Chapter 6
Sherlock sat on the sofa, feeling John's hands closing around his delicate wrist. He knew that this needed to be done, the bones to be realigned, if wanted any chance of recovering proper function in his hand. It had honestly terrified him when he had seen John's nail prodding into the tip of his ghostly finger, seen the slight dip in his skin but feel nothing at all.
He was also terrified by the fact that he could remember nothing of the past few days. Well, there were snippets of things floating freely in his mind, of running, falling, a bath of cold water, texting on the sofa, John's worried expression, but nothing to tell him what had happened. He remembered waking, that hand on his wrist that had startled him, making him leap away in fear and damage his arm further.
Mycroft's presence in the room didn't help either. Sherlock knew his brother never came to Baker street without a good reason yet he was sitting on the sofa, helping the doctor to straighten the wrist. There was dust on his trousers too, dust that could only have come from Sherlock's bedroom floor and the bags under his eyes showed he had been in the flat all night. But what could possibly have been so important?
What really puzzled Sherlock was why he had been unconscious on the sofa in the first place. It was obviously the reason John had been so cautious when he had first awoken and probably the reason Mycroft was in the flat too. At first Sherlock had suspected a head injury of sorts, which would defiantly have tied in with the broken wrist but it didn't seem right. After all, there wasn't a bump on his head and he was missing the concussion which would accompany a hit strong enough to knock a person out. Anyway, he seriously doubted John would let him sleep after being unconscious.
Sherlock had fainted from not eating before, so that had also crossed his mind, but it was quickly proved wrong by the lack of weakness and light-headedness. Presides, it wasn't as if Mycroft would come for something as trivial as that. The only other option his brain could come up with was a fit of some sort which would explain Mycroft's presence more than other two options but still didn't fit in with his lack of memories.
But now he had other things to worry about. He had seen John's look of worry and fear when there had been no feeling and a limited pulse in his hand, and that was worse, much worse than a few missing memories. He had sat still on the sofa, trying to block out the pain and the worry and the fear as John's voice filled the room, talking; probably to Mycroft.
Then there was a new weight joining him on the sofa, more body warmth pressed to his own thin shirt. Sherlock couldn't remember the last time he and Mycroft had actually touched each other, probably during his withdrawal when he had needed help just to stagger to the toilet.
Suddenly there were hands, clasped around his arm, just below his elbow. They were Mycroft's hands but for some reason it took all of Sherlock's resolve to keep his arm still, to stop himself from tearing it away. He closed his eyes, clenching them tight as he tried to calm his racing heart and rationalize his mind. He was safe, he knew he was safe, so why did his instincts keep telling him to run?
"You know this will hurt?" asked John suddenly, his voice cutting through the clouding fear in Sherlock's mind. His eyes flashed open, focusing on his friend's face, seeing the concern hidden behind the calm doctor exterior. Sherlock nodded, a slow shaky dip of his head, knowing he needed this, there was no other option. He could still feel Mycroft beside him, his brother's fears obvious in the juddering of his breaths, the racing of his heart.
Then John's hands were on his arm, skimming over the skin, probing gently at the bone beneath, sending flicks of electrified pain up his arm, filling his mind. Suddenly the hands tightened, gripping the bones and muscles firmly, ready to pull at the arm. Sherlock whimpered, unable stop himself as the pain flared up and down his arm, sizzling in his brain. He tried to steady himself, to ignore the buzzing pain as he looked back up at John, their eyes meeting for a second.
"You ready?" asked John quietly, his voice not nearly as steady as his hands. Sherlock nodded again, his heart in his throat as he felt the hands shuffling on his wrist. He could feel Mycroft's hands too, gripping hard on his arm, holding him still, not letting him get away. He knew he was safe, that neither John nor Mycroft would hurt him but he knew someone had before. But it was still there, the feeling of the hands around his wrist, clasped tight and ready to pull, ready to forcefully move his bones back into place. And Sherlock hated it, using all his mental strength to stop himself from pulling the arm away and fleeing his captors, never letting them near him again. He glanced up at John, their eyes meeting one last time, before John drew in a breath and pulled on the arm.
Sherlock screamed, a high pitched, terrified yell of pain as he felt the bones in his arm pulled back into place. He clasped the arm to his chest, out of the grasp of his captors as the memories flooded back. The feeling of the hands on his arm, pulling it roughly behind his back, the grip getting tighter and tighter until the bones gave way to the pressure. The boys were laughing, jeering as he tried not to cry, determined not to show them weakness. Then the bell had rung and break was over, the boys had run, knowing that he wouldn't tell, that the freak didn't speak any more.
But those boys had been right; he was a freak, a stupid little freak that nobody cared about. Nobody had noticed his arm was hurt, not the teachers, not Mummy, not Father, not even the nanny that put him to bed at night. Nobody noticed until Mycroft did at supper three nights later, the only person who had cared. Mummy had tried to take him to the hospital, Farther had tried to carry him there later but he had panicked, he had kicked and screamed until he was dropped, falling hard onto the hard oak floor. He had run to his room, needing to get away, to be alone, to go to his Mind Palace and free himself from them all.
Mycroft had broken into his room eventually, using his lock-picking kit from last Christmas. He had sat on the bed, rocking his brother until he had stopped shaking and his mind had returned to his body. They had gone to the hospital then, for X-rays and scans followed by questions, so many questions, from the doctors and nurses and Mummy and Father and Mycroft, all wanting to know what had happened, how Sherlock had broken his wrist.
