Nearly 2000 words - ooops :D Even though the word counter is being simply strange - in my document it's 1922 words, according to ff it's 1950 - weird.
Anyway - here's chapter 60!
Oh and by the way, I'm sorry I'm taking so long to explain who Maynard is/what he did to Kiara. It will be revealed in about five chapters. I couldn't explain sooner, it wouldn't have worked with the rest of the story, so yeah - you'll know in five chapters.
I open my eyes slowly, my head throbbing, and see almost nothing. After a few seconds I realise the curtains are closed and the light is only barely on, and I look around for someone to sit here. After all, who would let the lights on in a room with a sleeping person?
Mycroft watches me with a wary expression, a small gauze swab taped to his temple. What happened? Why was I sleeping even though the alarm clock next to me reads four pm?
"Mycroft, what's going on?" My voice is croaky, like I screamed loudly and it confuses me even more.
"Kiara, do you remember what you did?" He asks quietly, and I frown. He didn't have a hurt head this morning, when I got up, neither when we had breakfast nor when we were in his study, researching, Irene asking about -
"Margery Grey." I whisper, all the pieces slotting into place, and I remember what happened.
I want to reach up, want to touch his chin to make him turn his head to inspect the wound on his head I now know I'm responsible for, but I find myself unable to move my arms. Looking up, I see that they are tied to the headboard, constricting me, and I pull at them, only to find them expertly tied, without any give of the rope.
I raise my eyebrow at Mycroft and he sighs, rubbing his forehead tiredly.
"We weren't sure how you'd react when you woke up – whether you'd still be caught in your memories." I nod, relaxing my arms and breathing in and out slowly, fighting the memories of Maynard back into their black little corner of my mind.
"Are you – are you okay?" My voice is barely a whisper, and I remember Sherlock's hands desperately trying to stop me from choking him. Suddenly I feel the need to shower and to wash my hands extra hard. I can still feel his fingers trying to pry my fingers away from his neck and then finally going still, and I nearly gag. My memories made him a lackey of Maynard, so I didn't really see his eyes, but I can imagine how he felt – being choked to death by a friend, and I'm sure I've not looked sad while doing it.
"Miss Adler is a bit shaken, she pointed the gun at you and threatened to shoot you if you didn't go after Sherlock tried to calm you down, but mostly she is fine. Sherlock doesn't have that much luck." I close my eyes in horror but keep listening to Mycroft, who paused a little, noticing how disturbed I feel.
"His head is hurt like mine, and he has bruises on his neck, making breathing a bit painful for him – he twisted his foot when you dropped him as well. Also all of us have bruises from when you hit us the first time."
Swallowing, I open my eyes again to look at him. He seems shaken as well, but mostly fine – even though I can imagine the head-ache he must have from being kicked unconscious and hitting his head on the floor.
"Sherlock tried to calm me down?" Mycroft only nods, but I am not satisfied. "He tried to calm me down even though I was obviously not recognizing you and ready to hurt you?" The disbelief in my voice is obvious and Mycroft smiles, but it's a sad smile.
"He was worried you'd get hurt if you left the house. He hoped you'd calm down, or at least to be able to keep you in here. That is why none of us directly defended ourselves – we didn't want you to get hurt. Which is also why Miss Adler used the gun that late, knowing that if you got close to her you'd have taken the gun and shot her without a second thought."
I close my eyes again, wanting to deny this but knowing it's true. When I open them again, I look at Mycroft who is not looking at me, and my throat feels constricted, as if I was the one who had been choked, not Sherlock.
"I'm sorry." I say and I can feel the familiar prick of tears in my eyes. He turns his head and looks at me and nods.
We don't talk for a few minutes, until he shakes his head, seemingly remembering something, and gets up to loosen the rope tying my hands together.
"Don't." I say as soon as I realise what he wants to do, and he looks at me, surprised.
"There was a reason you took this precaution, it's not over yet." He just looks at me contemplating, so I continue. "I don't want anything to happen when I see Sherlock or Irene. Anything could trigger another panic-attack right now, and I don't want to risk killing you for real this time."
He nods again and turns towards the door. Only now I realise I'm in his room, in his bed, and I wonder why I'm here, not in my room.
As if he read my mind, he answers, not looking at me, "We found you inside this room, on the floor. We decided it'd be safest for you and us if you stayed here, as you were still moving and still obviously trapped by the flash-back."
Why did I run to his room, and not to mine, when his is further away from the stairs I blurredly remember running up?
Just as he's nearly reached the door, I call out one more time.
"My?" He turns his head so I can see his profile to show me he's listening and stops, his hand already on the door-knob. "How do you know what happened even though you were unconscious?"
"Because they told me what happened. Shall I send one of them in?" When I nod, he leaves the room. I lie on the bed, my arms still tied over my head, and every few seconds I pull on them. The rough feeling of them on my skin keeps me in the present, helps me fight of the memories.
Sherlock's limp is visible as soon as he opens the room, but neither of us mention it when he walks to the windows and opens the curtains. Because of the sudden brightness I have to blink twice until I can see again and in that time he moved over to sit next to me, where Mycroft sat before. He has big bruises on his neck, colouring the usually so pale skin red and purple and blue and I wince when he swallows.
"Hey Sherlock," I sound quiet and regretful, but Sherlock doesn't answer. He just looks at me, deducing me, and I feel uncomfortable. I can't figure out what he's thinking.
"Mycroft didn't free you?" He asks after a few minutes, even though it's more a statement than a question. His voice is rough and I don't want to imagine how bad it must have been directly after he woke up, a few hours ago.
"I didn't want him to." Sherlock doesn't ask further, just keeps deducing. After some time I start to feel really uncomfortable, so I break the silence again.
"I'm sorry, Sherlock." Now he looks directly into my eyes and seems to find what he's looking for.
"I know." It feels not finished to me, it feels like I need to apologize again, but I don't know how to say it.
"What triggered it?" He asks, and pulls me out of my thoughts.
"The name. Margery Grey was one of the few people Father trusted. When I was younger she'd always be there when Father wasn't – she left after I met Maynard for the first time. She felt responsible."
"What happened?" I know he's asking for what Maynard did to me, but I can't talk about it – not now, when the memories are finally staying mostly in their dark little corner, so I shake my head.
He finally gets up, and touches the ropes that are tying me to the bed. Without any attempt of loosening them, he just inspects them, once bending my wrist back a little. I wince when he touches the skin on which the rope rubbed – it feels raw and stings.
Suddenly he turns and leaves without another word and I am left to wonder what he's really thinking.
The first thing Irene does when she enters is get rid of the ropes. I try to explain her why I feel safer with them, but she just ignores me. My arms ache when I move them to a more comfortable position, and I frown when I see just how red my wrists are.
"You were struggling and twisting all the time. It took hours until you'd finally calmed down. And I don't care that you feel safer with the ropes, it's not good for your wrists and besides," she lifts a little syringe and I recognize it as mine, with the paralyser, "I have this. It works fast enough, doesn't it?" I nod and close my eyes, suddenly I feel horrible – well, worse than before. I can imagine how it must have felt for all of them, me not recognizing them and being ready to kill them.
"Sherlock told me what happened." I look up to her, waiting for her to say more, to ask for the full story – after all, neither Sherlock nor Mycroft know everything.
"I'm guessing you met him when you were younger. Was that why Margery left?"
"She blamed herself, even though Father didn't." She nods and thinks for a second, then smiles.
"You're not going to tell me what happened when you met Maynard, are you?" I look into her face, the so familiar look of mysterious knowing on her face, and I think about it. But it is like it was with Sherlock and Mycroft. It's not that I don't trust them, I just can't say it. Whenever I open my mouth to say it, to recall these memories, I feel choked.
"No." I answer quietly and curse myself. I told Father once, so why is it so hard? Why do I feel like it's important not to say anything, why is it impossible to tell the people I trust most the truth?
Irene nods once more and then smiles. "It wasn't a great birthday, was it?" I have to smile at her comment. She's right, I've had better, but her comment helps to get my mind away from what happened today.
I sit up slowly and smile reassuringly to Irene, who looked worriedly at the syringe in her hands. I feel better, and I want to follow the train of thought Irene had. Margery Grey left when I was a young child. But that doesn't mean she's completely out of the criminal world. She was still very high up and Father worked with her now and then, so who says she doesn't know where Moran is?
I hug Irene and feel her stiffen, but I hold on and don't do anything else so she relaxes and hugs me back.
"I'm sorry." I whisper in her ear and she holds me tighter.
"It's all forgiven, Sweetie." She answers and I feel insanely grateful for it.