AN: Hello all. I had to take a bit of a break from this story due to the darkness and general angst that's involved. It's also a pretty intricate story line (for me that is) and I needed to step back. I've been working on other stories here and there, but I promise I haven't abandoned this! To those who are still keeping up with me, thank you so much. I really appreciate it.
So yes. This chapter...not one of my best, but I promise we will be getting on with it. Oh and a hugeee thank you to everyone who has faved and followed. I have gotten so much especially on my Study in Colour story that it makes my head spin! Love you all xx
After Mycroft had left, Sherlock sat in his chair for nearly three hours, reticent and nearly catatonic. The tea and soup John brought him remained untouched like he knew it would be. He had a shift at the surgery that day, but he hurriedly called up Sarah and decided to cash in his abundant vacation time, apologising for the short notice. Luckily Sarah was understanding given the fact that it was over two years since he even voluntarily used his vacation at all.
Sherlock did look at him at this, and John's eyebrows rose up in challenge, but Sherlock didn't argue or even seem to care and turned to stare back at the wall.
"I'm going out. We need stuff for the flat, and I need to pick up your antibiotics," John says some time later. Sherlock remains silent. "Okay, then. Just…stay here and call me if you need anything. Mycroft left a new mobile for you on the table." He lingers at the doorway for a moment staring hopelessly at his friend, his friend that came back so lost and broken and he has absolutely no idea what to do to fix it.
For three days Sherlock doesn't sleep, and only eats when John forces the antibiotics into him. On the fourth day, John is frustrated beyond belief, and decides that even if he has to strap Sherlock down, he's going to make him eat a decent three square meals and make him sleep for at least ten hours. If he's honest, he's more angry at himself for not knowing what do for him. (He's John. He should always know.) He decides to take a shower first to calm down lest he take his frustration out on Sherlock. He tries to take the route through the kitchen in order to bypass the sitting room, when he stops short.
"John?" Sherlock's voice rasps from around the corner. It's the first thing he's said since Mycroft's visit and it sounds like rusty nails. John forgets his shower and comes into the sitting room.
"What is it, Sherlock?"
Sherlock stands at the window with his back towards the rest of the room. The light breeze wafting in rustles his dressing gown, and at first John doesn't realise the soft shimmer of the material is actually due to the fact that Sherlock is trembling underneath it. He takes a few steps towards his friend, and places a hand on his shoulder. Sherlock's reaction is a violent one: he shouts and flinches away, and John nearly trips over his feet backing away.
"Don't — don't touch me," Sherlock says and turns around, his eyes tightly closed his fingers gripping his hair. "I can't be held accountable for what I might do."
"Do? What do you mean?" John asks. It's taking all of his willpower to keep his distance and not rush over and check obsessively for injury or illness. He experiences mild panic when he catches sight of the sheen of sweat on Sherlock's upper lip. Did he have a fever? Was he taking his antibiotics? Because if he wasn't —
"I don't know where I am," Sherlock answers almost practically even though there was fear etched into every word under that steady monotone. "Every time I open my eyes I'm back…there. At the facility. I might think you are trying to hurt me if I open them and it's not you I see. But for some reason, your voice remains unchanged."
John's mind was whirring. He thought he knew exactly what this was, not being a stranger to the phenomenon himself. "You think…you're having a flashback?"
"As inconvenient as it is, yes." He manages to still sound put-off even though he sinks to the floor, his head in his hands. "I'm in the flat, correct?"
"Yes. I promise," John says, and he takes a few steps towards him.
Sherlock snorts disdainfully. "It wouldn't be the first time you've said that."
John blinks. "I'm real this time Sherlock, I —"
"If you say 'I promise' again I might just have to hurt you anyway. Hallucination or not." Sherlock's attempt at levity falls rather flat as John inhales a painful breath. Sherlock seems to catch on to the fact, and he continues in a small voice. "It's how I knew you were real after all, you know. There are just some things you can't delete. Some people…"
Something inside John breaks just then, and he kneels down beside Sherlock.
"Don't worry, I'm not going to touch you," John says when he stiffens and tries to push himself further into the wall. "Can you try to open your eyes?"
"No. If I do it will take me."
John scuffs a hand through his hair, and shimmies back until his side by side and resting likewise against the wall. "All right…this is going to be unpleasant, but you need to describe to me where you think you are. As much detail as you can."
"Does that work…for you?" Sherlock asks in a small and somewhat hopeful voice.
"Sometimes. I haven't had a flashback in a long while, though. Okay so you can hear me, that's good. Can you hear anything else?"
"The fans that circulate the air in my cell. Hateful, constant white noise. They're coming to take me soon. To question me." John doesn't miss how Sherlock's frame coils with tension.
"No they won't," he soothes. Sherlock practically growls in frustration.
"I can't trust you! Damn it, John! This isn't working."
"Hang on…" John says getting to his feet.
"John —"
"I said, bloody wait, Sherlock," he says again and searches under piles of paper scattered on the desk. He finds what he's looking for next to the couch a moment later, and with his hand he swipes the dust off the brown leather case. He sighs when he looks down at the lacquered cherry wood and silver strings, and takes a moment to let that aching grief wash over him. Then he comes back to his friend's side and gently sets the violin into Sherlock's lap. "Tune it."
Sherlock is at a loss for words, and his throat works against a lump as he swallows hard a few times. He lifts the violin up with his dexterous finger as if he's afraid it will vanish, testing its weight and its length by touch alone. He runs a broad palm against the warm wood, almost reverently, and it's a wonder to watch him. John takes his seat against the wall again as Sherlock takes to tightening the pegs at the scroll. The pad of his left thumb caresses one string at a time as his right hand expertly manipulates the tone. He hums in tune with each of the strings, cocking his head to the side with the utmost concentration. John struggles to suppress a grin when he sees that Sherlock hasn't even noticed he's opened his eyes. Finally, he strums the four strings in harmony, letting the sound resonate brightly. He exhales shakily, and lowers the violin.
"John…how did you do that?" Sherlock asks with something akin to awe and gratitude. It makes him smile wider. Sherlock turns back to the instrument and plucks out a simple tune with lithe fingers humming along lightly before he stops and frowns.
"Okay, Sherlock?" John asks when Sherlock lowers the violin. He snaps out of what ever reverie he was in, and turns to him his grey eyes coming back into focus.
"Yes I…yes." He nods slowly, biting his lip thoughtfully. Then, "John?"
"Mm?"
"I'd quite like some toast."
"Sure," John says positively bursting with joy at the prospect of something to do. For the first time it feels like a step in the right direction. He pops two slices of bread into the toaster. "Anything else? Beans maybe?" he asks.
"Just toast," comes Sherlock's reply. Ah well. Here's to trying. While John bustles around the kitchen, Sherlock picks up the tune he had be playing earlier, and John begins humming along to it, a warmth spreading through out his chest. The tune is somber at first, but then like the clouds parting to reveal the sun, the tempo picks up and there is a sweetness to the melody that reminds John of hope. If something so abstract as hope could have a sound, he was sure this was it. It's quite beautiful and buoyant. Which is why he's surprised when Sherlock abruptly stops and throws himself into his chair with a frustrated growl.
John comes over with a cup of tea and a plate of toast, and Sherlock takes it even though he has a scowl on his face. John sits in the chair opposite and sips his tea expectantly.
"It's been stuck in my head for three days," Sherlock says without preamble.
"What is it? A new composition?"
"No idea. It's infuriating," he says and takes a savage bite of toast. "There are these holes, pockets of time missing from my memory, and they are more obvious now that Mycroft mentioned it. I can't think; I can't remember."
"Have you tried your MindPalace thing?" John asks, crossing a leg over his knee. Sherlock stills and his eyes slide to the floor.
"Can't get in," he says in a flat voice.
"Sorry? What do you mean you can't get in?" John asks with a puzzled smile. His smile fades when Sherlock closes his eyes with a weary sigh. "Seriously?"
"It's appears I'm having some sort of 'meta-crisis' that has manifested itself as a tangible block in my mind, so no I can't bloody well get in and access the appropriate data," he snarls.
"Okay, calm down. Maybe you just need some sleep. You've been up for days," John reasons. Sherlock makes a pained noise in the back of his throat and get up angrily.
"It's worse when I sleep," he says in a small voice and presses his fingertips into the hard wood of the mantle. After a minute, he begins tapping idly, and John notices it's the little melody from before. "Every time I close my eyes I am back in the darkness with nothing but that glaring door mocking me. It hurts when I try and open it, so I am just left there in the nothing. Alone."
"Sooner or later you're not going to have a choice. Your body will choose for you," John says. He's not sure what else he can say, and he slips into Doctor Mode on default. This was apparently the wrong thing to say, because Sherlock smacks his hand against the mantle.
"Yes, thank you, I am aware of that!" he shouts, and inhales sharply. There's an awkward silence that descends over them growing worse by the minutes. It gnaws at John, but he knows his infuriating friend won't ever be the one to break it, so he clears he throat. Before he can say anything however, Sherlock spins around, his eyes fastening to the door. "Someone's here."
"What?" John says surging to his feet just as there is a slight knock on the door. Panic floods him. They haven't discussed their plans regarding Sherlock's return, and if he's honest, a rather large part of him feels like — no knows — Sherlock isn't ready to announce himself to the world. And maybe the world isn't ready for him yet either. Sure the exoneration and the hype concerning the whole thing had simmered down, but he knew something like this would be a bloody powder keg as far as the media was concerned. He realised that there would always be people to tear Sherlock apart no matter how much time had passed. It was irrevocable.
"No one else knows of my existence. Mycroft has seen to that," Sherlock says, and he's not sure if it's for John's benefit or his own. The knock comes again, more impatiently, and John doesn't miss the tightening around Sherlock's eyes.
"Hang on. I'll get them to go away," John says.
"No, wait. I think I know who it is…" Sherlock trails off, and pulls his mobile out of his pocket.
"Mycroft?"
"No. He won't come unless I request it of him. He knows how much his presence…disconcerted me last time," Sherlock says, the tension in his face being replaced by intrigue. He strides to the door and gallops down the stairs, John hot on his heels.
"Hang on you git!" John says shoving Sherlock aside before he could fling open the door. "Do you want people to see you?" Sherlock rolls his eyes and gestures for John to open the door. He leans back against the wall in a petulant huff.
John glares at him, and wraps his fingers around the knob steeling himself for whom ever he would find.
"Hello, John," Anthea, of all people says, her dark eyes glittering. "May I come in?"
"Er…" John says. Apparently his permission didn't really matter in the end because Anthea doesn't wait for an answer and swiftly side-steps him and makes her way into the hall. Gobsmacked, John closes the door.
"Anthea," Sherlock acknowledges with a bored air. "In case my brother was unaware, I am in perfectly capable hands, and do not actually require a nanny."
She looks at him with her manicured eyebrows raised and adjusts the strap on her shoulder where a leather briefcase was slung. She looks at John with a sultry twinkle, and he is suddenly very aware that he is still in his ratty terry cloth dressing gown. "He always thinks everything is about him, doesn't he? You must get so tired of it. John, I would like some tea, however skip anything with bergamot in it." And with that she turned on her heel and marched up the stairs.
"Er…" John says again, flummoxed. He looks at Sherlock, and sees that his glittering blue eyes are tracking the retreating form of Anthea with the unbridled glee of a puzzle waiting to be solved. He pushes himself off the wall and bounds up the stairs.
When John makes it back up to the flat he finds Anthea and Sherlock facing off in front of each other; Anthea perched on the edge of his armchair with a wry smirk, and Sherlock slouched in his chair, longs legs stretched out in front of him, and his hands clasped under his chin. They sit there in defiant silence, before Anthea says again:
"Tea, John?" Her eyes never leave Sherlock's.
"Right, I'll…" he turns into the kitchen and plugs in the electric kettle, and makes his way up the stairs to change.
John figured he might as well have been invisible as he came back into the sitting room a few minutes later with the tea tray. He just set it on the small table and sat on the sofa trying to ignore the uncomfortable tension in the room.
Finally, Sherlock leans forward intently and rests his forearms on his knees.
"So, Anthea — or what ever you are deciding to call yourself these days — tell me about Moran." John leans forward likewise on the sofa, every sense on high alert.
Anthea quirks the side of her mouth and sets down her tea cup. She pulls out crimson file the exact shade of her lipstick and rests it delicately on her knees.
"After the incident at FortLondbow, Moran was taken to a secure location and Special Tactics alerted to the goings on at the base. You will be happy to know the others who were in your situation have been removed and debriefed."
"Others? What others?" Sherlock asks his brow furrowing.
"You weren't the only one chosen for The Project. From what we know, this has been an ongoing organisation extending back to 1990. You already know of the its star protégé."
"Moriarty?"
"Precisely," Anthea says and hands the dossier over to him. He flicks it open with a lit of his wrist. "Mycroft suspects the Director propositioned James Moriarty when he was still at University."
"Moriarty was an alumni of MIT?" Sherlock muses.
"He was very bright when it came to computers; a clear asset. He was the forefront on organising clients that could prove useful to the Director's various agendas. The Key Code —"
"The one I was tortured for," he interjects. "Despite the fact it never existed."
"Yes. The Key Code was a fake, but the idea was very real."
"According to Mycroft." She nods. He leans back in his chair, a thoughtful expression coming over his face. "I remember…remember them wanting me to design something. To come up with a working algorithm…" He clenches his jaw, and his focus snaps back into place. "How is Moran involved? He wasn't particularly bright to warrant such attention from STF."
"No but he is highly gifted in another regard; he has a penchant for violence. This is what caught Moriarty's eye, and he surrounded himself with people like him after he betrayed the Director and broke off on his own. So you can see why Sebastian became an asset to the Director after Moriarty killed himself."
"And we still don't know who the Director is?" Sherlock asks, his eyes flicking over the dry pages.
"Mycroft thinks we might have the data, but no way to access it," Anthea says, and takes a sip of her tea. She looks up at him pointedly from under her glossy lashes.
"Mycroft thinks I know." It's not a question.
"What do you think?"
Sherlock slaps the file shut and crosses his arms over his chest. "Is he planning on cracking open my skull in order to retrieve his precious data, then? Because at this point nothing short of that will do," he says with a growl.
"He said you were dramatic," Anthea sighs, and John nearly laughs out loud. Did she remember who she worked for? "But yes. That is essentially the goal."
"And he sends you do to the cracking," Sherlock sneers. "Are you sure you're qualified?"
"My forte is psychological analysis; I know what makes the mind tick, and what causes it to stall like an engine in rare cases of trauma."
"What a simple PA?" Sherlock arches an eyebrow disbelievingly. "There's more. What aren't you telling me?"
"My relation to this specific case is unique," she says, but doesn't elaborate. A tense silence follows her words.
Sherlock regards her with a curious tilt of his head. "Why do you call him Sebastian?" he says suddenly, and John is surprised to see Anthea's composure slip just a little. She looks away and adjusts the hem of her skirt before swallowing.
"You obviously know why," she says, her tone blasé. However, John doesn't miss the light tremble of her fingers.
"Humour me," he says, a cruel twist to his lips.
Anthea squares her shoulders and meets his gaze head-on.
"Sebastian Moran is my brother."
