Chapter 2
Dr. Watson was slightly concerned when he got back home to Baker St. The door was ajar and he could hear noises coming from the flat. Worried someone had broken in he cautiously claimed the stairs to his flat. Seeing nothing out of place, Sherlock looked as if he was in his mind palace, he set about making them a cup of tea. Once it was ready he called out for Sherlock. Tea sometime brought him back from the palace as if it was fuel to run that fine tuned engine he called a brain, Smiling to himself, he thought that maybe it was. All humor was forgotten though when he saw the large puddle of blood underneath Sherlock's hand and how the detective looked paler than usual.
Alarmed that the tall detective had truly hurt himself, John ran to Sherlock and with shake of his shoulders, roused the quiet man from his thoughts.
When he tried to take Sherlock's hand to inspect the damage, Sherlock pulled away and cradled his hand to his chest.
"Stop being a child and let me see it!" John's usual patience with Sherlock did not apply when he was hurt.
Sherlock stopped short of rolling his eyes but did as the doctor bid. John noted that all the cuts had been cleaned and covered but the largest cut with the stitches had reopened before he could ask his friend how this had happened, Sherlock recounted what had happened in the lab(he had hit Molly!).
"well Sherlock we need to get you to Bart's so this can be restitched, it is probably going to have to be immobilized as well."
John looked at his some what dazed friend. He wondered just how much blood had he lost since he wasn't even complaining about having to go back to the hospital.
The officious doctor informed Sherlock that the splint had to stay on for at least 6 weeks otherwise the stitches would just keep reopening. The only time he could take it off was to change the bandages and to shower. What Sherlock wanted to do was tell this little man his whole life story- from the affair with his male assistant to the dinner he had with his wife last night- but he refrained from doing that. He had a question to ask, a worrisome question, that he desperately need the answer for.
"So Doctor, is their any nerve damage?"
-blink-
A sad Molly Hooper crying over his hand.
-blink-
No, not thinking of that.
John noticed that Sherlock gave a slight shake of his head as if to dismiss an unpleasant thought – no scratch that an incorrect thought, and realized that they had both missed the doctor's answer. He sheepishly asked the doctor to explain it again.
"Well the cut was very deep and he is showing some signs of nerve damage, numbness and such, but we need to let the cut heal, then have a neurosurgeon look at it and see about reconnecting the nerves." John ever the doctor knew what this could mean and by the quicksilver look in Sherlock's eyes- a flash of panic, easily missed- he knew it too.
Across town, a sore Molly Hooper surveyed her own damage. The bruise on her chin had turned a spectacular shade of purple and had managed to spread up toward her cheekbone. She hadn't blamed Sherlock for hitting her. SHE should have known better to walk up behind anyone. If it hadn't resulted in her monster of a bruise she would have laughed at surprising the usually hyper aware Sherlock Holmes. For one brief moment she considered not going into Bart's (all the questions) but she also knew embarrassment was kinda normal for her there but how to explain it so that Sherlock wouldn't get in trouble.
-blink-
Molly, are you OK you are limping?
No big deal twisted my ankle.
-blink-
Are you going to the dance?
Nah, Mom thinks I am not old enough for it, besides I feel awkward trying to dance.(truth was no way to hide multiple bruises with a silly frock)
A few minutes later, her answer for all the upcoming questions had her smiling, she closed the door and headed off to work.
Once he got back to Baker St, Sherlock sat and just looked at his violin. Thinking about how Molly had described it. His solace the only time he allowed himself to feel. She had only heard him play once how had she deduced that! How had she seen the truth. John who resided here and had received the brunt of his playing, good bad or angry, did not seen that truth. Knowing that for the next six weeks he would be denied his music, he desired to go to his mind palace instead and consider what Molly had said. That is when he discovered that the splint made it difficult for him to achieve the almost trance like state he needed to work there properly. For a moment the world tilted for him. If two of his tools were disabled how would he function. The palace was where everything worked itself out.
After a lengthy and headed discussion with John, they re-wrapped the splint so that the index finger was still immobilized but the rest of his hand was free. Trying again he arranged his hands under his chin and found the door to the palace open, but he felt wary of actually going through the door. He knew what a been brought to the very front of his mind. The one door that he had hoped that by rejecting sentiment he would never have to face. It was a blacken and scarred door with the word childhood incised into the wood. Locks and chains held the door closed but he saw that they were old and rusty not to last much longer. So instead he walked past it to where resent events were stored for cataloging later.
HE HAD HIT MOLLY! It kept circling around his mind, making him sick to his stomach. He felt that door, that hated door, crack open and all the things he feared came racing toward him. Hateful, hurtful and all too true memories raged at him in his mental fortress. He barely had enough time to brace himself before the monsters took over.
-blink-
His mother huddled in her chair, making herself small, while his brute of a father berated her for some imagined slight.
-blink-
Mycroft escaping the hell by going off to school and leaving a six year old Sherlock confused as to why. The adult Sherlock placed his undamaged hand over his heart. The feeling of abandonment raw once again.
-blink-
A sullen resentful 7 year old Sherlock staring up at the man who had just broke his nose daring him to finish it. No tears, no fear just determination is mother should not have to suffer any more.
-blink-
The backhanded slaps for no other reason that the fact that they were breathing and were there. His father's unreasonable anger at everything.
-blink-
Molly's eyes as fear crept into them at his slap – oh dear god no – it was a punch.
The thoughts that he was a monster just like his father even after all he had done to prevent that fate, tore through Sherlock's palace.
Now john had just walked into the sitting room when Sherlock put his head in his hands, pull at his own hair .he heard what he thought was a moan come from his friend. A second later he realized Sherlock had moaned nooooooooooo. Now Concerned about this new mood he sat down across from his friend. Since he hadn't noticed John tried again.
"Sherlock?"
A mumbled, "not talking bout it" was his answer. Undeterred John tried again.
"Sherlock what is wrong?"
When Sherlock hear that worried tone, he decided that maybe John, emotional John, normal John, could help him with this. He couldn't look a him though. It made him too vulnerable, to scared. Taking a shaky breath he began.
"John, have I ever tell you about my childhood..."
Three hours later after he had went through all the horrors of the abuse , he looked up at his friend expecting to see pity on John's face. the good doctor was sitting there quietly hands balled up,eyes closed and tears quietly falling but to Sherlock he didn't look like he pitted Sherlock, no he actually looked pissed. A fond thought crossed his mind , Good old john looking out for me unlike... he stopped that bitter thought. Mycroft had been a child also and when told to do something you did it. Some where in his mind palace his memories started to rearrange themselves. At least the ones concerning Mycroft did.
After hearing Sherlock's story. John sat there and tried to compose himself. Family is a gift! The elder Holmes was a right bastard! No wonder Sherlock disdains sen6timent and doesn't like to be touche. No wonder he retreats to his mind palace , and cuts himself off from everyone. Look what example of a role model he had. When he opened his eyes he was struck speechless . Non emotional, analytical Sherlock Holmes was crying. Not a sound escaped him he just sat there, eyes closed, tears running down his face.
Sherlock started into the face of his father and he watched the features morph into his own familiar face. He searched something to hold onto in his palace, he was drowning in the memories and John couldn't help him with this and Molly was flinching away from him. Looking up knowing he was defeated he turned to John.
"Call Mycroft. I need help."