Author's Note: First of all, thank you, thank you, THANK YOU for your kind reviews- you are all too sweet! It seemed as though you wanted the story to be continued, as I did leave it at a rather cruel cliffhanger. Sorry it took me a while to write- unfortunately, I do have schoolwork and a job, so it seems as though my only time to write is on the weekends. Again, your reviews made my day, and I hope you enjoy the next chapter of the story! :)
Mycroft could not say that he had been particularly shocked to find that his brother was alive. He had already suspected that Sherlock had motivation to fake his death for several reasons, most having to due with a certain James Moriarty- though he had dismissed these suspicions as false hope several months ago. Still, the man had survived two drug overdoses and multiple close-misses with London's criminals- how could a simple building defeat him?
But though the building had not defeated him, something had- or nearly had. Something had left his little brother broken, physically and otherwise. But Sherlock has not said a word about it. Actually, he has not said much of anything since they found him broken in that abandoned building.
As Mycroft tells all of this to him, John keeps his carefully emotionless stare fixed on the car floor.
"Mycroft, when you said he's asking for me..."
"He has hardly said anything since we found him, certainly not anything coherent. However, your name is mentioned the most by far, and we are hoping that somehow you will be able to help him."
"How?"
"To be perfectly honest, I'm not entirely sure. But I am confident that your presence will help him somehow."
After this frustratingly cryptic reply, Mycroft is silent the rest of the way to the private hospital. They exit the car, and John follows Mycroft with one thought in his head.
He's alive.
After winding through the maze of a hospital, Mycroft finally stops, and the two men enter the room.
For such a tall man, Sherlock shouldn't look so small.
His eyes are closed- sleeping, but judging by the pained expression on his face, not peacefully. He is curled up into himself, and whimpers quietly.
Heart clenching, John is immediately at his side. Hoping to wake Sherlock from the nightmare he is obviously being tortured by, he places a tentative hand on his shoulder. At the touch, Sherlock violently flinches without waking, and John draws back his hand.
Reluctantly allowing the man to continue sleeping, John turns to Mycroft.
"What the hell happened to him?"
"We don't know. As I said, he is hardly speaking."
John collapses into the chair by Sherlock's bed, his head in his hands. "I suppose it is no use asking who?"
Mycroft shakes his head solemnly, and then looks at his outrageously expensive watch.
"I apologize for my rudeness Dr. Watson, but I must be leaving, as I do have a very important meeting to attend. I am sure that I will see you shortly."
And with that, the most powerful man John knows is gone.
As John looks at the sleeping form of his friend that he had believed to be dead for the past six months, he laughs humorlessly at the fact that a mere two hours ago, none of this was happening. He had been going about life as he had been for the past six months. Then chaos had returned.
And he was damned glad it had.
As he waited for Sherlock to wake up, John read the chart from the clipboard at the end of his bed. It appeared as if the man had been starved, though he had hardly needed the medical chart for that- the detective's bones were clearly even more prominent than usual. Even as John swallowed back murderous rage at whoever had dared do this to Sherlock, he was grateful that the physical damage hadn't been worse. However, as he remembered the pitiful way the man had been curled on the bed, John realized that the mysterious emotional damage was going to take far more recovery.
A sharp intake of breath has John looking up from the clipboard, straight into a pair of wide, pale eyes.
"Sherlock?"
He didn't respond, and only blinked.
"...Sherlock?"
Nothing.
John began to panic at the sight of the once-eloquent man now seemingly unable say a word.
"Sherlock, please, say something..."
"John?"
It was so quiet, so soft, that John almost missed it.
But before John could answer him, the detective again curled in on himself, buried his face in his pillow, and began to weep.
"Sherlock!" John was kneeling on the floor beside the bed in an instant. From a man who was loathe to admit he had emotions, this was frighteningly out of character, and John hadn't the slightest idea what to do.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, it was my fault, I'm sorry..." Sherlock mumbled again and again as his body was wracked with sobs.
"What was? What was your fault?"
"I'm sorry, forgive me, I'm so sorry..."
"Sherlock?"
"Please, I'm sorry..."
Not knowing what else to do, John placed a hand on Sherlock's shaking shoulder. This time, the man didn't flinch away.
"It's okay, it's all okay. It's all fine."
Either his words had worked, or Sherlock's tears had run out. Regardless, Sherlock lifted his face from the pillow, and looked straight at John with his red-rimmed eyes. He wore an expression of utter despair.
"Sherlock? Are you alright?"
"...my fault."
"What was, Sherlock? Explain to me, I'm an idiot, you know that, I have no idea what you're talking about."
"I'm so sorry, it's all my fault..."
John sighed. He wondered if the man could even hear him. He couldn't stand seeing Sherlock so obviously distraught, and not being able to do a thing about it. Not knowing what to do, he sat back down in the chair, and let his head fall into his hands.
"It's my fault, John, I killed you."
John's head snapped up.
"What?"
I am by no means an expert on hospitals/medical care, so bear with me here if a few things are off. I have a general idea for where to take the story if you'd like to read more, but I'd love to hear suggestions of what you'd like to see! Regardless, please leave a review telling me what you thought of this- it really does make my day!
Thanks for reading!