*The Other Side*

By: WhiteGloves

Chapter 2

"Death is but another journey."

Enjoy Reading~

Sherlock's side.

His brain must've died. It was impossible to think. The only thing registering in was how hazy... how dazed... how painful... His arms hurt like crazy. It was impossible to know... to think...

Then, a voice. Harsh. Irritate. Demanding. Familiar... resonating at the very centre of his mind.

"Don't be smart."

"...shut up..." he whispers.

"Are you really so obvious?"

"...shut UP..."

"You've always been so stupid."

"...you..."

"I am the smart one."

"..." he breaths hard.

"...give me the list..."

"...no..."

"...give it."

"...not you..."

"The list, Sherlock!"

"Not you!" he shouts—

[Sound of gunshot]

"...no...!"

[More gunshot]

"NOT YOU!"

[...]

"I'll always be there for you."

[DEAFENING SILENCE]

Sherlock.

"..."

[Ambulance ringing]

Sherlock...!

[someone shouting]

SHERLOCK!

His eyes snapped open, daze, panic stricken... wild.

He could feel the strain in his limp body. Could feel his limbs too sore. There was difficulty in his breathing. His chest was tight. Immediate response of his mind was slow, even for him. He didn't know where he was. Only just. It was obvious even before he had time to think.

Hospital. He'd been there before. Many times in fact.

He blinked and strained his eyes. His world was tumbling on his gaze. Swirling. Doubling. His eyes started to droop...

Then like gunshot too close on his ears he woke up, much awake than ever. He exhaled as mounting pain hit his body.

There was something he had to remember but his Mind Palace was still allowing no entry.

Something he had to remember... always something...

"You're awake."

Sherlock turned his head to his right, his eyesight improving. There was his best friend John Watson sitting by the nearby chair, clad in his black jacket and a definite glum look on his face. His hands were tightly closed together, his shoulders hunched. His expression too readable. John was always an open book.

Sherlock stared at him fixedly, trying to take his appearance detail by detail so as not to miss... miss everything because his sight was still poor but... was it his eyesight doubling or John's expression says someone died?

John was always dramatic with his expressions anyway.

"John." Sherlock blinked as he uttered the name, making sure it wasn't all in his head.

He felt the doctor's eyes boring on him but also took note how John would look down his fingers every now and then.

Sherlock's mind whizzed—anxiety, forbidding anger, if possible... dread?

Sherlock looked up the ceiling and took in an inhale of breath that somewhat cleared his mind.

"What am I doing here?" he asked in his low voice.

"You're asking me that?" there was a sharp edge on John Watson's voice that told Sherlock he was on the wrong and he, John Watson was the opposite. But John was always the opposite. For some reason he had to be the opposite. Unfortunately, just that at the moment, Sherlock couldn't remember why.

Brain was still non-functioning. He refrained from answering.

"How long have I been here?" he asked instead.

"You don't remember... well, that's lucky. Maybe you'll be happier there in your blank state."

"You're not helping."

"I don't plan to. Not this time."

Sherlock shut his eyes. Mind palace was working slowly. Still slipping though. John was lucky he, Sherlock was in no shape or he would have retorted a better answer. And his lips were dry. He shut his eyes. Did they cut his morphine?

"I get it." He murmured weakly, trying to see if John would give him a break as he tried to travel his eyes, cursing the lights to burn itself off when—

"Do you?" John sounded more than snappish; he sounded accusative that made the bedridden detective glance back painfully, "Do you know what you've done?"

"Course' I know what I've done and even if I don't remember I would still have the same answer because you're acting like that again! Always the same reaction!" Sherlock snapped in turn, unable to conceal his discomfort as he threw an angry look at his best friend, whom, by now, he's considering to call otherwise. Couldn't John see how uncomfortable he was with his brain still half dead?

"No you don't know—because you don't care, Sherlock—!"

"What 'care'? What am I suppose to care about!? I barely made it out of my head, you think I have time to care of what you're about to say when you obviously don't want to say it?! If irony could kill—"

"Shut up, Sherlock!"

"You shut up, John!" If only he was allowed to—

"No, I'm not gonna shut up!" The medical doctor's eyes pierced the consulting detective's and there was much more than anger in his eyes. "I'm going to tell you exactly what happened until you realize how everything's too late—"

"Too late—for what? For my drug abuse—? I've already told you abstaining from it won't keep me alive! It's not immortality!" He gave a short cough as he finally forced his body into a sitting position, mindless of the gruff pulling of the strings attached to his arms. The absence of John's voiced concern over his actions made him throw the doctor another look. John would usually fuss about those, being the great friend he was.

Instead, he found John staring at him with red eyes. Eyes that haven't slept for days. Eyes hiding grave concerns. Sherlock frowned as his senses read his friend's features.

"John—"

"Not immortality, you say..." John sniffed but the hard features on his face didn't disappear, "I guess you cannot justify that anymore knowing how an immortality rate went downhill just now. Because you OD'd."

Sherlock blinked in confusion and when he's confuse he gets angry.

"What are you talking about?" he snapped. Was John having mind palace problems too? Because
Sherlock could swear his brain was much faster than John's no matter how many times he OD'd because of how slow the progress of their conversation was.

Then John Watson's face paled. Sherlock read death unmistakably.

"Do you remember how you disappeared from Baker Street for a week? How we kept looking for you but couldn't track you down? Nobody, not one of us, can track down the Sherlock Holmes when he doesn't want to be found. There's no case at hand, no leads. God knows where you were."

"Go straight to the point, John." The detective's jaw tightened as John's red eyes burned.

"Nobody could find you. Except one. He could always find you. He did. He always outsmarted you."

John cleared his throat as a huge lump blocked his words. His eyes fell on his tight hands.

Sherlock had seen enough to make something out of the signals but his mind was rejecting it. He stared at his friend warily, waiting for him to finish his words yet somehow his Mind Palace was working on its own. He already knew—

"What happened, John?" Dumb. He was asking a dumb question.

"Mycroft found you, that's what happened." The doctor eyed him again, his burning eyes dying down, melting into this look of total lost. "He found you alone and you... you shot him."

Sherlock's mind shut down at how fast it suddenly found pieces of his jagged memory to verify the story—Mycroft standing in front of him, Mycroft speaking, Mycroft reaching forward and him falling down after a gunshot—

Sherlock didn't feel a thing but something sickening was circulating in his stomach that wanted out.

"They found him half dead." John went on, "You shot him, you know where? In the chest. Twice. Nobody lives through that. So don't expect him to." Sherlock's eyes found the doctor's.

John didn't look very forgiving.

"I don't know what kind of monster you put him in your Mind Palace but Mycroft deserves better than that, Sherlock."

"Where's he?" the consulting detective found himself asking. John looked down his hands again.

"He's dead."

"No he's not. You're lying."

The two exchange looks—and then the next thing, Sherlock Holmes was wildly pulling the strings attached to his arms, jumped down the bed and wrestling with John Watson out of the room.

"Get out of the way, John—!"

"Sherlock—!"

"You're lying and you know it now out of my way!"

It was probably his weakened state or was it his lack of morphine but the small doctor was able to manhandle Sherlock like he was a piece of sack as he gripped Sherlock by the arm and made him sit on the chair with their foreheads almost colliding—

And John spoke so softly it was nearly chilly.

"Listen here, Sherlock—"

But he wouldn't. Not this time. With strength that came from who knows where, the detective shove the doctor away and tore his way towards the corridor. He found D.I Lestrade there talking to a nurse—their eyes locked as Sherlock made his way towards him and shook his collar—demanding his brother.

Lestrade said something but Sherlock didn't hear it. He was busy looking at the clipboard bearing his name while the nurse holding it said something he couldn't comprehend—then suddenly Sherlock bolted and threw himself on the elevator a step close—seeing exactly the faces of John and Greg calling him back but they could wait later.

He knows where Mycroft is.

The ICU was pretty much the only place that registered on his mind upon his seemingly erratic walk. He held onto the wall, feeling light headed with knees wobbling every now and then.

Then he saw the room and entered. Was it his imagination or were people standing guard outside or somebody—a woman with auburn hair—was there watching him? Allowing him entry? He couldn't be sure.

The only thing that registered to his mind as he came in was the long blank sound of the machine's beep.

John was right. It was too late.

He blacked out even before he could take another step.

-TBC-

A/N: Both sides revealed! Whose side will prevail at the last?

Thanks for reading!