Author's Note:
WOW, here we are again! Unreal! Here's what helped, I think: I turned off my connection several times last week. It's amazing what you can get done when deviantART and TV Tropes aren't distracting you. ;D This actually might have been up sooner (it was finished Saturday), but RL and depression kept getting in the way. ("RL and depression"… oh, now there's redundancy…)
On a mildly-amusing note, this chapter pushed the chapter outline further out yet again. I.e. my outline for this book keeps expanding. 'S crazy.
Who here was watching Sherlock S2 on PBS Sunday night? Raise your hand! =) I was watching and doing the live Twitter event with the hashtag #SherlockPBS, but Firefox crashed and it looked as if my entire browser history had been wiped. I eventually turned the computer off and turned it back on, and, when I could reopen Firefox at last, everything was all right. …I'd been so highly strung at that point that I nearly broke down crying once everything was okay. As you might imagine, that pretty much ruined the night for me.
One last note for any fans of mine who are on deviantART: I've just entered their "Original Quotes" T-shirt contest with http : / / aleineskyfire . deviantart . com / art / Every-Life-Is-An-EPIC-300906836. Please, go check my design out and vote for it! (For the record, you can only vote if you are a member of the site.)
To my reviewers:
Riandra: Again, thanks so much for the review! I'm so glad that you've liked Watson so much in this story—Lestrade, too! And you know what? I think you do FANTASTICALLY with Lestrade—really, I do! (More on that when I finally give you another review! ;D) So glad that the chapter exceeded your expectations… jolly good! =D Ooo, fertilizer, thanks! Need that right now…
Historian1912: Working order, jolly good! =D Mm, you haven't seen the second season of Sherlock—it gives you a much more in-depth look at the character. Cumberbatch!Sherlock is different—as in, different from the rest of us mere mortals. He thinks differently, the way that Sherlock Holmes is supposed to think, for the most part, where it counts; and that's what I've tried to capture with my own Holmes. Probably not doing so well. The Guy Ritchie films just make me cringe, on a whole, not the least reason for which are the subtle and not-so-subtle H/W moments (which do exist, even in the first film). Oh, and thanks for pointing out the Roman numeral mistake. *facepalm* And I used to be so good with Roman numerals, too… Heh, a little hyperbole is just fine, and you're okay, really. Sometimes you just… surprise me with the intensity of your reactions. =) Oo, so you're done with this semester already? Hot dog! Hurray for finishing Granada! (Oh, and don't worry about pronunciation—I make that mistake ALL THE TIME, and I would imagine most everybody else does. =D)
Ranger-Nova: Heh, thanks for following me on Twitter! Well, I figured it was about time I got my own account there—it's kind of the thing to do if you're a professional writer. (Or actor, or Sherlock producer… you get the idea. ;D) Aw, I don't mind the wait, really! I totally understand the whole too-tired thing—I've been having my own serious sleep issues lately, and then I wake up with killer headaches. All. The. Time. It's horrible! Heh, we've got about ten more chapters to go for this story, I think—you'll see in a minute how long it ought to take for him to recover. (How long it actually will take is another story entirely, and you'll find that one out in the ensuing chapters.) Again, very glad you love my Watson. As I've said before, it's very encouraging, especially since I'm not a Watson fangirl—I'm Holmes's girl, all the way. =) Aw, you just know what exactly to say to make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside, don't you? *hugs* Thanks, darlin', and God bless!
© 2012 by Aleine Skyfire.
All rights reserved.
==Chapter XX==
Beloved
"Dear God in Heaven." Detective Inspector Geoffrey Lestrade had seen many a horrific sight in his time—he'd even watched the investigation of Saucy Jack from the sidelines—and he was no stranger to grisly spectacles. But seeing Sherlock Holmes lying there in dried blood, vomit, and Heaven knew what else (I certainly don't want to)… his gaunt face bruised, burnt, and scarred, his half-clothed body far more so…
Wiggins pushed his way past the constables to see Mr. Holmes as Watson checked him over. Lestrade turned to see the boy's face whiten, his blue eyes fill with tears, his hand rise to cover his mouth—against tears or vomit, Lestrade didn't know. But he did know that he had just watched Wiggins age several years in that one moment.
Turning back to Holmes and Watson, he felt as though he had aged several years himself. The ragged shirt that must have once been white was filthy, blackened, and blood-soaked all over, hanging in tatters on Holmes's truly emaciated frame. He reminded Lestrade of nothing so much as a skeleton, more corpse than living man. The bony wrists were no longer white but red and raw from manacles and brown from dried blood. One particularly vicious-looking scar trailed from his right collarbone to his forearm.
Lestrade didn't realise that he was silently weeping until he heard a voice whisper, "Knew… you'd… come…" Dear Lord, was that truly Sherlock Holmes? The elegant, authoritative tenor had grown so hoarse, so rough, as to be scarcely recognisable.
Then Watson carefully lifted Holmes up into his arms—Lestrade wouldn't have deprived him of that if he could, which was debatable…
Lestrade's hand flew to his mouth as bile surged up his throat. He heard Wiggins throw up behind him.
They both saw the ribbon mess that was Sherlock Holmes's back.
Watson passed them on his way out, consumed by his charge's distress and apparently oblivious to theirs. Lestrade watched, saw something in Mr. Holmes's face that both broke his heart and meant the world to him. Something that made the ghastly features look human again, look Sherlock Holmes again.
He saw wonderment. Something akin to childlike awe. Sherlock Holmes was leaving his cell, and he could not believe it.
But he practically nestled into Watson's hold, and Lestrade watched him fall asleep for what should be his first peaceful sleep in a month.
The little detective felt rather than saw Gregson come up behind him, and turned. The larger man's pale features were perfectly blank, except for his wide blue eyes. Lestrade understood—it wasn't just the sight of Sherlock Holmes like this that was shocking, but the fact that Sherlock Holmes was still alive. Lestrade had seen his fair share of miracles, including the arrival of one John Hamish Watson, but this miracle must have been by far the greatest.
"Take—" Lestrade stopped, surprised at the gravel in his voice. "Take over, here," he said. Not a request, but not an order, either. He didn't wait for an answer, simply pushed past his colleague and strode down the corridor filled with constables and… Irregulars? Oh, good lord. They were the older Irregulars, thank goodness, but, sod it, Lestrade was going to have a good talking-to with Wiggins. Later. Much later.
Right now, he just had to get out of this godforsaken hole and back up into the house above before he broke down completely.
John Hamish Watson was back on the battlefield. A recollection forever burnt into his brain was that of getting his fallen comrades away from the battle to treat them. Riding now in the Black Mariah with a more-than-half-dead Sherlock Holmes, he was back there once more, only… he was very conscious of the fact that he was on the streets of London rather than the wastelands of Afghanistan.
Earlier that day, he'd thought that he would probably vomit as Wiggins had, weep silently as Lestrade had. But he had not yet felt the urge to do either.
He felt strong, strong as he had not felt in a long time. So calm was he that he felt almost as if he were the "brain without a heart" he had once written so callously in a case-note. He thought he understood why, too: Holmes needed him to be strong now, stronger than ever. For Sherlock Holmes, John Watson could be many things, and he most certainly could be strong…
…his hands mocked his sense of calm. They were trembling, and he could not control them. They spoke of a fragility that lurked just beneath a façade he could almost convince himself was real.
So he held Holmes close. Not to keep him from slipping away, but to deny Death his prize. Watson had his dearest friend back, and he would be damned if he allowed the Grim Reaper to take the Great Detective now.
With Watson's mind overacting, the ride seemed age-long, though he discovered later that it took less than an hour in reality.
He had never been so glad to see 221B in his life, and he hurried, as carefully as he could, into the house with his patient. Mrs. Hudson was wide-awake and bustling about the place, but she halted as soon as Watson stepped into the house and clapped both her hands to her mouth. Tears welled up in her soft brown eyes. Watson grimaced: Holmes had been wrapped up in a blanket against December's chill, but part of his ravaged face was still visible.
"Mrs. Hudson," he began.
"My boy," she murmured. "Oh, my boy." She approached them, hands stretched out towards Sherlock Holmes.
Watson didn't want to allow her to see him more fully, but he felt he had no choice in the matter. Who was he to deny the dear woman the sight of a man he knew she considered family? He lowered his precious load and grimaced further to see Holmes's face for the first time in the harsh reality of gaslight, rather than the softer, kinder appearance of lanterns.
Silent tears tracked down Mrs. Hudson's motherly features as she took in the devastating sight. "He is not dead," she whispered, brushing at her eyes. "He is not dead. Doctor…" She looked up to meet Watson's concerned gaze, and there was a cautious hope in her eyes. "It is a miracle."
"Pray that we might be allowed one more miracle, Mrs. Hudson," Watson said gravely. "If he is to survive, we shall need it."
"He will," she said resolutely, almost fiercely. "He's far too stubborn to die, Doctor." She gave him a watery smile as she moved aside to let him upstairs.
He gave her a grateful nod and began to mount the steps. Only now was he beginning to feel his shoulder and thigh, and he knew all too well that they would be positively murderous in, well… He had thought to say "in the morning," but it was already morning.
The door to Holmes's bedroom swung open from the inside, revealing none other than Mycroft Holmes. The elder Holmes brother actually looked worse than Watson felt, for Mycroft had noticeably lost weight. His face was positively haggard, his pale eyes dim and tired.
"He lives," Mycroft said softly. It sounded less a pronouncement and more a prayer, and it was all the emotion he betrayed.
Watson supposed that he had seen in New Scotland Yard's mortuary all the deep emotion that Mycroft would ever let him see. "Yes," he said, simply for the sake of saying it. He sidestepped Mycroft to reach the bed, and he gently, gently, gently lowered Sherlock into it. He is alive. Alive. Alive. And he shall stay alive.
Sherlock stirred for a moment, and Mycroft leant over the wasted form that was his younger brother. Sherlock's grey eyes fluttered open for a moment, and his features stretched into something Watson deemed to be a smile. "Little John," Sherlock whispered, his voice still scarcely recognisable.
One corner of Mycroft's lips lifted. "Robin," he whispered back, hoarsely. He stood, cleared his throat, nodded to Watson, and strode out of the room.
Wondering at the intimate moment he had just witnessed, Watson returned his attention to Sherlock Holmes's many wounds and swallowed thickly. He had been considering calling in Anstruther to help, and now he was certain he needed it. This was too much for him to deal with alone. Besides, he really was functioning on little more than willpower, and doctors were of very little good to anyone in that state, let alone to half-dead victims of prolonged torture.
For now, though, he could start to bathe the plethora of wounds.
"Mind if I join you, Dave?" came an Irish-accented whisper.
Davy Wiggins grinned faintly, though he knew the owner of that voice could not see it. It was only a very slight grin—he didn't feel as if he could truly smile for a long time. Not after seeing what those… those animals… had done to the man he considered to be his father. "If you think you can squeeze in."
"I can manage." The light of the nearest streetlamp caught Sean Youghal's corresponding grin for just a moment as he settled into Davy's hiding place across the street from 221B.
"Aren't you still on duty?"
"Ach, if Lestrade notices, I'm sure he won't mention it," Sean reasoned. "He'll know I'm off wit' you."
A brief chuckle slipped past Davy's defences, and he shook his head. "Still have that iron you were allowed for t'night?"
"Aye, got it here."
Davy could just make out a darker shape against the general darkness around them. "Good."
"Really t'ink they'll try an'thin' t'night?"
"Coul' be." Davy felt his voice slipping back into Cockney and did nothing to stop it. "Oi'm sartain 's 'ell nawt taikin' any chances."
"Ah-men," Sean said, quite drily.
Mr. Sherlock Holmes had once mentioned to Rose Hudson that, as a boy, whenever Mycroft Holmes was uncertain and needed comfort, he wandered into the kitchen. She couldn't remember when he had told her that, or why. It was certainly an odd thing to hear from a man who spoke very little of his past to his own closest friend, and even less to his landlady.
But then, she had long believed the relationship between herself and Sherlock Holmes to be more than that of a landlady and her tenant. He was indeed the worst lodger in London, and Dr. Watson had always been the darling of the pair. But, much as she adored the dear doctor, it was the younger, more difficult of her lodgers that had stolen her heart long ago.
Deprived of the ability to bear children and deprived of her husband, her longing for motherhood became fulfilled, in part, by a strange man-child with large, bright eyes. She had seen past the dazzling intellect, the kinglike authority, the childish callousness… she'd looked past it all and seen a soul starved for affection, not unlike a lost little boy.
So she'd given him all the affection she could.
Oh, there'd been times—many times—that she could cheerfully have walloped him with the broomstick, but nothing he could have done could ever have made her stop loving him. Under the doctor's open friendship and her more subtle affection, the young detective's spirit slowly but surely blossomed. She'd watched his relationship with Mary Watson change from one of near-resentment to open, brotherly regard. In the past two years, he had grown into a man of whom she could truly be proud, a man who used both his head and his heart.
In many ways, he was the son that she could never have.
And, oh, how terribly she had missed her boy.
Now the elder Holmes brother had wandered his way into her kitchen, looking quite lost in spirit. The motherly instincts Sherlock Holmes experienced from his landlady were instantly turned upon his brother, though Rose knew that eight years only separated her and Mr. Mycroft. But a man in need was a man in need, and the poor dear looked as though he scarcely knew where he was.
"Mr. Holmes, let me fix you some tea now," she said firmly. "You've been waiting upstairs all this time without a single cup of tea or coffee to keep you awake and warm inside."
Mr. Mycroft smiled sadly. "I very much doubt that anything can keep me warm inside at the moment, Mrs. Hudson. I apologise for—"
Rose Hudson planted her hands on her hips and cried "Mr. Holmes!" in the voice that always made her wayward lodger pay attention.
Mycroft started.
"You sit down this instant and drink the tea I give you," Rose said sternly, "or I shall make certain you are not allowed back into your brother's room today." And she absolutely meant it. She'd stand at the door with her rolling pin if need be.
Mycroft sank into the nearest chair with an expression of respect. "I can see why my brother calls you the most formidable landlady in London."
Rose arched a very dignified eyebrow. So Mycroft wasn't so different from Sherlock, after all—their mother must have been a very important figure in their childhood for both men to respond so to motherly behaviour. "One simply has no other recourse than to be formidable if they are to stand up to your brother, sir."
Mycroft actually chuckled, though very briefly, as if he didn't dare to do it with his brother in such a state upstairs. "Touché, my good woman."
Rose gave him a sad smile and dared to give him a gentle pat on the shoulder. "I shall be back in a minute to fix that tea. The Doctor needs some things upstairs."
The night wore off gradually, sky lightened to grey, midday came and went, and the day hastened on towards nightfall before 221B Baker Street bore any semblance of peace. The Irregulars, alongside some anonymous men whom Lestrade strongly suspected to be Mycroft Holmes's agents, had several scuffles with Moriarty's creatures, trying to get at Sherlock Holmes. One criminal was dead, and three Irregulars were wounded, as were an indeterminate number of Mycroft's men.
Yarders were going in and out of the house all day, sometimes getting involved in said scuffles. Long before lunchtime rolled around, a constantly-yawning Gregson received exasperated permission from Lestrade to go home, with a bit of colourful language involved. Well, perhaps more than a bit. Bradstreet took Gregson's place as Lestrade's temporary second-in-command.
Patterson had not been seen since they left Whitechapel, but Lestrade was unconcerned. He knew that the Yard's expert on Professor Moriarty had much work to do, especially now that Sherlock Holmes was back on Baker Street.
Mycroft Tristan Holmes himself generally hovered between his brother's bedroom and the kitchen. It was rather a relief to see him eating again, as Lestrade had been quite aware of Mycroft's loss of weight as it was happening. It was more than a little odd to see Mycroft Holmes in 221B at all, but it humanised him in Lestrade's eyes more than anything else ever had.
He had always believed that Mycroft loved his brother deeply. Now he knew it.
Anstruther had been shocked when he first saw Sherlock Holmes. But Watson needed him, and, more importantly, Holmes needed him. For the latest (and likely not the last) of many times, Watson was inexpressibly grateful at how seriously Anstruther took the Hippocratic Oath.
It was a long day of treating and analysing Holmes's wounds, but at last they were finished.
The report was not favourable.
"Your brother, Mr. Holmes, is indescribably lucky to be alive at all at this juncture," Anstruther told Mycroft. "He has suffered dehydration, malnourishment, fever, anxiety attacks, repeated beatings, at least two separate whippings, one session of being burnt, numerous knife wounds, and Dr. Watson and I cannot begin to guess at the drugs which were given him. To sum up, sir, your brother simply should not be alive."
Mycroft's already-pale features had paled further throughout Anstruther's report. "Dear God," he breathed. The fragments of emotion that got past Mycroft's defences told Watson that he was absolutely horrified.
Watson wanted to say something, wanted to offer some sort of comfort… but he would not in the presence of a third party. He was not certain that he could do it if there was no third party.
Anstruther's expression went blank. "I do not know that he will survive, sir. The odds… are against him."
As if to prove his point, a strangled cry rose from the bedroom. Watson shared a frightened glance with his colleague for the briefest moment before darting back into the room. Sherlock Holmes convulsed beneath the bedclothes, his bandaged face contorted in pain. "'Sun," he was sobbing in his sleep. "Was-sun…"
"Shh, shh," Watson soothed. An invisible knife lodged itself in his chest and twisted there as he gripped Holmes's shoulder. "Holmes, I am right here. I am well, I promise you."
Holmes continued to sob, and Watson felt his thin veneer of calm shatter at last, silent tears falling onto the blanket. He sensed rather than saw Mycroft standing in the doorway, and he did not care.
"I promise you, Holmes, my dear fellow. And you shall be well, too. You will be. I refuse to let you die, Sherlock Holmes, do you hear me?" The tears coming thickly now, Watson raised the convulsing detective into his arms and held him close once more. "I refuse to let. You. Die."
He lifted his gaze to the window, and, through a veil of tears, he would have sworn ever afterwards that he did see Death looming outside the window. The spectre was little more than a lighter shade of grey against the iron-coloured sky, no menace or malice in his appearance, but he was watching Sherlock Holmes.
Watson did not bother asking Mycroft if he, too, saw Death—he knew that the elder Holmes did not. It was a sight for him and him alone. He gazed steadily at the spectre. He is not yours to take. Not yet. Not this way. This man is for the living, not the dead.
He held Sherlock until he had drifted back into deeper slumber. Death watched them both all the while.
Author's Note:
Death's appearance surprised me as much as I'm sure it surprised you. It still gives me shivers…
MRS. HUDSON! =D It was so nice to see so much of her here, and dig into her character like that! Btw, "Rose" is so a tribute to Rosalie Williams, Granada's Mrs. Hudson. =) Some of you might recognize part of her POV scene as coming from "The Warrior a Child," Day 29 of Have Yourself a Chaotic Little Christmas.
Oh, and, yes, the line "Dear Father in Heaven" in the last chapter was Lestrade speaking, not Watson as people seem commonly to suppose. For the rest of the rescue, Lestrade just goes into this Blue Screen of Death because he just can't deal with it any other way. This is Sherlock Holmes. This is the man he's realized is not only his friend but his family, this is the amateur detective he watched grow up from a heartbroken boy into a genuinely compassionate man, and this person before him looks barely even human. …I think I'm going to have to go back and insert a little more of that into Lestrade's scenes. Yeah. Just not right now.
And Mycroft… Mycroft was difficult. We've already seen him mourn his brother, and his reaction now should be different, anyway, right? Still, not easy. And to bring up a piece of "Fridge Horror," as TV Tropes puts it… "As a boy, whenever Mycroft Holmes was uncertain and needed comfort, he wandered into the kitchen." But Watson notices that Mycroft has lost a startling amount of weight, and later on we learn that Lestrade has been concerned about that weight loss for some time. Not to mention the fact that it's only been… three or four weeks at the most since the last time Watson saw Mycroft. Just trying to imagine what Mycroft has been going through in the past few weeks is definite Nightmare Fuel.
I think that Sherlock's The Reichenbach Fall is going to be lodged in my imagination forever. In writing this book, in writing the sequel (The Road to Reichenbach), or anything else having to deal so intimately with Moriarty, the Falls, and the Hiatus… I am never going to be able to divorce my stories now from the images, the music, the lines, the sheer heartbreak of Sherlock S2's finale.
This is a good thing.
Next up… I think we're going to see Mary, maybe Annie Lestrade… an attempt on Sherlock's life… his nightmares… I think that'll be the basic gist of the next chapter. Which is, as of yet, unwritten. Reviews help speed the process! =)
Please review!