There was shouting in the hallway. Sherlock gripped the bars and held his breath. He hated not knowing. His throat ached as he tried to shout for someone to come in the room and tell him.
Maybe a little water wouldn't hurt. Just a sip.
An officer he recognized from a number of crime scenes walked through the door. He made a show of not looking toward Sherlock. His shirt was carefully tucked in and his tie clipped into place. Sherlock hardly interacted with the man but he knew that he was recently engaged to a woman he imagined was in the service industry. He'd have to take a better look at his tie clips to be sure.
"Hello?" Sherlock said as the man rummaged through a pile of papers on the table against the wall.
He ignored him.
"Hello?" he said a bit louder.
The man looked up at him for a moment. "What is it?" he snapped.
Sherlock pointed towards the hallway. "What happened?"
"Wouldn't you like to know," he said.
Sherlock looked at him with desperation. "Tell me, please."
The man shook his head with a self-righteous smile. "I don't think so."
"Why?" he asked quietly. He felt his chest tighten as he tried to move across his cell. He was in a danger zone. If he wanted to hold out a bit longer he would need to be careful.
The man dropped the papers and took a few steps over to Sherlock. "Why? You know want to know why? Because you have ruined my goddamn life, that's why."
Sherlock stared at him with confusion. "I don't even know you."
The man slapped his leg. "You don't?" he stammered. "Of course you wouldn't. Sherlock Holmes just runs onto crime scenes, works miracles, and skates away like a goddamn fairy princess. You know how that makes me look? That I have to rely on you to do my job?"
"I...don't know…"
The man moved in closer. Sherlock could smell the acrid aroma of coffee on his breath. "You sure as hell don't know. I lost a promotion. Shit. I lost all my promotions. I've been in this department for five years and I haven't gotten a raise since you started showing up on my scenes."
Sherlock coughed as he tried to speak. His throat clenched as he tried to gasp for air. The man tried to maintain his level of indignation but he still asked. "What's wrong with you?"
His held the bars for dear life just to keep from falling to the ground. "Water," he gasped as he tried to stand up.
The man turned around and grabbed a cup of water and filled it from the cooler. As he walked back, he saw Sherlock had regained his footing and looked, at least to him, like he was all better. It was a rouse. Sherlock could barely keep his eyes open but this man hated him enough. He would never answer any questions if he thought Sherlock was ill.
But Sherlock had played the game wrong. The man had the cup and put it nearly up to the bars. Sherlock went to grab it and the man turned it over. The water spilled onto the ground and splashed onto the concrete floor.
Sherlock coughed again. The coughs echoed in his chest and made his muscles gnaw and ache. "Is John okay?" he asked.
"John? Jesus, that idiot. No, he's in the interrogation room. He tried to attack that guy who beat up your brother."
"They found him?" Sherlock gasped.
"Yup," the man said as he threw the cup across the room, "but he isn't talking. Sounds like you're going to be in here for a long time, asshole."
Sherlock looked into his eyes for just the slightest hint of sympathy. "I didn't do it," he said.
The man grabbed the bars and pulled his head in close to Sherlock's. "You know what? I really don't give a shit if you did it or not."
"I didn't…" he said as his voice choked with tears.
"And when the old lady dies you'll be on for murder. Oh man, I have had a bloody brilliant time reading what your father said the trial. It's like poetry…"
"You have that?" he said as his chest grew tighter. The room began to shake and spin all around him.
"Oh yes. Been going around the office. Mentally unstable. Danger to others. Selfish and manipulative. Your own father? That must have hurt, eh?"
The trial. He hadn't thought of that in years. "Stop," he said as he felt his legs begin to give out underneath him.
"Cruel boy. Completely alone. Ouch," the man said with glee. Sherlock could hear still his father say those words with such righteousness. It made him feel nauseous at the very thought of sitting in that courtroom with all those judgmental eyes boring holes into him.
He couldn't stand any longer. Sherlock fell against the wall as the room spun around him.
"What's going on?" the man shouted. He could hear the frantically clanging of keys into the cell.
He felt his heart flutter in his chest. Each beat was weaker than the next. He felt his body slow as the oxygen supply quickly ran low.
"Something's wrong…" was all he could say as he felt his legs give out and he fell to the ground of his cell.
"Something's what?"
Sherlock's gym coach looked at him with jaded concern of a man who'd heard every excuse in the book.
Sherlock had spent the entire day in pain. Four weeks of near starvation had turned him into a pale husk of who he used to be. Even so, his grades had not slipped and he hadn't missed a day of school. This wasn't a punishment for anyone but his father. As hard as it was to write research papers when he hardly had the energy to breathe much less read an encyclopedia, he needed to stay on top of his life.
That was until Wednesday when he woke up with a pain in his side. It began as just an ache. He'd figured it was a pulled muscle from sleeping on his side. He didn't think anything of it until the pain grew until it ran down his entire left arm and across his chest. As he tried to take his chemistry exam he could hardly write since every bit of pressure onto those muscles sent a burning pain through his whole body.
After lunch he felt his chest begin to tightened. As he walked to gym class he could hardly stand. Every bit of his body hurt and he could barely stand. He leaned on the badminton racket just to keep from falling to the ground.
"I think something's wrong," Sherlock said.
He'd lost thirty pounds in the last month. Under his layers of clothes it was noticeable but not shocking. A few teachers had made a comment or two about his new look but no one appeared concerned. He knew that if he just kept going then something would happen.
This wasn't what he meant.
"Something...what are you talking about?"
He pointed his at his arm and his chest. "It hurts so bad."
"Where?" the man said.
Sherlock took a deep breath to keep from throwing up. "My chest," he said. "It really hurts."
He felt his entire body grow cold. His coach looked at him with concern. "Jesus. You are looking pale. Sit down, will you?"
Sherlock looked at the benches against the wall. They may as well been a mile away. "I...can't," he said in between the squeezing pain he felt his chest.
"Okay. Put your arm around my shoulder, all right?"
Sherlock did as he was told and his coach dragged him to the benches. He heard snickering and murmurs all around him as the other boys found great hilarity in their ill classmate.
"Shut up," the coach said to his students as he sat Sherlock down.
They snapped back to their badminton games.
Coach knelt in front of Sherlock and snapped his fingers to get his attention. "Eh, you gotta stay awake, mate. You want me to get the nurse?"
He nodded as he felt a wave of dizziness take over. Sherlock lurched forward and grabbed his coach to keep from falling.
"Keller! Vanto! Get the nurse! Hurry!" the coach shouted as he turned his attention to Sherlock.
"You're going be okay," he said.
Sherlock nodded but the ache his chest told a different story. He'd never felt anything like it. He tried to breathe but it was harder and harder to force the air inside. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine he was anywhere else.
Then the truck hit him. There was a bolt of pain that ran down his spine and down to his feet. He tried to breathe but he couldn't. His entire body felt paralyzed as he grabbed desperately for his coach. One moment he was in the gym, the next there was darkness.
John was inside the captain's office ready to be chastised for his poor behavior. He knew they wouldn't arrest him but they could waste more of his time by disciplining him for hitting a wanted criminal.
Idiots. All of them.
"Is...doctor? Is Watson here?"
A breathless man ran out in the hall. He was in absolute panic. John jumped to his feet and ran out into the hall. "What's going on?"
It was Evans. They'd worked together on dozens of cases. Nice man. Fiancee was in jewelry sales. Sweet woman. They'd invited him over for dinner. Well they'd invited Sherlock as well but he decided that dinner was a waste of time when there were coagulation experiments left to do.
"Sherlock," he gasped. "He's...I don't know."
He didn't need to hear another word. John ran after Evans and into the holding area.
Evans stood at the door, shaking. "His lips are turning blue. I didn't know what to do."
"Oh my god," John said as he saw the sheet white body on the ground. He looked dead. John didn't want to step nearer. He'd seen too many corpses…
No.
Get it together.
He took a deep breath and ran to Sherlock's side. With as steady a hand as he could muster he took a pulse.
There was just the slightest quiver.
"Get the...get the paddles from the wall."
Evans looked at him with confusion. "The what?"
John pointed at the defibrillator encased in the emergency glass. "Over there! Hurry!"
If he had just collapsed then it was an electrical issue. Sherlock had gone so long without liquids or food. His heart had lost the ability to fire correctly. He prayed that was all this was.
Evans dumped the box on the ground and John tore out its contents.
"Open his shirt," John said as he took out the pads.
Evans did as he was told and John stuck the pads on Sherlock's chest and charged up the machine.
"Move back," John said.
Evans fell to the ground and stared as John pressed the button.
Sherlock's body jumped as the electricity coursed through him. John felt for a pulse.
Still not normal. It was irregular. Sherlock couldn't survive this way much longer.
He shocked him again.
Sherlock's color stayed a chalky white and his lips grew pale and gray as the oxygen in his blood decreased to nearly nothing.
"C'mon," John said as he shocked him a third time. "Stay with me."
He didn't have time to be scared. If he thought for a moment about what he was doing then he'd fall apart. His only friend lay nearly dead at his feet. This was his only chance.
"Damn it, Sherlock."
He wanted to scream. This wasn't happening.
"Don't...don't do this."
On the fourth shock, he felt something.
Sherlock's lips quivered and the grayish hue seemed to fade away. John felt his neck and felt it.
A pulse.
A normal pulse.
He fell back onto the floor and took a deep breath. "He's got a pulse."
Evans looked at him with exhausted relief. "Yeah?"
"He needs to get to hospital. Can...can you do that?"
Evans grabbed his phone and dialed a series of digits John didn't bother to question. He sat on the ground with a still lifeless Sherlock at his feet. This wasn't how this was supposed to be. He couldn't lose him.
"Don't die on me," he said quietly as he watched Sherlock's chest rise and fall.
He wanted to talk to the police. Sherlock didn't care how many IV's were in his arm and how weak he felt, he wanted to talk. They came in nervously and looked at him with such concern. Sherlock recognized the younger one. It was the kind man from the day that the neighbors had called the police. He'd talked to Mrs. Hudson.
Maybe he'd do something.
Sherlock sat up in his bed and stared at the officers and back at his father. He'd insisted on staying in the room but they hadn't said a word since he'd woken up. As badly as he wanted the man to leave, he was in the hospital. They would protect him. This was where he could tell the truth.
The younger officer turned towards Gregory. "Sir, could you please leave for a moment?"
Gregory crossed his arm and leaned against the wall. "I don't think so."
"Sir, please."
Sherlock looked at the officer. "It's all right."
The officer didn't let up. "Mr. Holmes. I need you to exit the room."
"He is my son," Gregory said, "and I want to be here."
Sherlock could see the fear in his father's eyes. Good, he thought. This is what you deserve.
"He can stay."
The officer turned back with surprise. "Are you sure?"
"Yes," Sherlock said. "I'm sure."
The officer pulled out a notebook and moved closer to Sherlock. "Your doctor has given us an overview of your injuries. They're quite extensive."
Sherlock nodded.
"Two cracked ribs and seven others that have been broken in the past and healed without medical intervention. Fracture wrist. Broken fingers. Scarring on your back. Mild concussion. And now your cardiac problems."
Sherlock looked over towards his father.
"How'd you get hurt Sherlock?"
He gulped as he felt the words rattle in his head.
Just say it.
"Who hurt you?" the officer asked.
He pulled his arm out from under his sheet.
The officer looked at him expectantly. Sherlock could see him with his hands over his jacket pocket. He was ready to arrest his father. Someone was on his side. Someone wanted to help.
It gave him just enough strength to do it.
"Him," he said as he pointed towards his father.
"Sherlock!" his father bellowed. "Stop with your lies."
Sherlock shook his head. "He hurt me. He did it all," he said. It felt like a thousand pound weight off his back.
His father shook his head and stayed where he stood. "He's lying!" he said to the officers. "He doesn't know what he's talking about."
The officer moved briskly. "Gregory Holmes…"
He pulled Gregory's arms behind his back. "...you are under arrest."