A/N: Thank you all so much for your reviews! They really bring a smile to my face every time. :) This is a slower-moving chapter, take a breather before the next one! And for those of you who know of the trailer: Yes, I really hope that the person who mattered the most is Molly!
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters, I'm merely having some fun with them.
Sherlock grimaced as he shifted his body on the bed, inwardly cursing Ahern with every swear word he could think of, most of them contributed by John's colourful vocabulary. The doctor Mycroft had sent was packing her instruments away, a slightly flustered look on her pale face, the result of his snarky manners towards her.
"Well, Mr Baker, you just need a few days' rest. Your body's going to be very sore, but other than that, you'll be alright. No broken bones or internal bleeding."
He nodded curtly. The doctor's eyes were still on him, but he stared resolutely ahead, ignoring her. That way, she'd leave faster. People always did.
"I'll be off now," she muttered, sounding a bit hurt. "Try to refrain from doing anything strenuous."
Despite her words, she lingered, probably wanting to ask about the circumstances surrounding his injuries. Mycroft must have paid her a pretty sum to remain quiet on the matter, but people were naturally nosy. He fixed her with his best 'I-know-I'm-intimidating' look, and she was scurrying out of his room within the next minute. He smirked when she closed the door – how pointedly predictable.
He gingerly stretched out his legs as he stared at his phone, absently rubbing a bruise on his hip. One minute, two minutes, three –
His phone rang.
He hesitated before picking up.
"There was a child?" Mycroft sounded absolutely furious. That was rare.
"Since you're asking about her, the obvious answer would be 'yes'."
"How did a child get involved, Sherlock? And give me a good answer," he demanded, barely able to keep the quiver from his voice.
"It was an unfortunate case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time," Sherlock lowered his eyes, an image of Annie's lifeless body flitting through his mind.
"Gunshot wound…" Mycroft muttered. "You do realise that this girl has a family? I'm going to have to send someone to deal with this."
"Her mother abused her," Sherlock said flatly. "I highly doubt she's going to miss her much."
His response drew a dry laugh from his brother. "You'd be surprise how abusive parents can get protective of their offspring. A twisted sort of love, shall we say?" He paused. "How am I going to explain this? No one just gets shot in a safe part of town. Especially not a young girl."
"Make something up," Sherlock frowned, another stab of pain issuing from his ribs. "A common car crash. Manipulate her body. You did it with my decoy after the fall."
"These things cost money, Sherlock. And contrary to your beliefs, I am not the British government. I have people in Parliament whom I have to account to." For the first time, Sherlock heard the fatigue in Mycroft's voice, making him sound older than his years. His insides twisted with something suspiciously akin to guilt.
"You're an expert in lying. Why are you complaining?"
"I'm not complaining. I'm angry with you! You've already given me enough trouble with the Adler debacle the last time. For god's sake, try and be more careful or -"
"Or what?" Sherlock snapped, his temper rising. It wasn't completely his fault – how was he to know that he was facing off with a madman? "You'll remove me from this operation? You need me, Mycroft. Don't deny it."
"Behave yourself," his brother's voice turned hard. "Or you'll find a significant decrease in your allowance."
Sherlock snorted. Same old threat since he was in university. "Decrease it, I don't care. It's not like I can just waltz into a shop and purchase anything I want now, can I? Might get kidnapped again," he sneered.
"Speaking of which, how were you held hostage?"
Sherlock paused, biting on the inside of his cheek. "He made me inhale some chloroform." He could picture his brother rolling his eyes. "He had the element of surprise," he continued, making sure to sound defensive.
Mycroft huffed out a breath of air, "You've made a mess of this. I have to conceal this incident before Moran suspects any foul play. Is there anything else I should know?"
Sherlock stiffened. He removed the syringe from his pocket, turning it lazily between his fingers as he observed the remaining solution swish around in the tube.
"No."
Mycroft hung up almost immediately, leaving Sherlock completely alone in his three-star hotel room which he detested.
He was exhausted, but his mind refused to surrender to his drooping eyelids. Instead, it was bent on reminding him about the mushy texture of Ahern's brain, and his bloody hands after he'd held onto Annie. Her brown eyes, those that scarily reminded him of Molly's, stared back, blank and lifeless whenever he dared to close his eyes for a few short seconds, jolting him awake.
Sherlock ruffled his hair and scowled. He loved his mind, was extremely proud of it even. But it was times like this that made him wish he could be a little more…human and simple, a little more like those miserable mouth-breathers who surrounded him daily.
The doctor had left him a few sleeping pills, but he wasn't keen on taking them. If anything, the subconscious part of his mind was even worse. Memories would distort wildly, becoming more gruesome, more frightening and more grotesque, whenever he entered the land of dreams. He should know – Moriarty loved visiting him during the first few months after the fall, leaving him a sweaty mess after he'd woken up.
His eyes fell onto the syringe lying beside him, and he became painfully aware of how the hunger in his body was growing. It appeared an hour or so after he'd woken up from his drugged state. But he'd been too focused on surviving then to bother about this sensation, which was oddly familiar and yet, strange. The worrisome thing was that the hunger hadn't stopped. And he'd only experienced this feeling ages ago, something that he'd buried in the depths of his Mind Palace.
His breathing quickened at the realisation of what this might actually be, but he could only ascertain the truth tomorrow, when he would get lab access. For now, all he could do was wait for the sun to rise. He hated this feeling of helplessness and uncertainty.
He picked up his phone, desperately needing a distraction. It was late and he knew it was rude to call someone at this hour, but if he didn't do something, he was going to go insane from waiting. Crap telly was not an inviting option.
Someone picked up on the third ring. His eyebrows furrowed deeply at the voice.
"Where's Molly?" he demanded rudely, not bothering to greet The Woman.
Irene sighed, as if expecting his acrimonious tone. "She's sleeping, Mr Holmes. In case you haven't noticed, it's bloody two in the morning."
"Pass the phone to her."
"No. She has work in a few hours."
"How gracious of you to think about her."
"She's my friend," Irene said coldly. "Unlike you, I actually do spare a thought for others sometimes."
Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Just do it, Woman. It's important."
"Oh, really?" her voice turned teasing. "Miss her now, don't you?"
He clenched his fist, trying to rein his temper in. Being angry wasn't going to help get Molly on the phone.
"Irene, if you don't get her on the phone now, I'm going to turn ugly the next time we meet," he said warningly.
Irene merely chuckled. "Don't think that's going to happen. Your brother seems very apt at scheduling our assignments. We hardly ever cross paths anymore, or haven't you noticed? I think he's afraid that I might compromise you again. Anyway, what makes you think I wouldn't like for you to turn ugly on me? Might be interesting."
"Woman!" he snapped.
"Alright, relax cheekbones!"
There was some shuffling before he heard Molly's sleepy voice. It sounded muffled, and he conjured up an image of her completely snuggled under her light blue duvet. It was her favourite sleeping position.
"Sherlock?" she mumbled.
He instantly relaxed at her voice, and was unwilling to examine why. For a moment, he wished that she could be here, beside him. It would be like having a little piece of…home with him, he supposed.
"Tell me what you did during work."
"What?"
"Just talk. Say anything."
"Did you wake me up just for this?" she sounded irritated now, obviously she was fully awake and remembered that she still hadn't forgiven him for kissing her unawares for a supposed experiment.
"Yes," he said finally.
He expected her to turn off her phone and resume sleeping. Most people would – who would want to entertain a call from someone like him in the middle of the night? He wouldn't even blame her if she did hang up.
"Sherlock, what's wrong?" she asked, voice turning gentle.
Oh.
"Nothing." He racked his brain for an excuse. "I'm bored."
"No you're not. My voice has never grabbed your attention before while you were bored."
He cursed inwardly for forgetting that Molly remembered things like that. Like how she knew he didn't eat while on cases, or how he took his coffee black only after telling her once.
He didn't have a reply, and was just about to hang up to save himself from some embarrassment when she talked.
"I did an autopsy on a cancer patient today. Forth stage liver failure."
He closed his eyes as she went on, describing every single detail of the autopsy meticulously, with complete accuracy. He let his mind sink into the moment, imagining himself watching the process. The familiarity of the situation calmed him, and the hunger building inside subsided slightly.
His eyes opened when she failed at stifling a yawn. She made a tired sound before continuing. He pictured her rubbing her sleep-heavy eyes.
"Molly."
"Hmm?"
"You should go back to bed."
"It's ok, I'll keep you company if you want."
He felt a twinge in his chest, something that he'd learnt to associate with her. In fact, this sensation only surfaced when he was with Molly.
He wanted her to continue talking, really he did, but the thought of her struggling to stay awake also felt wrong.
"It's alright, I want to sleep now," he lied.
"Oh, ok then. Goodnight."
"Night."
"Sherlock?" she murmured. "Miss you."
His lips twitched slightly. She must be very drowsy to say that, her usual inhibitions lowered. He heard Irene laughing in the background.
Miss you too, he thought.
Sherlock paced around the lab impatiently, tapping his fingers against his chin. He would go for some coffee to pass the time, but he wasn't too fond of that beverage, and the coffee here was even worse than that at Bart's. Coupled with having to spend hours watching some crap telly, he was in a foul mood.
He sat back down on the lab stool and tapped his feet. Any minute now.
The machine made a beeping noise and he almost sprang out of the chair, hastily making his way over. He closed his eyes and drew in a steady breath before looking at the results of the test.
His heart sank.
Right on the screen was the very word he'd dreaded and expected. Sherlock's hands shook slightly as he fought to maintain his composure.
The solution Ahern had injected him with consisted of many familiar substances. But there was one he had an all too unfavourable history with.
Heroin.