Chapter 5: I Wanted To Break Free
When John and Signore Coletti ran into the sleeping room they saw a very disturbing picture. The tall detective was sitting on the ground, holding his head and rocking backward and forward. He was completely unaware of the two men staring at him.
"What's wrong with him?" the owner asked kind of panicked, and to John's surprise, in English.
"I guess he's having an episode," John replied calmly.
"An episode?"
"He has a brain far beyond our normal IQ. If he gets too much information at once, he sometimes gets overwhelmed and this is a way to lessen the pressure."
"I see. An autistic, how sad."
"I wouldn't call him autistic. He had so many adverse effects in his first years of life, that he ended up kind of locked."
"Well, the boy who lived with Maria and Salvatore behaved the same way. I remember now. There was this little boy, brown curled hair, very shy and barely talked to anyone."
"Was he there, when all of this happened with Maria?" John was getting suspicious now.
"I think he was, yes. After Maria disappeared, the little boy hid in the house constantly. I have no idea why. Two weeks later he was taken by his parents and never returned."
John didn't need a high IQ to figure out Signore Coletti was talking about Sherlock. "Would you please give me a minute with him alone?" he asked kindly.
"Of course. Just make the screaming stop. I don't need police here."
"Sure," the doctor replied and knelt beside his friend who was completely oblivious.
"Sherlock? It's me, John Watson. Can you please look at me?"
Still there was no reaction from the detective. John knew he had to try something different.
"Yellowbeard, it's me Redbeard, your old friend. Remember me?"
It worked.
"Redbeard?" a faint voice replied.
"Yes, it's me. Are you alright?"
"I'm scared."
"Scared of who?" John was getting worried now.
"My grandfather. I want to break free. I want to go home."
"What happened to you?"
"He hurt me. He hurt me and I ran away. I don't want to be found."
"Hey, don't worry. I'll get us out of here, okay?"
"Where are we going?" Sherlock whispered.
"Home. I'm bringing you home where you are safe. Remember, we both are grownups now. We live at 221B Baker Street."
"Baker Street…" For a few seconds nothing happened, but suddenly the tall man shot up, staring irritated at John.
"Welcome back," John said with a sigh.
"How long was I out?" the detective asked alarmed.
"Out? You weren't really out. It was more like a mental lockdown if you ask me," the blogger said while checking his friend over. "Would you please give me a minute? I need to speak to Signore Coletti."
When John walked back in the kitchen, he cleared his throat and asked, "Listen, I calmed him down but he's too exhausted to drive. Is there a chance to stay here one night?"
"There is another sleeping room upstairs. It's not a big one but it's enough for a double bed."
"Thank you. We won't bother you. I just need to make sure my friend gets some much-needed rest."
When John returned to the sleeping room, Sherlock still wasn't out of the woods. He was walking around, not knowing what he was doing here. Gently, John grabbed Sherlocks arm and helped him up the stairs. The next surprise awaited them behind the closed door. John had expected two separate beds but not a bed for married people.
"Brilliant," he whispered to himself and guided the detective to the bed. Sherlock didn't protest, which told John that the flashback must have been very severe. After the two were lying in the bed, John sighed, "Mrs. Hudson would be delighted by this sight."
"Who is Mrs. Hudson?"
"Tomorrow Sherlock. Tomorrow will be a better day for talking."
It was what the doctor thought. A better day. The truth was different. Sherlock had been thrashing around in the bed half of the night. There wasn't much sleep for the doctor and because he couldn't take it any longer, he gave his friend a mild sedative. Thank god he was always prepared for anything.
When he woke up in the morning, the smell of coffee penetrated his nostrils and John smiled. Maybe a good coffee would help him through the day. He stepped down the stairs and greeted Signore Coletti, who was already preparing breakfast.
"Good morning. You're up early." Coletti greeted him.
"I am a doctor. I don't sleep much."
"A soldier doctor," Coletti replied while placing a cup of coffee on the table.
"How… How did you know?"
"The way you walk, your body always upright… It's a pose you only see on soldiers.
"Well, thanks for that. It's true. I was a soldier in Afghanistan and I am also a doctor."
Both men stayed silent for a moment, then John asked, "Where did you learn English by the way?"
"I had been living in Birmingham for ten years, working as an architect there."
Suddenly, they heard people shouting hysterically outside. Immediately, both men jumped and ran out of the house, trying to find out what was wrong. All the people were staring at the roof of the house, holding their breath. And when John looked up, he knew exactly why everyone was screaming.
"Excuse me," he said to Coletti and ran back into the house. Panicked, he took two steps at a time while running up the stairs. The door to the roof was ajar and when John opened it and stepped on the roof, he spotted his friend who was standing at the edge, looking down at the people.
"Sherlock, what are you doing?"
"The wall… the wall has gone."
"The wall?" John couldn't follow.
"Yes, the wall. There was a wall. The rain gutter pipes were secured to the wall. I used to pour water into the pipe, waiting for the water to enter the street. My grandmother didn't like it and always ranted at me. I still don't know why."
"Those people think you want to jump. Maybe you should take a step back from the edge, won't you?"
The detective did as he was told and when he faced his best friend, he suddenly walked around the roof, telling the doctor the whole story:
"You saw the broken mirror, didn't you?"
"I did," John nodded.
"I thought my grandfather shattered it." Sherlock tried to supress the lump, which started to build in his throat.
"Who was it?"
"It was me."
"You?" the blogger seemed surprised.
"When my grandmother disappeared, he blamed me for it. He let his frustration out on me. One day, he was drunk again, he grabbed me in his anger and threw me face first in the mirror. My lip split and blood started to drop on the ground. I was scared to the core and ran away. It was around midnight when it happened and I was wandering alone through the streets of Italy. A police officer finally found me and brought me to the hospital. They wanted to see the rest of my body, but I refused. They could then already imagine what was going on. My lip was stitched and the next day I was taken by my parents after a two-week ordeal." The detective stopped and touched his lip. "See? The scar is still visible."
"I always wondered where you got it."
"I had totally forgotten about it, but yesterday when I was standing in the sleeping room, everything came into focus."
"Jesus Sherlock I am sorry. I don't know what to say. Was your grandfather punished for this?"
"Punished?" a condescending laugh followed. "He kind of took himself out of his misery."
"Sorry, what?" the blogger was speechless.
"While the police were standing in front of his house, he stepped up on the wall here and jumped."
"That's the reason the wall was removed?" John wanted to know.
"I don't know. The house was sold and I never returned to Italy."
"God, I'm so sorry Sherlock. If I had known…"
"Believe me John, I didn't know either. No wonder I was drawn here. I thought we could have a good time here, but it seems like it's going to be another trip to my inner demons."
John placed his hand on the detective's shoulder. "Listen. No matter what it is you will find here, you always have my back."
A smile appeared on Sherlock's face. "Thank you, John. I'm glad you're here."
"Always will be."
When they reached the kitchen, Signore Coletti's face was full of worry.
"Don't worry, he wasn't thinking of jumping. He was just remembering something from the past," the doctor explained.
"From the past?" Coletti asked astounded.
"Something about the wall being removed," John informed.
"The wall? Oh…" Now Signore Coletti had an idea on who the tall man in front of him was. "You are the little boy! You are the grandson of Maria and Salvatore!"
"I am."
"O Dio, I was always wondering what became of that little boy. I mean, you lost your grandparents inside two weeks. That must have had you traumatized."
"Maybe it was better I returned to London after all that happened," Sherlock replied.
"You were a loved child. Maria and Salvatore really cared deeply for you."
"I'm sure they did," the detective said and gave John the signal that it was time to go.
Both men thanked Signore Coletti for keeping them overnight and when they stepped out of the door, they could already hear the sirens.
"I guess they're here for you," John sighed unimpressed.
Later that day, both men were finally able to return home after they were lectured by the police and paramedics. No one was smiling when they entered their home and the first thing John needed was pain relieve. After he had taken some pills, the burning sensation was finally starting to get better and he let himself sink on the couch in the living room. His friend was outside taking a shower and everything seemed normal until the shower head hit the ground. John immediately jumped up and ran outside the kitchen door. Sherlock was sitting on the ground, staring at his hands.
"Make it stop, John."
"Stop what?"
"The blood! There's blood on my hands, can't you see it?"
"Sherlock, there is no blood on your hands. As far as I can tell you're not bleeding anywhere."
"My hands are bloody! I tried to run away, I wanted to break free but he always caught me," the detective now yelled.
"Calm down please. I don't want another lecture from the police, please," the blogger whispered.
"Just help me with my lip."
"Your lip is just fine Sherlock. I swear to God."
John knew, that his best friend was having a flashback again. He was used to it. Sherlock had them from time to time. After Culverton Smith, after Eurus and now with his grandparents. It was something John was used to now and so he sat down next to his friend, gently rubbing his back. It had nothing to do with love, it was more a method to support the broken man next to him.
"I'm sorry," the detective all of a sudden whispered.
"You're sorry? Sorry for what?"
"I ruined your vacation."
"What? No Sherlock. No, you didn't. Why would you think that?"
"We were supposed to have some fun, instead you have to deal with another episode of mine."
"We still have two more weeks and with these blisters, I doubt there is a chance we could have had fun."
"Just know, that I'm sorry. I wasn't expecting this to happen. The house revealed a lot of locked up memories and I am still organizing them."
For a moment, the friends were just looking at each other. John hated those situations. If Sherlock wasn't talking, or barely, it meant the memories were very bad ones. Neither of them knew that this was just the beginning of a very dark case. A case, John wished later, never should have been reopened again…
