Author's Note: I have a feeling we could be heading towards the end of this fic, but I don't know how close. Anyway, enjoy the chapter!
Love, Ruby xx
After a rather awkward breakfast I made my way to the library to pick up some books on different polymers and how to identify them without a microscope and one on supernovae. Why not? John had always said I should know a little more astronomy and I had enough time to learn now.
After sweeping through the manor I arrived once more at John's bedside. The doctors had done their morning check up and assured me everything was fine and that if things kept improving at this rate he might be awake tomorrow. This was certainly good news and I was elated at the possibility of being able to hear John's voice again. And to leave Mycroft.
I remained in the same position all day, that was, of course, until it all went wrong.
The heart monitor stopped and sent a scream through the air that summoned everyone to John's side. I was, again, forcefully shoved to one side by overexcited doctors who called for the defibrillator. This was something I could not add to my memories, the death of a valiant friend.
The following minutes passed excruciatingly slowly, with cries of voltages followed by "CLEAR" and a short shocking sound.
It was all I could do to stand in the corner of the room. No amount of good acting or deleting could have prevented the tears that fell from my eyes. This was the second time I had come close to losing my friend. My breathing was frantic and I collapsed on the floor due to hyperventilation and stress.
Mycroft was, of course, unimpressed as I got back up out of the bed that I had found myself in that same morning. The same morning when John had almost lost his life. I hoped it was only an almost, if it wasn't, it would be the death of me as well, I'd no doubt.
I ran down to the room where John was. He'd gone. This was impossible. My mind ran ferverishly in circles trying to work out where Mycroft may have taken him. He could not be gone.
I burst into his study. "Where have you taken him Mycroft? This isn't funny, you shouldn't play games with people's lives!" I said. I didn't even bother to contain my anger at him any more, I was passed trying to conceal anything now. I was under a tremendous amount of pressure and stressed beyond belief and the thought that John might be on the slab in a morgue really didn't help me feel any better. His did people cope with these feelings?
"He's in your old room, Sherlock. It is bigger and has more facilities, the doctors seemed better with him in there than in room ninety-six." he said as if it should have been the most obvious thing. I suppose it probably was, my brain just didn't seem to want to work. This is why I never work when emotions are involved. I could not form a reply, words just collapsed on my tongue so I turned and walked out, closing the door behind me.
What was happening to me? I was becoming a wreck within forty-eight hours and all because of one person. I couldn't get my head around it, I hate it when I don't understand, which isn't very often, but it does happen.
I walked slowly up to my old room. Along corridor five, sixth left and eighth door on the left. East wing. Room forty. We'd had to number the rooms and corridors when I was younger for when we had visitors so people could find their way around. The house was so pompously big and I detested every inch of it.
I pushed the door oped to my childhood bedroom, the carpet marred with chemical stains, the surfaces with burns from both chemicals and fire, the walls painted a magnolia, but covered with pencil scrawlings from calculations or ideas that I would have on the go. A circle in the centre of the room on the biscuit carpet was more worn than the rest; my pacing circle. Where I came up with most of my igneous ideas and plans. I walked slowly around the almost divot in the carpet, retracing the steps I had made when I was a child.
I stood facing my bookshelf at the right of the door and looked left at John in the bed. He was asleep still, but he looked peaceful and content. The last time I saw him his face was contorted in pain, and mine stained with tears.
I opened the draws beneath the bed where I kept my chemicals when I had left. I had to move them frequently as, if found, they were confiscated by anyone who could get their hands on them. Every scientist has his failures and successes. One of my failures, or successes, dependant on how you saw it, I saw it as success, was blowing up room fifty-six next to Mycroft's room in the middle of the night. He was positively petrified at the enormous rupture in his bedroom wall. I was completely satisfied that my homemade explosive worked and was sufficiently powerful. Damage to his room was irrelevant. It wasn't as if there wast another hundred odd rooms he could chose from and move into before the next night. Room fifty-six just had the optimum volume and light levels at that time of night for the explosive to be at it's optimum.
My chemicals were missing, typical. Father had, no doubt, found them after I'd left and disposed of them. I groaned and walked to the books. Hmmmm... A bit of physical chemistry would do nicely to satisfy my curiosity for the next few hours.