Forget Me Not Chapter 12, a sherlock fanfic

Sherlock was discharged from the hospital two weeks later. He had more or less recovered from the physical injuries he had suffered, except for the mobility of his legs; in terms of that the situation remained unchanged. The doctors treating him said the recovery could be sudden and happen any day now - but it was also a possibility that it would not happen at all and Sherlock would never walk again. They simply had no way of knowing, and John saw that the uncertainty of the recovery and due to that the framework of his life ahead drove Sherlock mad; it was probably worse for him than having to have to face an absolute fact that he would not walk again. The situation was beyond his control, out of the realm of his capability to influence; and to be left to what seemed like a chance or a coincidence at best in such a defining matter was a bit more than a man like Sherlock Holmes was able to stand. Therefore most of the time the patient was on a foul mood, snappy and irritated; John tolerated it because he saw how difficult it was for Sherlock to even try to come to terms with his new condition.

Sherlock hadn't talked about his threat of taking his own life anymore, but John observed him constantly, worried that he might do something if his frustration would get the better of him. At the moment it appeared, however, that Sherlock had fallen into a state of passive resentment more characterized by anger and annoyance than giving up. As long as Sherlock was angry he had fire in him; the day he would be unmoved by the situation John knew he would really have to worry. Even so, John had still hid his gun and got rid of all chemicals - there had been a lot in the flat - that Sherlock could have used to harm himself. Of course John knew that if he really wanted to, Sherlock could surely find a way to get an access to any necessary equipment; but John still felt he needed to make as difficult as possible for him.

The first day back in Baker Street hadn't been what one would call easy. The flat was not exactly accessible given the steep flight of stairs one was required to ascend before getting into it; and Sherlock, not being used to taking help from anyone didn't exactly take it well having to have to do so. It appeared that this was what bothered Sherlock the most in his current condition, being forced to accept help from others; John could only hope that with time this would get easier for him - but somehow, he wasn't convinced.

So he was left with the hope that Sherlock would magically recover; if he wouldn't, well, it wouldn't be pleasant times ahead.

It was late afternoon. Sherlock and John were sitting in the living room of Baker Street, John reading the newspaper and Sherlock doing something on his laptop. The atmosphere in the room was somewhat calm as Sherlock had been on a slightly better mood that day - meaning that he had managed full sentences instead of grunts and other such length-wise challenged noises he had mostly used when communicating. As they were sitting there in the silent room, the rays of the afternoon sun filtering in through the windows that would have required washing, it felt for a moment that everything was OK again; or at least that it could be. Every now and then John raised his eyes from his book and stole a glance at the dark, silent figure completely focused on the screen in front of him. It was partly to check on him, partly because he could; it gave John a sense of peace to see how the soft sunlight cast shadows on Sherlock's sharp features and how his shoulders and chest moved under the thin fabric of the pale gray t-shirt he was wearing . He was very well aware that Sherlock probably knew he was looking at him even as he appeared to be very concentrated on whatever he was doing; this was why John didn't bother to turn his look away when Sherlock caught him by lifting his own eyes from his laptop just as John had been staring at him.

Sherlock's eyes locked into John's; and still, after all this time and all that they had shared both physically and mentally, it still sent a feeling not far from an electric shock through John's whole body. The look in Sherlock's eyes was calm, almost relaxed, and when he caught John's eyes and recognized the feeling in them, the same rush of energy that tingled in John's body reflected in his own.

"Something the matter, John?" It was remarkable how normal he sounded compared to how he had been ever since the accident.

John shook his head a bit. "No. Just thinking."

Sherlock closed his laptop with a small snap and placed it on the table next to him. The muscles and joints of his arms moved under the bare skin that had recovered from the burns. As he had put the laptop away, Sherlock leaned back in his wheelchair, crossed his long fingers and focused his stare on John with an intensity Freud would have been proud of. "About what?"

John, slightly surprised but also pleased about Sherlock's apparent good - or at least communicative - mood, put his book down as well. "You. Us. Life. How glad I am to have you back." He kept his eyes on Sherlock's.

Sherlock cocked his head a bit. It made his hear, which was a bit too long to be considered traditionally neat, move a bit. "Even like this?" There was no insecurity in his voice and the look in his eyes was steady; and yet John knew that he wasn't joking. He really needed to know.

John stood up from his chair and walked to Sherlock, kneeling down next to the wheelchair. He took his hands into his own, very tightly, and hoped that through his touch Sherlock could feel at least a fraction of how much he meant what he said next. "I love you. No matter what. You should know that by now, with all you deductive skills." John's voice was firm and his words delivered with such certainty that it left no room for argument.

Sherlock observed him for a while as if weighing what he had said. "But if I stay like this... It won't be the same. I can't..." His voice traveled off.

John shook his head and squeezed his hands. "I don't care. And besides, you can be better tomorrow, the doctors said so."

Sherlock nodded, slowly, but didn't say anything. It was impossible to read what was going on behind his eyes; but the John felt how the hold of his hands tightened.

They sat like that for a while, in silence, their hands locked together; either one of them didn't have the need to say any more on that moment. Sometimes silence is more telling than any words ever could be.

On the following day, thanks to Sherlock's somewhat improved state of mind, John had felt comfortable stepping out for a moment. He had been asked to go and give his official statement of what had happened on the night the mansion has burned down - the police were naturally quite interested in any pieces of information they could get concerning the whereabouts of Moriarty, and even if John had already told them that he had only seen two indistinguishable figures escaping the fire and that he had no idea whether it had been Molly, Irene or Moriarty or someone else entirely, the police still insisted he would come down and give his information on the record. As Sherlock appeared to be safe enough to be left by himself, John had finally agreed, and left Baker Street soon after breakfast.

It was about an hour after John's departure. Sherlock was sitting by the window, reading a medical journal that had a rather interesting article about conditions similar to his own when the door of the room opened. He stopped reading but didn't lift his eyes from the magazine; yet there was a subtle change in his demeanor, a one the person standing in the doorway surely but yet said nothing. By staying silent the visitor caused the atmosphere of the room shift in a blink of an eye - now the silence of the room was no longer an ordinary silence but the type that is chosen and therefore bears a meaning; and to break that kind of silence is very different thing to do than breaking an ordinary kind of silence.

Sherlock knew who his guest was before any words were said; and yet the voice that turned the deliberate silence into something else made him almost flinch.

But just almost.

"I heard." The voice was soft and had a hint of remorse in it, so rare for this particular voice. So unheard of, actually, that it took Sherlock a few seconds for the notion of it to register - as it did and he recognized the emotion it raised only annoyance in him.

When he replied he still didn't look at the person who had entered. His voice was cold. "And you came to pay your condolences?"

The footsteps approached and Irene entered his field of vision. Without waiting to be offered she sat down on the chair opposite to him, as elegant and stylish as ever; the only thing different in her was the look in her eyes. They seemed darker than before, and the emotion reflecting from them could have only been categorized as sadness. Sadness and shame.

She stared at Sherlock for a while, in a very frank manner; allowed her eyes travel on his body, on the immobility of him, and then finally locked her gaze into his eyes. "So it is true.." Her voice traveled off. The redness of her lips was not complimented with a smile.

Sherlock met her stare with an unwavering steadiness. "It is. I would offer you tea but you would have to make it yourself." His voice revealed just the slightest amount of the anger that he felt. He was angry that she had came; partly because she wasn't entirely innocent when it came to his current state, partly because he wasn't yet quite comfortable with people seeing him like this.

Irene paid no attention to his feigned courtesy. Never letting her eyes leave his she leaned forward towards him and placed her hand on his. "I am sorry, Sherlock. I really am." She did sound genuine.

Sherlock pulled his hand away, slowly and very deliberately. The look on his face never changed. "I don't want your apologies, and I don't want your pity. If you have said what you came here to say, would you please leave. Now." His voice was perfectly calm.

Irene flinched, just a little bit but enough for Sherlock to notice. She glanced down and then raised her eyes back to his. "I understand you are angry with me, and you have every right. I just wanted to.. If there is anything I can do for you..."

Sherlock shook his head. "Just leave, Miss Adler. That is what you can do for me." His voice still revealed no emotion.

Irene nodded and stood up. She made her way to the door, slowly; just as she reached for the handle, Sherlock's voice stopped her.

"Actually, there is something you can do for me." His voice was a bit softer now.

Irene turned around. "Anything." The word wasn't much more than an exhale; in the depths of her eyes Sherlock saw how desperately she needed to do something for him.

Sherlock nodded towards her bag. "Give me your gun."

Irene opened her mouth to reply; Sherlock cut her off before she had a chance to protest. " And don't say you don't have one, it is quite obvious by the relation between the weight and size of your bag, combined with your what Id expect to be quite shaky a situation in terms of your personal safety."

Irene just stared a him, the expression on her beautiful face slightly uncertain and somewhat alarmed.

Sherlock smiled to her a bit, but the smile was cold and didn't reach his eyes. "It really is the least you can do, miss Adler." His words sunk into the silence of the room like stones thrown in a still lake.

A few seconds of silence followed. During these Irene scanned him thoroughly, as if figuring out if Sherlock wanted the gun to shoot her head off or for something else. Sherlock met her stare, the look in his eyes calm and allowing her to see that he bore no actual hostility towards her; allowed her to come to the conclusion of what he would use the gun for by herself.

When she realized his agenda her face sunk and a shadow was cast over her delicate features. There was a new kind of sadness in her eyes now, but there was also understanding - the acknowledgment of what it meant for Sherlock to be trapped by his own body like this. Then, without saying a word, she reached her hand into her bag and pulled her gun out, placing it on the coffee table next to her.

There could have been tears in her eyes; but it also could have been just a trick played by the reflection of light.

She looked at Sherlock and smiled a small, sad smile. "Goodbye, Mr. Holmes." Her voice was soft like the touch of her hand on his skin would have been.

Sherlock gave a nod of goodbye. "Goodbye, Miss Adler."

And with that, the woman was gone.

He tested the weight of the gun in his hand. It felt very heavy, very solid; it definitely had a sense of finality in it. It was almost bizarre how this particular weapon seemed so different from the numerous others he had had in his hands during the course of his life, like it would have been crafted especially for him, for this moment and for this purpose. It would be this gun that would end his life if he would so choose; the weight of this object would be the last thing his hands would ever feel. The metal felt both hot and cold at the same time, and the velvety lustre of the black surface complimented the perfect roundness of the barrel beautifully .

Sherlock put the gun on his lap and wheeled himself to the window. The sun was at its highest and the shadows were short.

It was the brightest hour of the day; but it could also be the darkest.

All he had to do was to decide.

I honestly don't know if I should just leave this story here. What do you think? Sorry about the mistakes with the language, not a native speaker and can't keep a beta ... Hope the errors don't bother too much. For any feedback I am very grateful.