I wake up to an all white room. That is all I see: white. And I feel is the thick pounding through my skull. I moan, loudly. My moan startles a man in the chair next to me. Actually two men, nope three. One short, one tall and one medium. John, Sherlock, and Lestrade. All staring intently at me as if they'd seen a ghost.
"Cat got your tongue?" I ask, my raspy voice begging for water. I can see the relief flood onto all three men's' faces as they realize I'm okay. John darts over to the bed and embraces me, practically smothering me. He walks back to his chair and yawns.
"Well, I'm glad you're okay, Ana. I will be seeing more of you." Lestrade grabs his coat and walks out.
"John, Sherlock. Go home and get some rest. I'm fine and you are both tired." I say, my voice stronger.
"No! There is no way I'm leaving you here. You had a minor concussion after seeing the body!"
The body. And it all comes back to me in one big rush. One so big Sherlock has to get up and literally grab my shoulders and scream at me in order for me to not pass out again. I start to remember about my mother, without being terrified, so Sherlock sits back down.
"What did you just do!?" John asks, his face pale.
"She was remembering a deleted memory and it can knock you out the first few times you remember, especially one like that."
"One like what?" John inquires.
"One with so much emotion and feeling that she deleted so long ago." John yawns again.
"John, go back to the flat! I'm fine okay! I've got nurses and doctors and Sherlock if he wants to stay."
"Only if Sherlock stays." John says. And Sherlock nods his head. John gets up, plants a kiss on my forehead, and leaves. A nurse comes in and asks how I'm feeling.
"Like I got run over with a train." I reply honestly, and see Sherlock grimace.
"Yes, you had a concussion on the doorknob in that door that you were standing in front of, so I imagine you are going to have a headache for a while." She takes some notes then leaves Sherlock and I alone.
"So," Sherlock says, leaning closer, "What was that memory?" He is obviously interested, but I don't want to talk.
"I'm not telling. And you can leave. I only said you'd stay, because I knew John wouldn't leave otherwise." I say, matter-of-factly.
"I won't leave you." Kind words, but his voice is like stone.
I feel a pain in my chest. A sharp one, as though someone stabbed me in the heart. I shake it off, probably just traumatic.
"So, that memory?" Sherlock says, prying.
"Sherlock, I'm not going to tell you. It's too fresh and nothing good will come of it, except me passing out again."
"Why would that be good?"
"Because then you couldn't pry anymore. You are always like this, with everybody. You need information and you'll do anything to get it. Well, not this time. You can't just use me like you do everybody else. I'm not just one of your toys. I'm a real person with real feelings. I have felt sadness, despair, anger, heartbreak," My voice catches on that last one.
"I know you have. But this isn't just about me. That woman's family needs you, just like yours did." And that's it.
"You don't know. You honestly don't. That wasn't the first time I had walked on that exact same scene. I had done it before. In my mother's bedroom. When I was six. She just lay there. I didn't know she was dead until Dad came in. He tried to tell me, but he was dead before he could ever tell." Sherlock's eyebrows are creeping toward his hairline, but I'm not stopping now.
"I was kidnapped. By a man. I don't know his name and he doesn't know mine. I just ran from him to the orphanage that Mum and I passed everyday on the way to the park. She had always said that kids go there whose parents have died. I was there and I stayed there. I was an outcast. I learned to deduce. I tried to figure out whom that man was. Tried to figure out his ways, but it never worked. I was avoided, nobody would talk to me. Except for one. His name was Ben. He has gorgeous blue eyes. He protected me and I, him. It was as easy as that. Until we grew up. When I turned 15, he kissed me. Out of the open right out of nowhere. He told me he loved me and I loved him. We stayed together for 8 months. He had always a detest of most people. I was his exception. One day, he took me to a warehouse and said I found a cure for my loathe of people. Inside, was a dead man, with a knife in his chest. Ben looked at me and grinned. He was happy that this man was dead. It was one less for him to deal with. HE KILLED A MAN AND WAS HAPPY!" I shout. "HE WAS HAPPY AND PROUD. HE LOVED ME! HE WAS THE ONLY PERSON THAT EVER LOVED ME AND HE WAS A MURDERER! DOES THAT MAKE ME a killer too?" my voice drops and tears run down my face.
"I ran away again. Just took off. Nobody ever found me. And they never will. He took my heart, Sherlock. He took it and stabbed it, like that man in the warehouse. Now my heart is dead. And it will stay that way." Automatically, Sherlock is up out of his chair and his arms are around me. I sob into his warm, soft chest, until I am out of tears.
"That's the memory," I whisper, "Are you happy now?"
"Not at all. Please stop crying." He gets up from my bed. I lay there, wanting to die. My heart feels worse than it ever has, and my head feels empty.
"You don't care."
"Hm?" Sherlock asks. His mind is elsewhere.
"You don't care." I say, louder, "About my problems! About anybody's problems. Am I right?"
He looks up, like a deer stuck in the headlights.
"Am I right?!" I shout.
He looks at me with sadness, an actual emotion in his eyes, and nods.
"I thought so. You can leave." I roll over in the bed, ignoring the pounding that is steadily growing louder through my brain.
"But John said that I should stay." He sounds so hurt and lost.
"And I am saying that you should leave."
"But I want to stay with you." I roll back over to face him, sit up, and look him dead in his eyes.
"No you don't. You want me to forgive you. But I won't and I never will. I actually thought that you cared for me, but I was wrong." My head pounds harder, "You don't care, you don't and you won't. You never will and I am fine with that. Well, I'm not, but I am. Now leave." I lay back down, feeling more tired than ever. I hear his soft footsteps out of the door.
What have I done?
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CaughtInTheStorm