"In Heaven you forget everything. In Hell they make you remember."
― Stewart O'Nan, A Prayer for the Dying
Edington Cottage Hospital, North Berwick, Scotland
Sherlock Holmes isn't a man given to prayer. But Molly Hooper lies fighting for her life in the critical care unit, Rosie Watson has been given into temporary care whilst Mycroft sorts out the question of custody (he'll make sure she ends up with them and not her absentee Aunt Harry, who's never even met her), and John…
Sherlock refuses to think about John. Not right now. Not until he knows whether Molly will live or die.
He's been shooed out of the unit since it's long past visiting hours, but can't bring himself to go farther than the corridor. He hovers there for about an hour before he hears the brisk tap of heels on the lino. Without turning he knows who it is. "Mycroft knows there's no emergency that could tear me away from here," he says.
His brother's PA steps in front of him, for once looking directly into his eyes instead of vaguely over his shoulder. "Sherlock, you need to get some rest, keep up your strength. I've found a room for you nearby, walking distance in fact. Your belongings are already there. Go, take a shower, eat something, and try to sleep. Molly doesn't need to see you looking as if you've been on a week-long bender."
She raises an eyebrow and fixes her gaze on his chin; he reaches up automatically and feels the dark stubble rasping beneath his fingertips. "I need to be here in case something happens during the night," he finally says, but 'Anthea' just raises an eyebrow and holds up her mobile. He sighs. "Yes, fine, if something does happen someone will let me know immediately." He hesitates for another long moment, then finally shrugs and allows the petite woman to lead him away.
He's back early the next morning, clean-shaven, showered, freshly dressed and having gotten some sleep. Not much, but enough to erase the haggard, drawn look he'd regarded in the bathroom mirror the night before. Enough to clear the red from his eyes. He's even taken time with his hair, taming down the wild tangle into something closer to the soft curls Molly loves to run her fingers through.
The nursing staff is sympathetic - and possibly have been given instructions from Mycroft - so they allow him to look in on her briefly. "She woke up during the night, very briefly," one of the nurses tells him as they gaze at Molly's sleeping form through the glass window. "It's an encouraging sign."
After hearing that, the proverbial wild horses couldn't drag Sherlock away from the hospital. He does, very reluctantly, allow himself to be pushed out of the CCU and down to the canteen while Molly's doctor looks in on her; apparently Mycroft's influence only goes so far.
Fair enough. He drinks gallons of weak coffee, allows himself to be bullied into eating by Anthea (what's her actual name - doesn't matter, he can't be arsed to remember) when she pops up around noon. He's not really surprised when she rises to her feet - she's been texting non-stop on her Blackberry while he chokes down a sandwich and some kind of salady thing - and silently steps away to allow Mycroft to take her seat.
"Brother," he says.
Sherlock nods abstract acknowledgement and pushes aside the remnants of his meal - far fewer remnants than he might have expected, given the current (non-existent) state of his appetite. "I need to be with her," he says.
Mycroft gives a placid nod, as if he'd expected such an imperious demand. "Once they move her from Critical Care you'll be allowed to stay with her outside of visiting hours until she's released."
Sherlock gives a huff of annoyance. "I need to be with her now, to be there when she actually wakes up -"
"She's already awake," Mycroft interrupts him. Sherlock shoots to his feet, restrained only by his brother's tight grasp on his wrist. "She's speaking to Detective Inspector Lestrade and his Scottish equivalent at the moment. Giving her statement. Perhaps while she's occupied you might consider looking in on -"
"No." The denial is flat, cold. "I won't be held responsible for what I might do."
Mycroft merely looks at him. "He's your friend, Sherlock. No matter what he's done, he's still your friend."
"Not any more."
Sherlock turns away before Mycroft can say anything else, and his brother watches him stride through the canteen through thoughtful eyes tinged, just the smallest bit, with sorrow.
He takes his mobile out of his pocket and opens the message he'd received right before joining Sherlock. John Watson is out of surgery and in recovery, soon to be moved to the Critical Care Unit. Perhaps seeing his troubled friend lying in bed, unconscious, vulnerable, will help Sherlock to forgive him his actions - or perhaps, as he'd implied, he'd find some way to finish the man off where Molly's bullet had failed.
He sighs, replaces the mobile in his pocket, and rises to his feet. All he can hope for in the moment is that Miss Hooper will be able to bring his recalcitrant brother back to his senses.
He already knows Sherlock won't be pleased to discover she has no intention of bringing charges against Doctor Watson. That instead she's declared her belief that what he needs is not prison time, but rather recovery in a therapeutic environment, where he might be able to recover from his temporary madness.
And if she's unable to convince Sherlock? Mycroft sighs again as he exits the canteen.
Then nothing will be able to save John Watson from Sherlock's wrath.
Two floors away, where John lies fighting for his life, there is no rest for the unconscious man. Faces flash through his mind: Molly, Mary, Vivian Norbury, Rosie, Sherlock…all of them accusing, recriminating, sorrowful, faces alternatively bloodied and dark with rage. He reaches out, but his hands are covered in deep red arterial blood, and all he can do is scream silent anguish in his self-created hell - and long desperately for the silence of either recovery…or death.
End note: Thanks as always for your lovely reviews. We're seriously winding down this fic. I actually have a good start on what I intend to be the last 2 chapters. We'll see how it goes, as I might end up with an epilogue if the spirit strikes.
