Chapter 14: We need to talk, Mr. Holmes
John did as he was told and decided it would be best to stay with Rosie and Molly that night. He was thankful, that Molly agreed to care for Rosie. She was such a good 'Mum' to her and seemed to love it. How he had missed a good night's sleep.
At the same time, Doctor Steven Strange decided to sit with the detective a little while. He didn't expect Sherlock Holmes to wake up before morning, but as always, he should be wrong. The detective started to come round a second time, trying to pull away the oxygen mask from his face. "You shouldn't do that. Your lungs need to recover from the intubation. You're still very weak, so please relax and give your body time," the young doctor pleaded. And Sherlock heard him and stopped. "Still…alive?" he seemed irritated and his voice was still raspy from the breathing tube. Doctor Strange handed him a cup with ice cubes. "Try these. They will help you with your throat." "Thank you." Sherlock took one and started to lick it. It was then, when he discovered the feeding tube in his nose. "What…did you…do?" "We had a hard time fighting for your life. You were clinically dead a few times, so believe me: We did just, what was necessary." "Can't remember much," the detective admitted. Strange was thinking what to tell the detective. He decided it was time for the truth. "Well, do you remember anything at last?" Sherlock tried to think. "I was in the morgue with Culverton Smith and John Watson. We had...a fight. John...hit me. Felt dizzy...was bleeding...left the morgue...felt down a...hill," he remembered. "That's good. Something else you remember?" Strange wanted to know. "Nothing I want to talk about." Sherlock looked away. "I think I should tell you, what I know. First of all: I am Doctor Steven Strange." "Marvel Comic," Sherlock whispered. "Just humour me. So, let's talk about what I know. Your friend hit you, after you tried to stab Culverton Smith. You were on a cold turkey, that's the reason you were hallucinating. Your friend thought, you were using again. By the way: He hit you so hard, that he broke his hand. Guess he must have been very mad at you." "Killed his wife. He should hit me even more," the detective replied cold. "Doctor Watson told me that he had found you in a river under Kew Bridge. You're still alive, because of him. You had broken ribs, a concussion and hypothermia. One rib was forced into your heart and the other one punctured your lung. Don't need to tell you, how life-threatening those injuries were." Sherlock took a deep breath, regretting it instantly, as sharp pain shot through his left side. "No. I still can feel it." Steven paused for a brief moment, then continued. "Because of the drugs you had kidney failure. You were on dialysis for eight days. We put you into an induced coma, but had to change the medication once, because you were still responsive in some way. Your friend was really worried. He collapsed a few times and had some mental breakdowns. Believe me: It was not easy for him. He is blaming himself for everything that happened." The detective looked at the ceiling, not responding to what Strange told him. "When you started to develop a very bad case of bacterial pneumonia, he was at the point, where I thought we had to get him a psychologist." Sherlock remained quiet. "Do you have any questions?" Strange wanted to know. "My right side hurts, too. Why?" Steven sighed. "You crashed a few times last week. The pneumonia was very aggressive and your weakened heart couldn't cope with the illness very well. You had CPR for two or three times, if I remember correctly. On one occasion, they broke one of your right ribs, I am sorry." The detective tried to change his position, but winced again, as his body protested in pain. "If you need something for the pain, just let me know," Strange offered. "No. I earn this. It's the punishment for my failure." Steven was speechless. "You did it on purpose." "Pardon?" Now he had the detective. "Your friend asked me to look at your ribs and tell him, if the injuries you sustained were his fault. I lied to him. How could I have told this already broken man, that his friend did fall on purpose?" "How did you find out?" Sherlock asked stunned. "I am a doctor. I saw the injuries and I saw the rib and the angle, of how it penetrated your heart. It was also very suspicious, that miraculously only your left side was damaged." For a few moments, the detective didn't say a word, then finally he confessed. "Alright. It's true. I did it on purpose. After the fight with John, I was already in a lot of pain. The dizziness numbed my mind. I couldn't think clearly and just tried to get away. When the bridge came in sight, I suddenly slipped and knew I was falling. There was no chance to avoid it. I failed my friend, so I thought it would be better, to never bother him again." Truth was told and Steven Strange stood there, mouth wide open. He never expected anything like this to hear. Not from a detective…
"You two should talk. And you should do it soon," the young doctor advised. Sherlock remained silent. "I think it's better to give you some privacy now. If you change your mind with the painkillers, just ring for me." The door closed, leaving a desperate Sherlock Holmes behind. The pain was nearly unbearable, but he had the feeling, that this was the only way to feel alive at the moment. He closed his eyes, remembering Watson's beating. It had been full force. Mary told him, to let John do what he needed to do. Sherlock recognized that John Watson would have beaten him to death, if the doctors of the morgue hadn't pulled the raged man back. Something inside him started to rise, but he couldn't name it. It was new to him or maybe he had displaced it in his childhood. He looked out of the window. It was dark, it rained and he was alone. No one was sitting at his bedside. There was no one left who cared about him. He failed his last case and now his friend was in even more danger and he couldn't prevent it. Of course, Lestrade had found his CD and was looking after John, but now he was awake and that meant, that the inspector's part was over. "I'm sorry John. I can't safe you. Not this time. Forgive me Mary." And he felt asleep, a single tear running down his face.
John Watson was afraid to meet Sherlock. Now that the detective was awake, he feared the confrontation, he knew was inevitable. He was sitting at Molly's kitchen table, staring at his cup of tea. "You really should talk to Sherlock. I know it's complicated, but ignoring him will help no one." Molly was sitting with Rosie, trying to feed her. The little girl was laughing and giggling and tried to catch the spoon, Molly was holding. "I know I should go and see him, but I am scared of what he might say," the doctor admitted. "Just talk to him. I am sure he will be glad to see you," she tried again. "I bet the shit out of him and therefore he nearly died. Do you really think, he wants to see me?" The pathologist looked at him. "It will not get better, if you two remain silent. Please John. He suffered long enough, don't you think?" Molly looked sad. John knew, how she felt about Sherlock. Finally, he gave in. "Okay, I am going to see him. If this makes you feel better." He grabbed his jacket, kissed Rosie and left. While sitting in the cab, he was thinking what to say to the detective. Looking at his cast remembered him the whole time, of what he had done. When the cab reached the hospital, John Watson all of a sudden felt sick again. He found himself once more in the toilet, vomiting. He washed his mouth and started his way to Sherlock's room.
At the same time, the detective awoke to a new level of pain. It was nothing compared to last night. He tried to reach his mind palace, where pain was a lot more tolerable, but he failed again. No peace here. Doctor Strange had offered him pain release, but he didn't want them. He remembered Mycroft's words: "You are a malfunction, Sherlock! Nothing more. Just that." How right his brother was. He looked again out of the window, his gaze empty. The door to his room opened. Must be time for the morning routine, the detective thought unimpressed. He didn't care to turn around. Listening to the intruder, he heard slight footsteps and a chair was carefully positioned next to his bed. This was definitely not someone from the personal staff, he recognized. He stayed still. Maybe it was Smith, trying to end his suffering. He tried to make out any scent and finally got a short breeze of a perfume, he only knew too well. "You coming to punch me again?" he asked nearly audible. The person at his bed cleared its throat. "Wasn't my plan." Sherlock could see John's reflection in the window. The doctor looked defeated, looked sad… "You alright?" he asked the blogger. "Sorry?" "Are you alright?", Sherlock asked again. John seemed surprised by the question. "No. I am not. Will never be." "I'm sorry I caused all of this. Never expected you to find me. Wasn't my plan after you…you…" "…punched you. Please stop reminding me of that. Just please shut up this time Sherlock, please." The detective did, too scared for any more punishment. He could hear John's breathing. The man was stressed. The perfume, now combined with sweat told him everything he needed to know. "How are you feeling?" the doctor asked. "Like I have been punched, kicked and felt quite a few meters", Sherlock whispered. "I saw you dying. This will hunt me the rest of my life." "You did nothing wrong. I am the one to blame," Sherlock insisted. "No, you're not," John tried again. Sherlock looked at him. "Please, change the subject. I can't hear it anymore. I know what I've done and I tried to make it easier for you, believe me," Sherlock sighed. The blogger looked up. "What do you mean?" The detective whispered. "Nothing. Just saying." Watson never saw his friend like this before. There was nothing left of the old Sherlock Holmes, he once knew. The man in the bed was broken and John doubted, that he would ever fully recover. The damage was done. He was a soldier and doctor. He had to accept, that their friendship was, what it was: over. Desperate, John decided it would better to leave. "I am sorry. I think it's better, if I stay away from you from now on." And with these words, John was gone. Forever. He, the great Sherlock Holmes, had failed again. And there it was. The final question, he was asking himself recently: Why wasn't he dead?