Chapter 15

Some say love, it is a river
That drowns the tender reed
Some say love, it is a razer
That leaves your soul to bleed

Some say love, it is a hunger
An endless, aching need
I say love, it is a
And you, it's only seed

It's the heart, afraid of breaking
That never learns to dance
It's the dream, afraid of waking
That never takes the chance

It's the one who won't be taken
Who cannot seem to give
And the soul afraid of dyin'
That never learns to live

When the night has been too lonely
And the road has been too long
And you think that love is only
For the lucky and the strong

Just remember, in the winter
Far beneath the bitter snows
Lies the seed, that with the sun's love
In the spring, becomes the rose

Janis Joplin

Sherlock seeing that John wasn't going to answer his question. He closed his eyes and tried to go to his mind palace. For him being so still and quiet his mind was not. He couldn't focus he couldn't even go through the front door. All he could do was stand outside of it. Feeling frustrated again that he couldn't access what he needed he turned around and look outward from the palace, onto the surrounding landscape. (that was new or had he never noticed it?)

Sherlock walked down the steps and into what looked like what should've been a formal garden but it was barren like a vengeful gardener had salted the ground. A closer inspection Sherlock Realized what he was actually seeing was what remained of his feelings. His life experiences had killed anything that would weaken his mind or could lead to confusion. Except in the center, there was one place left with color and life and like all things that appreciate beauty, Sherlock found himself drawn to it.

The garden was a riot of color. Everywhere he looked something else dazzled him. Walking up to a bed of daisies, he gently picked one and examined it. Immediately warmth, a sense of home, strength and motherly love. Mother and Mrs. Hudson. He picked few more then moved on.

The next bed he came to was a patch of English Ivy growing up a trellis. Curious he picked a small vine and examined it. Friendship, trust, dependability and affection – Ah Lestrade the one who saw me first, before all the others.

He gather a few sprigs of ivy and moved to the next bed. Surprising it was a bed of gypsum weed. An invasive plant that if not contained could over run all the plants around it. HE reached out and gathered a few of it beautiful blooms even if the plant belonged to Mycroft. He felt the caring if inept attempts to be a big brother but the sight of Croft in jeans and a t-shirt just being there warmed him again. Croft had finally got it right.

The next bed gave him pause. It was a good part of the garden and flowers of all kinds grew there. He strolled and picked flowers at random. Sweet-peas for laughter and humor. Carnations for companionship. Baby's breath for exasperation. Tiger lilies for affection. Cali lilies for loss. Dr. John Watson, the second one who had seen him.

That only left one section of color to explore. The scent of roses was everywhere. Molly's scent. Molly -the one who had seen him clearly. Looking around he saw so many types of roses.

Tentatively he touched one of the booms. What he experienced was music. A quartet piece that he had never heard before only seen on Molly's desk and listed on her iPod. " concerto b flat for guitar,violin and woodwinds." it was all most complete. All that was missing was the part for the violin. The counterpoint, the answer. The music was slow and building, then sad, then resolute, then sad again. Touching another bloom he examined what he felt. True acceptance as he was, happiness every time she saw him (till he opened his mouth at least) and her quiet heartbreak when she had said "i don't count." As Molly's concerto continued to play he looked over Molly's part of the garden. It had higher walls and was more protected than the rest. The roses for all their strength still needed the protection. The walls he noticed were the same as his palace. In the center of the space was a single rose bush that had blood black blooms. He reached out, touched it and immediately pulled his hand back. Blood smeared on his fingers from it. Not his blood but the flowers. He reached out ignored the blood and touched the bloom again.

The pain in her eyes- his guilt

the hope – his fear

the nerves – his pride

the manipulation – his greed

the fall – his need

the aftermath- his new found humanity

This one rose was actually them together and it was also something else. It was his own potential for feeling. Everything he had decided on the night his father died. Since getting clean, since throwing himself into his work, all his fears. This neglected garden was where all of his emotions should have flourished but had been stifled. It was separate from the palace but equally important for balance.

Taking the bouquet he had built he headed back up to the place again. This time the door opened easily. He went found a vase from an old case and placed it near the entrance. Then he turned around and walked out. What he had come to think about he had there was no need to hang about.

He opened his eyes and glanced at Molly (still sleeping)then to John. He was holding his head fighting off sleep. Sherlock got up and laid his hand on John's shoulders at the slight pressure, john raised up his head.

"I 've got first watch, go get some sleep. I'll call if she needs anything." before John could protest he continued. "we both need you to be at the top of your game so go!"

John grumbled a bit but got up and headed upstairs to bed.

Sherlock sat back down into his chair and thought about what he had just been through and how talking to John and surprisingly to Mycroft had started his healing process. He decided that his other dear friend (after what she had done how could she not be?!)deserved that level of honesty too but the thought of exposing so much of himself truly unnerved him. With a small smile he went to get something a little for fortifying than tea and a bit more nicotine. After his smoke he grabbed a tumbler of scotch for himself and a glass of water for her if she needed it.

He scooted John's chair closer to his and reached for the remote. A solitary clarinet sang out in the darkness. A beacon, Sherlock hoped, to show her they way back home. He turned the volume down so he could talk and gently took molly's hands and waited.

Molly became aware just a little bit. The music , her music , had finally registered and as it was with Sherlock. It stilled her mind. Her brothers vile voice was drowned out by melodies and crescendos then she heard someone talking to her and hands holding her own. She knew that warm butterscotch voice and focused on him. His words made no sense just the sound of his voice. Quiet and kept staring at their hands. Foccusing harder willing the monsters to stop , to go away. This was important those hands. She was scared it was another awful trick of her brothers gave those warm hands a quick squeeze.

Sherlock's breath stopped when she squeezed his hands. She hadn't looked up at him yet, she just sat there staring.