Chapter 17: The Stars Shine Brighter (Reveal p2)

As requested, Sherlock's POV:

I cut off mid-sentence as I became aware of my... colleague's actions and positions. Glancing over, I saw Kayla holding John's hand in a very tight grip, an obvious sign that she was scared and the something was wrong. Moving my gaze in the same direction as them, I noticed they were both staring at an empty plot. But- it wasn't empty. There was a shimmering mirage of a building, one that I had never seen before. I blinked rapidly, trying to focus my vision. The building vanished. And all in the moment, I became just as scared as them. I relied on my senses to tell the truth, as nothing else ever had. And now even they were lying to me, giving me false information and illusions. Outside my fast-working brain, my mask was still intact, and my face had worked to make my cut-off sentence a warning. I turned the rest of the way to look at John and Kayla. Kayla had the same shimmering around her as the empty plot had had, though this also vanished after I focused on the real world. Then time sped up and everything occurred at once.

John moved toward me, grabbing my shoulders. I immediately tensed, preparing for pain, before relaxing somewhat upon my evaluation of who had grabbed me. But my shoulders and arms still remained on edge, prepared to defend myself. Suddenly, I felt two spurts of coldness in my stomach, but these vanished as soon as they appeared. I hadn't eaten properly in a while – maybe that was it. I heard the sound of metal on metal as three bullets struck the car I had seen Lestrade and his apes move behind. Then there was the faint sound of a bullet piercing flesh, and I reacted.

Loosening my shoulders, I ran toward Kayla, my mind filled with shock. No, no, she can't be hit! I looked toward her, my eyes darting over her body. She was standing, so not the leg, her top was still a baby-blue, so it wasn't a torso wound, but there was a flowering of redness on her shoulder. She was swaying and staggering, going into a panic attack. Dropping so that I was at her level, I gently grabbed her shoulders to steady her. She gave a cry of pain at the touch, but I had no choice. She was loosing blood too fast. I pressed the wound as her eyes rolled into the back of her head and caught her awkwardly.

In the background, I heard Lestrade calling for an ambulance, Donovan screaming at me, Anderson being stupid because he didn't know where the bullets had come from, cars screeching along the road and so, so much noise. Why were they so stupid? There were only six bullets for that type of gun, they had nothing to worry about except Kayla. John knelt down beside me and removed my blood-soaked hand from Kayla's shoulder, placing his there instead. I made use of the regained ability to move both of my arms to move Kayla into a more comfortable position. Then medics were screaming and she was being taken away as I sat, numb.

I pulled the orange blanket closer towards my body and wondered why my hands were so cold.

...and back to Kayla's POV

I blearily opened my eyes, the beep of machinery resounding through my brain. It echoed through my head, creating a cacophony of noise. There was a pounding in my shoulder and my wings were hanging through the mattress, limp. It was an odd feeling, one I hadn't encountered before. The plains of existence had never held much interest to me beyond their scientific cause. Through my dim thoughts, I faintly recalled my father theorising that it was because the energy of the atomic structure operated on a different wave-length, meaning that the atoms could slide in between those of the human world. It didn't really matter, anyway.

The beeps continued as my thoughts slowed. Beep... beep... beep... beep.. beep.. beep.. beep. beep. beep. beepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeep.

A cool fluid flowed into my arms as I heard the door slam open and I was once again unaware of the world.

The next time I was aware of wakening, there was the sound of violin music. I lay on the white sheets, not bothering to open my eyes, as the music flowed through the room and soothed my frazzled nerves. Sherlock was okay. One down. I took a deep breath in through my nose and caught the scent of tea. John was okay. Two down. I swallowed but didn't say anything. I didn't feel up to talking. The music changed and slowed from and andante to a largo. Large-o, I'd used to say, and my brother would fake a pout and tickle me until I said it right. The music continued as my consciousness ended.

When I was once again aware of my surroundings, I was heavily drugged. They must have upped the dosage, I thought vaguely. Why..? My confusion and question must have shown – either that or I asked it aloud – for there was an answer.

"You were... crying, in your sleep," a voice with disguised disgust said from somewhere across the room.

I blearily opened one eye to see a faintly glowing white room. Why, I wondered, do they make hospitals so harsh on the eyes when they are full of damaged patients? Blinking a few times to clear my vision, I noticed Mycroft seated in a chair on the other side of the room, his seemingly ever-present umbrella leaning against the wall.

"Mornin', Umbrella-boy," I said in greeting, slurring my words slightly. It was morning – the children's ward faced east and the sun was streaming in through the gap in the curtains.

"That is almost impressive," he said in reply, raising an eyebrow at me, "At this dosage you should sound like my brother the first time he overdosed."

I mimed a bow from my horizontal position as my drugged mind raced with the new-found information. Sherlock had done drugs? Not only that, he had overdosed? Twice? He didn't seem the kind of person to be so careless as to mix up the wrong dosage. That spoke of a dramatic event, most likely to do with work than any form of sociality. So what had happened? I'd have to ask Lestrade – he was obliged by right of work to know these sorts of things.

"The Yard are fine, thanks to you."

The smooth voice shattered my concentration and the thoughts flew away like wisps on the wind, then became scattered among the stars. I'd need to fully form a new one, I knew. But it didn't matter at the moment. I'd succeeded.

"I- I'd, personally, like to say thanks. You saved my brother," Mycroft said softly, "and for that, I will forever be in your debt."

I smiled. He did have a heart. "It's fine," I replied, "it's what any decent person would do."

"No, I wouldn't think so," he said in a musing tone, "just the ones looking for a good outcome. I must be going. I look forward to meeting you under slightly better circumstances, Kayla," Mycroft said in a way of farewell.

I was already half-asleep but I still caught the adjective. Did he know? Or was it just a guess? The drugs didn't give me time to muse.

John scolded me. Said that I wasn't allowed to be a self-sacrificing idiot. I argued back that I wasn't an idiot then he reminded me that I'd gotten shot.

"Sherlock's beenn shot," I told him matter-of-factly, still slurring my words.

I shifted on my bed. John had adjusted the tilt as soon as he arrived and it had taken most of the strain off my shoulder. Aforementioned hedgehog impersonator raised his eyebrows in surprise before shrugging with his non-shot shoulder.

"He's an idiot," he said simply.

"You've been shot," I reminded him, and he shrugged again.

"I'm an idiot, too."

I laughed much more than I should have at this statement, especially when he started giggling. I waved this off as an effect of the drugs.

Once my laughing fit was over, we sat in silence for a few minutes.

"Now we match," John said, referring to our shoulders.

"You're right – we're both looking after Sherlock," I commented seriously. We began laughing again, but were cut short by nurses sending John out the room for over-exciting me. How boring.

On my sixth 'alive' (being with the ability to wake up – turns out I'd spent three days in a recuperative, comatose state) day in the ward, Molly came to visit briefly. We passed the time with idle chit-chat about work, Sherlock, John and chemical equations. She placed a small vase of lavender beside my bed, saying that it would help me sleep. I'd almost blushed.

The fourth 'alive' day, I'd awoken with a searing pain in my shoulder that had made it impossible to sleep and had me crying out after every breath – this wasn't the reason I'd been crying, as before proved by the 'impossible to sleep'. The doctors refused to put me on a higher dose of painkillers at first, seeing as I was already third from the highest dose, but Mycroft tweaked a few systems and managed to get me put up one. I was now slurring my words and my thinking was slow, but I was just slightly too numb to feel any pain.

The reason for Molly's visit's briefness was that Sherlock and John soon came into visit. John sat in the chair in the corner, as he had been told not to begin any humourous conversations with me and as proved by the five visits that had ended in laughter so far, this made it rather improbable for him to even be able to begin speaking with me. I made a point not to look at him.

Sherlock had brought his violin with him again. In fact, I hadn't heard him speak a word since I was short – he'd just played. I lay back in bed and watched him as the music flowed over me. When he played his wings became outstretched, I realised in dulled fascination. As if they were revelling, soaking in the music. It felt familiar, comforting, welcoming, because that was what my brother's... did...

Despite the haze of the drugs, my thoughts obtained a clarity and brilliance to them that rivalled that of a diamond. And suddenly, everything was clear. I darted into my mind palace, teleporting to the room I had reserved for Sherlock (which was, coincidentally, right beside my brother's) and flung down the walls between them that I had erected, connecting information and the things that made them together. The deductions, the violin, the wings, the knowledge, everything and anything was joined together in an organised chaos that was perfectly insane and logical. It was my brother and Sherlock as one, just like they were. Sherlock wasn't just similar to my brother, they were one and the same.

But rather than feeling complete or relieved, as I'd imagined I would, I felt hollow. Numbed. Lost. I ran from that room, slamming and bolting the door, and retreated into my room. The one with the lilac grass that changed to a brandeis sky that darkened to an indigo galaxy. The stars swirled as my thoughts did, each seeming so tiny but taking up entire worlds. I stepped into the pool in the centre, dousing the thoughts and sounds that filled my mind. After a few moments of stillness, I retreated. Slowly, then all at once. After that all at once, I became aware of everything, including what appeared to be a gaping whole where my stolen heart was meant to be.

"Why are you crying? Does your shoulder hurt?" a soft voice asked, and I lowered my eyes to see John looking at me, a concerned look on his face.

I shook my head. No, I wasn't in any pain hospital drugs could cure. A star bloomed to life in my room from the dust and began drawing in the information my mother had taught me. Overdoses meant loss of clarity, control, reduced to an infantile state, possibly death...

I looked past him to find that Sherlock had ceased playing and was looking at me with a confused look on his face. I reached up a cold hand to wipe away the tears I didn't know had fallen.

"Because we forgot," I said simply, trying not to slur my words. Sherlock tilted his head, his black wings hanging limply. It was... no, not comforting... good, I supposed, to know my brother still cared.

"Forgot what?" he asked in his baritone voice – it was so nice to hear it again – and I laughed, an ugly, hollow thing that echoed through my seemingly empty rib-cage and shook my numbed body.

"Exactly," I told him, smiling sadly.

And the drugs pulled me under, black feathers imprinted on my mind's eye and music flowing through me.

The star absorbed more information and made more connections as it grew. With no distractions, it flourished under my focus. Traumatic events lead to drugs, more so overdoses... second overdose was worse than the first, so something worse had happened... could that have been my brother that time? Filled with nothing but inexplicable sadness, forced to turn to drugs? I needed more information. The star stabilised.

Edit: 25.2.16