Chapter 2
Sherlock pushed himself upright, staring back at John across the room, his eyebrows knitting together as his phenomenal brain tried to puzzle it out. John knew now, didn't he? So there was no point hiding his wrist and the break inside. But then again, his friend was a doctor and he would be sent for an x-ray, the only sensible option in the opinion of a medic, and he really did not want an X-ray taken of his arm. He knew from past experience on his cases that fractures in bones can be seen even after they are healed as the bone is newer there. John would want to see the x-ray of his arm, and would then see the previous break from when he was eight and the metal that had been left there.
He hated that time in his life, the time he was at school. Well, pre-prep was okay, all the children were small and ignorant, and neither knew or cared about the ways of life then. He was still strange to them though, and they called him names but other than that they didn't really think about it, too interested by Lego and such things. When he moved up to Prep school, well, that was a different matter. The boys were bigger there and he was just a pathetic year three, or Upper II as they were called. The year six boys had hated him, beat him in the playground, although not enough to do any real damage. They were all so much bigger and stronger and, although he would never admit it, they scared the life out of him. Within a week of starting 'Big School' he had stopped talking, to his teachers, to the other boys and girls in his class, to everyone in the wretched place. Eventually he stopped talking at home too. He remembered the silence at school, his fear of speaking, his fear of those boys…
"Sherlock?"
Sherlock's head snapped up, John's voice pulling him from his memories. He wondered how long he'd been sitting there, staring ahead with his eyes unfocused, locked in his mind. Probably a while, judging by the doctor's worried expression.
"Mmm?" he replied eventually, still looking at John with a look of confusion, faked obviously.
"Um, are you alright?" John asked cautiously, his eyebrows furrowed.
"Perfectly," Said Sherlock, picking up his phone and tapping on the small keyboard. He risked a glance up when John didn't say anything. The doctor was looking annoyed, running his hand through his hands in frustration. Sherlock relaxed slightly, his mask was back up then, hiding his emotions.
"Sherlock!" John argued. "I need to see your wrist."
"It's fine," insisted the detective, not looking up from his phone in hope that his friend might drop the subject.
"We are not having this conversation again Sherlock!"
No reply, only the tapping of BlackBerry keys.
"Fine, Sherlock! You sit there and ignore me! But if you end up with permanent damage to that wrist or your hand then it's your own fault, not mine!" John snapped, folding his arms in frustration. He hadn't thought this would have any effect on the detective and had said it more as a burst of anger than anything else so was actually surprised when the tapping of keys stopped and, although Sherlock didn't look up from his phone, John could see his eyebrows had knitted together in confusion, real this time.
He tried again, sensing weakness in the detective. "Sherlock, just let me have a look? Please?"
There was no reply and John thought he had failed but then Sherlock looked up, a hint of fear in his silver eyes, and gave a slight but obvious nod of acceptance.
John sighed in relief as he pushed himself out of the chair and knelt before Sherlock who was still sat on the sofa. The detective held out his arm, somewhat cautiously, watching his friend with wary eyes .
"Why did you hide it?" John asked quietly as he un-buttoned the cuff of his friend's shirt, his nimble fingers careful on the sore limb. He let the detective pull up the sleeve himself before helping to settle the arm on a cushion that he had placed on the younger Holmes' lap. He didn't even wince when his arm was moved but John could see the pain he was hiding in his eyes. Sherlock said nothing in response to his friend's question, deciding to simply stare at the bare arm which was now resting on his lap instead. John sighed and gave up hoping for a reply, turning his mind back to the examination at hand.
The arm was badly swollen with dark bruises that faded just before the wrist. John knew instantly that his deduction had been right and the wrist was broken, although, thankfully, the bones did not appear to have moved. It would still have been painful though, very painful, and to think that Sherlock had been hiding it for three days…
"Um, I need to turn it over now," said John eventually, breaking the silence. "Your arm, I mean…"
Sherlock nodded and then winced as he slowly rotated his arm, resting it on the cushion so the pale underside faced upwards, the fingers curling limply. The underside of the arm was just as bruised and swollen as the top although a couple of straight white lines stood out clearly on the marred skin. John bent closer, studying them with concern. At first he had thought they were simple scars, possibly from a case or a past experiment but as he thought deeper he realised what they were, worry instantly filling his mind.
"Er, Sherlock? Did you ever have surgery on your arm?" John asked, the concern obvious in his voice as he glanced up at his friend.
"Yes, when I was eight. The break was worse that time though, and I was young and ignorant at the time," Sherlock answered stiffly.
"I doubt you were ever ignorant Sherlock," muttered John, his attention focused as he ran his fingers gingerly along his friends arm. Sherlock drew in a sharp breath as John's fingers neared his wrist but he said nothing, choosing to suffer in silence than let his emotion fun free. The doctor couldn't feel any displaced bones in the arm, however there was a strangely bumped area to the bone on either side of the arm. Eventually, John looked back up, thinking hard.
"Um, Sherlock, Did they leave metal pins in your arm? When you were little?" he asked in confusion and concern.
"Yes," replied the detective shortly, refusing to meet the doctor's eyes. John sighed, wondering what to do. He knew Sherlock wouldn't want to go to the hospital but it was common knowledge for a doctor that having metal plates still in the arm could cause major problems if the bone was broken again. However, the more he thought about it the more he realised there was nothing else he could do.
"I need to take you for an X-Ray, Sherlock," John said eventually, looking up at his friend in what he hoped was a calm and friendly way. This was normally the expression that he saved for small children up at the hospital but he knew that Sherlock could easily be classed as a child in many ways.
"Can't you just splint it here or something?" he asked, his voice slightly shakier than normal.
John looked up at his friend, worried by the fear visible in his eyes. "I'm sorry Sherlock, but this is going to need the hospital," he said calmly.
"No, John, please, no," Sherlock begged suddenly, his voice high with panic. "I can't go, I can't!" He didn't want to go for an X-ray. They would ask him about the first break, he was sure they would, ask him how it happened. It was written on his record that he hadn't said anything last time, not to the doctors, not to his mother, not to anyone. He brought he knees up to his chest, his arm now sandwiched between the pillow and his body but he didn't feel the pain it caused.
"Sherlock, you need to go to the hospital," instructed John, a strange sternness in his voice. It was the same strange strictness that his mother had used when she had tried to take him to the hospital all those years ago. She had asked nicely at first, just after Mycroft pointed out his discovery at the dinner table, knowing how quickly her youngest son's moods could turn. When he had refused Mr Holmes had tried to pick up his son to carry him to the car whether he liked it or not. He had not expected the little eight year old child to fly into a panic-fuelled rage. Sherlock had kicked and screamed, fighting his way away from his parents and running to his room, locking himself in. It was Mycroft who had picked the lock and calmed his screaming brother enough to allow himself to be taken to the hospital for treatment on his now twisted arm.
Sherlock shuddered at the memory, pressing his eyes onto his knees in desperation. Why all these memories? Why were they released? He had locked them away at the back of his Mind Palace all those years ago and they had been fine until now, hadn't they? They had never disturbed his life before, so why now? Inside he knew why, it was obvious, but admitting it was weakness.
"Sherlock?"
It was John again, he sounded worried now, just like Mycroft had. No, no, no, don't think like that! Forget it, push it away! But John was still calling, asking if he was okay, saying he was sorry for upsetting him. It was too similar. With a roar of frustration Sherlock leapt from the sofa, sending the pillow flying and making John jump back in surprise. He stumbled from the lounge, into his bedroom, slamming the doors behind him making the ornaments rattle on their shelves.
John sat on the floor, too stunned to move, listening to the thuds and shatterings from Sherlock's room. There was something wrong, dangerously wrong, and John knew he couldn't fix by himself. With shaking hands he reached into his pocket and withdrew the phone Harry had given him all those months ago. He flicked through his contacts, coming to rest on the one which he knew he needed but hardly dared to call. Sherlock would be angry if he did but there was no way he could be left as he was. Knowing there was no other option he pressed the green button.
The dial tone sounded loudly as he raised the phone to his ear, dampening the smashes and thumps. The call answered on the second ring and a cool, collected man sounded in his ear, asking what was wrong.
"Mycroft," John whispered down the phone, interrupting the man. He took a deep breath, wondering how much he would regret this later. "I think something is wrong with Sherlock" he admitted quietly. The phone was silent for a second, as though the man was deciding what to do. Then he spoke again.
"I'll be right over," he said, the customary coolness gone from his voice.
