sherlock, you protect people for a living. Do you really think you'd take someone's life if it couldn't be avoided?" Finally, he looked at me, and I packed as much meaning into my gaze as I could. "Sherlock, feeling emotion isn't a weakness; in fact, it's strength. Remember on the Irene Adler case, when my mum was attacked? You tossed a U.S. government official out the window multiple times because of what my mum meant to you. That act sent a message to the people on Irene's trail and Irene herself—not to mess with us. And look at that: they didn't. When we first met Moriarty and he sent us those puzzles to solve in exchange for the lives of hostages, you cared enough about the hostages to solve the puzzles and save them. You saved the little kid in nine seconds! If I was in your position, I would've thrown up from the pressure." I curled my hands around one of his, squeezing it comfortingly. "It's okay to care, Sherlock. You always have. Your emotions are just manifesting more often nowadays—"

"Because of you," he interrupted, with a look of genuine surprise on his face. He must've just realized. "Moriarty was right on that aspect. I'd noticed, and I'd been wondering about that for a while."

"What are you talking about?" I asked. Where on Earth was he going with this?

"I don't know what it is, but there's something about you that just…changes me," he said. "Because of you, I care more about the outcome of a case. I care more about making sure the wrongdoer atones instead of just getting him off the streets. I don't understand it…but I like it. It feels nice. It's okay with me that Moriarty was right just this once—in fact, I'm glad. You make me more human."

Tears were welling up in my eyes. Sherlock said he was more human because of me—if that's not the highest praise anyone can receive, I don't know what is. "My little human," I said. "I don't care what you say; you're a womanizer if I've ever seen one." He chuckled. "Thank you, Sherlock," I said, standing up to kiss him on the lips, mumbling, "I love you," against them.

When I sat back down, I came to a realization somewhat similar to his. "You make me better, too," I said. His eyebrows briefly knitted together in confusion. "When I'm working cases, I try to get inside the insane mess that is your brain and look at a crime scene through your eyes. I try to catalogue every little detail and analyze them as objectively as I can, like you would. And it works most of the time."

"My lovely detective," he said endearingly (or as endearingly as Sherlock could get).

"We make quite a pair, don't we?" I said, my voice shaky.

"John once called us a dream team," he replied lovingly.

"Oh, my God," I said. "John doesn't know about Mattern. I haven't even called him yet!" I fished around in my pocket for my mobile and stood up. "I'll just call him, see if he's awake," I said. "Then we can get back to the teary rom-com." I bent over to kiss him again and left the room, a few tears still in my eye.