"Mrs. Hudson!"
Sherlock stropped about the room in his nightclothes and customary blue robe. His pace jerky and erratic.
He needed a fix.
"Mrs. Hudson!"
Where was that blasted woman. Always around when you didn't need her, but never around when it was important. He knew she was the one who always slunk in to clean their flat when they weren't around.
And the person who always managed to find his secret supply and remove it.
"Oh for the love of..."
Sherlock finitely gave up his pace across the harsh wooden floorboards in leu of tearing down the stairs to go rouse the housekeeper to action.
"Mrs. Hudson, I know it was you, it's always you. I need to have them, get me them, n..."
The words died on his eloquent lips once his eyes caught sight of the prone figure on the floor.
"Mrs. Hudson!"
Sherlock ran to her side, dropping down to the floor in an instant. Carefully turning her over, he held a hand under her nose to feel for a breath while his other hand sought out her wrist. There was a large deep purple bruise covering most of her forehead. Mrs. Hudson muttered something incoherently, and Sherlock instantly jumped in to his conclusions.
"A fall. It had to be a fall. Resulting in a concussion. Very dangerous for the elderly, resulting in confusion, headaches, loss of memory..."
A sickly gurgling sound emanated from her lips and she slumped boneless into his arms.
"No, Mrs. Hudson, no. You cannot sleep now. You have to stay awake for me. Listen to me, Mrs. Hudson, I am going to move you to the couch. I have to get John. We have to get an ambulance here."
Carefully, Sherlock maneuvered her frail form in to his arms and gently stood from their crouch on the kitchen floor. He moved her over to the couch with his practiced grace and lowered her safely to the couch.
As soon as he was sure she was secure on the couch, he stood to his full height and pulled his phone from his pocket.
"999 what is your emergency?"
"There is an elderly woman with me who has suffered a sever concussion. I require an ambulance to 221 Baker street immediately."
Deftly his fingers ended the call and pulled up the text icon.
Mrs. Hudson took a bad fall. Sever concussion suspected. Ambulance on its way. Your assistance is required at the hospital. -SH
Sherlock returned to his landlord's side. His friend. How had he not heard her? There must have been a crash. By the state of her normally immaculate kitchen and the size of the bruise on her head.
"How did I not hear you?"
The words were uttered brokenly from his mouth before he had realized it. Mrs. Hudson groaned again and tried to shift her head to face the voice she had heard.
"It's going to be alright, Mrs. Hudson. 999 is on its way. They will have you to the hospital soon. And John will be there to take care of you."
It had already been decided that he would not. He could not face seeing her in there knowing he could have stopped it. It was his fault.
The approaching whine of the sirens broke Sherlock from his thought.
Touching her shoulder one more time in an act of sentiment that he would curse himself for later, he rushed to open the door for the incoming responders.
"Over there, on the couch. She took a fall in the kitchen. She has only formed incoherent mumbles and groans."
Two responders rushed over to her side, while one stayed with him in order to listen to his babbled information and see what was of use to them.
" And you are related to her?"
"No, I am her tenant. I live in the flat above her."
She nodded, "And when did you find her like this? How long do you suspect she has been in this state?"
Sherlock shook his head and felt an odd sense of unease fall over him. "I found her fallen on the floor around 4 minutes ago. But as far as how long she was like that, I don't know. I don't know."
But he always knew. Sherlock Holmes was required to know. Always.
The responder must have known that she would get nothing new from her witness after that, because with a sympathetic smile she turned to help her fellows in moving the gurney baring Mrs. Hudson through the doors of the flat and outside into the cold London night.
"She will be taken to St. Bartholomew's hospital, you can check in with the front desk when you get there and they will update you will her condition."
Sherlock nodded absently. At least that would be a small comfort. Mycroft knew it was his hospital of choice, and had therefor always ensured it was staffed by the best he could get in under the guise of being teachers there in the hospital.
Sherlock listened as the sirens sounded and took off into the familiar streets of London. He could tell the direction and could anticipate the route they would be taking from sound alone. Which was good, because he could feel his other senses begin to lesson, dull, and diminish.
He closed the door numbly and rose his hands to his eyes. He couldn't feel anything with them, he had closed the door, surely the handle had been cold from its exposure to the brisk fall air. And yet, he hadn't noticed. He looked up a moment later to realize he was once again inside of 221 B, and yet, he looked at his legs. He had not remembered willing them to walk up the stairs into it.
Sherlock blinked his eyelids rapidly, trying to clear his head from the static that hummed in it. He picked up his precious violin, willing to clear the droning away from his mind and focus it again. But even as he raised he bow to the strings and told his arm to move up and down across it, he heard nothing. No sound touched his ears, no stirring filled his chest. It was just, nothing.
Sherlock collapsed onto his chair.
What is going on with me?
He lifted his hands to his eyes again.
Nothing.
He glanced over to his violin, dejected and discarded on the floor.
Nothing.
Why?
The static in his head was the only constant. There was no input. No data being processed.
His mind had always moved a mile a minute. Always. There was never an end to the noise in his head. Even when it had been focused on one thing, it had been focused. But now there was nothing.
Nothing.
Why?
'Sherlock Holmes always knows. He is required. He must always know.'
His memory taunted him with his thoughts from before. He had to know. But he didn't.
He didn't know why he hadn't heard Mrs. Hudson. Surely there must have been a crash, a bang, a scream, a shout, a call for help.
And he hadn't heard her. He had been completely oblivious.
cling cling
Vaguely, Sherlock acknowledged the sound of his text tone going off. But did not care enough to read what it had for him.
He had to figure this out. But how?
His brain felt like sludge, he felt stuck inside a cotton cloud of white noise, and he could figure out which way was out.
What was this?
cling cling
Sherlock looked down toward the noise in his pocket. What did it matter? What did anything matter?
He had failed. Failed to protect what was his to protect. He had always gone to such great lengths and through such elaborate schemes to protect those he considered his, his friends. They were valuable. They were important. He would do anything; he had done everything. He was willing to stop at nothing to keep them safe.
And yet.
Right there, under his floorboards, was the flat of one of those most essential to him. And he hadn't seen noticed. He hadn't been there.
What was this?
Buzz Buzz
John. It had to be John.
Asking where he was. Asking what the hell was wrong with him that he wasn't where he was supposed to be. Why he wasn't there of her.
How could he confront John now? How could he tell him that he wasn't there because he deserve to be here. He had to be punished for this. For his oversight. For missing the most obvious, the most important.
Norbury. Vivian Norbury.
The last time he had missed the obvious it had cost the life of Rosie's mum, the wife of his best friend.
He had gone through hell to pay for what he had done there. And this time must be the same.
"Emotional context Sherlock, it gets you every time"
The words of his sister chanted in his ears cutting through the static.
I can't, I can't! I've been trying! I have been experimenting, recording, trying to log every emotion that I can, but I just can't keep up!
The loud bang of a door hitting back against a wall rumbled into the hurricane raging through his brain.
He felt arms circle around him, and he sobbed.
He glued his eyes shut and cried out in broken words and gasping breaths around the storm in his head to the arms that encircled him.
"I couldn't do it! I couldn't save her. She is in a hospital bed, permanently changed. She will never be the same Mrs. Hudson again and it's all my fault. I didn't see, I didn't hear. I haven't learned enough. I can't protect you, I can't protect any one, not ever against. I am too slow. I am not enough."
He felt the calming hand of a doctor smooth the unruly hair on his head as the other rubbed his back comfortingly. He could feel the gentle nudge of a head being leaned against the top of his.
"This isn't just about Mrs. Hudson is it?"
It wasn't a question. John must know. He wasn't the most observant of people, but the way Sherlock had been acting since Sherrinford had not gone unnoticed.
"No", a low croak was all he could manage.
He felt John nod and sigh, but his ministrations on his back and hair continued.
"Sherlock, you are brilliant. You know that right?"
Sherlock could not answer.
Obviously not. Not enough. His brain taunted him. You are no better than you will ever be. You can't get there. You'll never be enough.
He felt the weight of his shoulders send him further into a slump into John's chest.
"Sher..." John's voice faltered a moment. "You know that I don't blame you for what happened at Sherrinford. Those horrors; they were not your doing. You did save us, Sherlock. You brought me home to Rosie again. You made a breakthrough to your sister that no one had been able to accomplish before. I am not mad at you."
The hand stilled in his hair and Sherlock felt him tug softly at the curls as if contemplating his next words carefully. Sherlock felt John's chest raise against his cheek in a deep controlled breath.
"You must not let her words get to you, Sherlock. You are enough for us. You have learned so much since, since Mary's death. And I am so proud of you. But Sherlock, I know these things do not come easy for you. I know you don't understand through emotion. That's why I am here. Sherlock. I am here for you. I am here to help you. To get you to that point of understanding. Please.."
Sherlock felt John's hands move to his shoulders to give him a slight push upright again.
John looked carefully in Sherlock's tear streaked face, "Please just let me help you, you big git."
A vague sputter of a laugh and a small smile crossed his lips.
John smiled in return, rubbing both of his shoulders, trying to bring Sherlock back to him again.
"You don't have to be afraid any more. You be the brain, do what you do best. And just let me worry about getting the heart in there."
Sherlock nodded. He didn't have to be afraid, John was there for him. He would never have to face that storm of fear and doubt again. And he wouldn't miss that. Not one bit.
A/N: Sorry this chapter is so huge! At first I was having a hard time getting my thoughts out on the page, but now it seems that too many thoughts ended up showing up to the writing! Hope this is good enough to tide over to next week! I will be more condensed I promise.
Please review! Let me know what you think and where else I can take this story. I am open to ideas!