This Chapter just did not want to be written! And once it was written is was horrible. Thanks to MrsNoggin, my dear conductor of light, it is now much improved and actually readable!
Warnings: Mention of torture, bad language
London, 16 October 2012
Sherlock slept for a good eight hours. Lestrade used the time of quiet to get himself accustomed to the new situation. With the help of the nurses he now understood most of the equipment surrounding John and was more able to monitor his progress. Observing the main vital signs, he tried to talk to John about the latest football results, what happened at the Yard in the past few weeks, even the weather. Nothing got him any reaction from the comatose patient and he started to doubt the effectiveness of this method. Until he tried a new tactic.
"You know, Sherlock is worried about you. I've never seen him so distressed. Do you remember what I told you the day we met? That he someday may be a good man? He is now, John, and that is entirely thanks to you. So you see? You have to come back to us, 'cause I am not ready to deal with him on my own again!"
Watching the monitors closely, Lestrade saw a tiny pickup on the heart frequency, just a few beats and only for a couple of seconds, but he took it as a good sign, and continued talking about Sherlock. After updating John on his friend's health, something he knew would be of paramount interest to the doctor, he moved on to old cases, which he had worked with Sherlock before John's time. Apart from the nurses that came in for frequent checks on both patients, they were undisturbed for most of the day.
Later in the afternoon, Sherlock had woken from his sleep. Lestrade was in the middle of reiterating a particular tough murder case when he was interrupted.
"Oh would you shut up with the boring old tales. I am no hero and no one knows that better than John!" With that he turned around in his bed to stare out of the window, his back to his friends and his entire being radiating 'Leave me alone.'
Lestrade wondered what the silence was about, but before he could really make any sense of it, Nurse Sita came in with some futuristic looking machine, with lots of wires attached to it. Turning around, Sherlock eyed it suspiciously, but remained uncharacteristically silent.
"Dr Cavanaugh and Dr Lee, our Neurologist, would like to perform some tests with John. This machine will emit weak electrical impulses to test the response of selected nerve centres." She started to set up the machine, connecting several of the wires to Johns head, hands and feet. While she was busy with that, Dr Cavanaugh and a new doctor, presumably Dr. Lee, came into the room.
"Gentlemen, this is Dr Carolyn Lee, one of the leading neurologists in the country. She was consulting with the neurosurgical team in Budapest and will be taking over the care of John from here on for all things related to his head injury. Our orthopaedic surgeon, Dr. Walters will be in later today to examine the knee injury."
Lestrade introduced himself to the new doctor and asked her some general questions in regards to John's prognosis and treatment. He noticed that Sherlock kept his attention fixed on Nurse Sita, and was completely ignoring Dr. Lee.
The machine was turned on and started to hum in a low volume, but high pitched sound as the charges were building up. Lestrade's eyes were fixed on John, but from his position he could see Sherlock in his peripheral vision. When Sherlock suddenly stiffened and turned over in his bed, he was the only one who noticed.
"TURN IT OFF!" Lestrade roared, running over to the other bed. Sherlock's entire body was shaking violently and he was curled up into a ball, both hands clamped firmly over his ears. The doctors and nurse sprang into action and while Sita shut down the machine, Dr Cavanaugh hurried over to his other patient's bed. Unsure of what had triggered such an extreme reaction, Lestrade stepped back and let the medical personnel take over.
The high pitched whirring sound tuned down and then faded out completely. Dr. Cavanaugh slowly approached Sherlock, taking in the obvious signs of distress. "Sherlock? Sherlock, you are safe, you are at the hospital, remember?" He spoke in a quiet and calm voice, as if calming a crying child.
"No, no more. Turn it off. Please…. No…"
Lestrade winced. He had worked with enough traumatised witnesses to recognize a flashback. He exchanged a quick glance with Dr. Cavanaugh, who just nodded encouragingly and waved him closer. Stepping next to the bed, he swallowed down his own shock at seeing the usually vibrant detective reduced to this whimpering and scared mess. He heard the doctor continue to speak to Sherlock.
"Nobody will hurt you, Sherlock. It's safe. Your friends Greg and John are here as well."
The last name seemed to register with Sherlock, but not in a good way. His hands shot forward, grabbing hold of Lestrade's arms.
"Let him go, Jake. NO! No… leave him alone. STOP IT! No….Jooohhn!" Sherlock was screaming frantically while still holding Lestrade's arms in a death grip. Lestrade was surprised by the strength of the hold the detective had on him. He felt completely overwhelmed by the scene that he found himself in the middle of. Sherlock wasn't someone known to panic. He was the calm, cold and logical mind that drove everyone around him mad. And if he did get off on one of his rants, there was always John to rein him back in. But now everything was wrong and Lestrade was at a loss on how to help his friends. Still, for their and his own sake, he had to try.
"Sherlock, it's me, Greg. You're ok. Jake is dead, remember? John shot him."
"John?" Sherlock seemed to relax a little bit.
"He's right here. If you open your eyes you can see him on your left." Lestrade slowly and carefully removed Sherlock's hands from his arms and stepped aside so that Sherlock could see John in the other bed.
"Hospital?" He asked in a quiet voice.
Dr. Cavanaugh stepped closer again. "Yes, you are in a Hospital. In London." Sherlock turned his head to look at the doctor. "You with us again?"
Sherlock gave a small nod, then turned onto his back and covered his eyes with his right arm. He spent a few minutes just lying there, breathing and composing himself before he started speaking. He removed his arm and looked at Lestrade. "I confused you with Jake Moriarty." He glanced at Lestrade again, this time with his usual scrutinizing look. "Bit unlikely."
Lestrade gave him a fond smile as relief flooded through him. That was the Sherlock he knew. "Yeah, but I won't hold it against you. Want to go and get a coffee while the doctors continue the examination of John?"
Sherlock slipped out of the bed and into his dressing gown, only too keen to have an excuse to leave the room and escape the uncomfortable situation. Dr. Cavanaugh pulled Lestrade aside before the latter could follow Sherlock. "He trusts you. More than me or anyone else I know. See if you can get him to talk about what just happened and about the original event. My best guess is that they used sound as a torture device, but any detail could help us with the rehab."
Lestrade gave the man a sharp glance. Talking to Sherlock about his time in captivity would be no walk in the park. He could be grateful that he got the mere basics out of the man. But Cavanaugh seemed optimistic. "Give it a try. He might be more cooperative than you think."
With a heavy sigh, Lestrade left the room and hurried after Sherlock, who was already halfway down the hall towards the little kitchenette.
Once Lestrade entered the small room he found Sherlock staring out of the window, hands clasped behind his back. Seeing his friend in his signature pose stirred up old emotions of loss, grief and anger, but he swallowed them down quickly. Not the right time. He poured them two mugs of coffee, added two sugars into Sherlock's and joined the other man, handing Sherlock's over to his waiting hand. They stood in silence for several minutes, observing the usual buzz of the streets in London, listening to the muted sound that travelled through the closed windows.
Then, all of the sudden, Sherlock started to speak. His voice was detached, betrayed no emotion, "They cuffed my hands behind my back and locked me in a small cell. No lights. Then the sound started. Not loud at first, but a piercing tone. Never changing, just that one single, high pitched tone. They kept me like that for hours, maybe even days, I don't know. At first I simply retreated to my mind palace, but the sound eventually penetrated through and there was nothing more I could do." He trailed off, his gaze wandering to his coffee mug, held firmly in both hands. "In my flashback I saw Jake bring John into that same room. I tried to stop them, but I could not help him."
Lestrade felt like throwing his mug against the wall. It was a good thing that Jake Moriarty was dead, he could not have guaranteed his conduct if he had to arrest the man. The more he learned about Sherlock and John's ordeal the more he knew that John simply had to pull through. Sherlock was deeply scarred by his capture, but knowing the detective, he would just brush it off and continue as normal. John was the only one who might be able to get him to open up and actually work through the ordeal. Or at least John would be there to pick up the pieces and put them back together whenever Sherlock fell apart.
"Jake did not break me, but it was what he was after and he came close." Sherlock turned and looked at Lestrade. "You are right, Detective Inspector, if John does not recover, neither will I." His entire posture showed his usual analytical and cold demeanour, void of any emotional attachment.
Lestrade felt something inside him shift. It might not be the right time, but damn it, he needed an explanation, especially now that Sherlock was back to showing his usual annoying mannerisms.
"Well, at least then you know how it feels. Losing a friend. The guilt, the doubts. Not easy, is it? And you think you can just take the painless way out? Again?" He knew he sounded bitter. And while he was genuinely concerned for the younger man, he could not help but to lash out a little.
Sherlock turned to look at Lestrade, puzzled. And suddenly Greg understood. The detective really did not make the connection. In all his logic, he failed to fully understand the dramatic consequences that his actions had on other people. That, more than anything, softened Lestrade and instead of scolding him he started to speak in a calm tone.
"Bloody hell, Sherlock, let me explain a few things to you on how us normal human beings function. I don't know how much John told you, but what you did to him, and to the rest of us, letting us believe that you had died, that was cruel. You told me it was necessary for you to 'die' to save John. Fine, I believe you. But why stay dead? Why not tell us a few days later? Where you there at your funeral? Did you hear the eulogy John gave?" His voice cracked at the painful memory.
"John fell into a deep hole after your 'death'. He stopped going out, stopped dating, stopped having a goddamned life. Even moved out of Baker Street. Mrs Hudson still is haunted by the loss of her boys. The flat's empty as far as I know, she couldn't bear having anyone but you and John living there. Molly –, well she is distant now, doesn't talk much. Did you think about them at all before you pulled off your stunt? About how this might impact their lives?"
"Are you done, Detective Inspector?" Sherlock's face turned hard and dark, threatening in a way the DI had never seen before. Still, Lestrade suspected that his words had hit him harder than he would ever let out. "If I had not jumped, you would not stand there today. And neither would Mrs Hudson."
"What are you on about?" Lestrade had the sinking feeling that he was not going to like the explanation that he was about to hear.
"Moriarty had me backed into a corner. He had three snipers on you, John and Mrs. Hudson, ready to shoot, unless they saw me kill myself. My life for the lives of my only friends. That was the trade-off. If I had come back just a few days later, they would have killed you. The only way to ensure your safety was to go after them myself, tearing through layers upon layers of back-up and secondary snipers, while everyone had to believe my death. The slightest mistake would have meant the instant death of my friends. Do you think this was easy for me? Now, Greg, what would you have done in my place?" Sherlock's voice was shaky, showing just how much this decision still affected him.
Lestrade was speechless.
"Sherlock, I – " God, how had he misjudged the situation so badly?
"Don't bother. You think I don't care about people, and you are right where my work is concerned. Caring means weakness and Moriarty exploited my weakness mercilessly. I won't make that mistake again."
"How? How do you stop caring?" Lestrade was uneasy. This whole conversation was uncharted territory and he prayed that he hadn't gone too far, that Sherlock would not shut him out now.
"The same way Mycroft and I deal each other; emotional distance. It protects us. It worked fine before John–, before he snuck right through my defences. And now look at the mess it left us with."
"Mycroft? How does he play into this? You despise him!"
"He is my brother, Lestrade! My family. What do you think? We may not always get along very well, but of course I care. We both learned the hard way that emotions are dangerous and need to be suppressed. Mycroft wasn't threatened by Moriarty for exactly that reason. No one that sees us thinks that we actually like each other – or rather did like each other. Currently I am not very fond of him. But that's my point! You just proved it."
"Moriarty didn't even try to threaten Mycroft, because he thought it would be useless?"
"Mycroft is in a position of unique power. If it was known that he has a little brother that he actually cares about, don't you think that would be exploited by his enemies? Irene Adler and Jim Moriarty tried to get to him through me, and they got very, very close, but ultimately failed. This is what protects us, Lestrade."
There was a dangerous and edgy gleam in Sherlock's eyes that reminded the DI that he was talking to a Holmes here, and that despite the recent events, this man was not to be underestimated. But there was a trace of something else showing in his features, something Lestrade couldn't quite place. And as if he could read his mind, Sherlock stepped forward and passed Lestrade, effectively hiding his face.
"I got comfortable, didn't expect anyone to target me. My own defences were worn thin by the insistent loyalty of John and I gave in. It felt nice to actually have a semblance of a normal life. If I had kept everyone at distance, Moriarty wouldn't have had a bargaining chip, I could have destroyed him. But I didn't and the people that are closest to me had to suffer the consequences. Do you see now, Greg? I hurt all of you because I care."
Sherlock turned around sharply and stalked out of the room, leaving a stunned Lestrade behind. The DI was at loss. He could see how the Holmes brothers, in their unique way of seeing the world, had worked out this twisted little thought process. And it really explained a lot about the enigma that Sherlock still was to him. Now, just how could he convince the detective that he was wrong?
London, 19 October 2012
"Sherlock!"
The last days had been hell. After the blowout in the kitchen, Sherlock had all but ignored Lestrade. Taking the opportunity, the latter had left the clinic for the night and upon his return in the morning he found Sherlock sitting on his own bed, typing furiously on his laptop. According to the nurses he was refusing all food, but at least accepted the IV fluids and medication.
Now, three days later, Lestrade only just stopped himself yelling at the younger man. He had gained some of his strength back and was as insufferable as ever. When the doctors told them that John would live, although there was still a high probability of permanent brain damage, Sherlock had started to soften his abrasive behaviour somewhat. But now that the worry was replaced with boredom and irritation at being trapped in the hospital, the detective was a ticking time bomb, ready to go off at a moment's notice.
Today, the doctors would wake John up to assess his brain functions, and currently Sherlock was pacing the room like a mad man.
"Calm down! They said it would take a couple of hours for John to wake up, this is normal."
"It has already been one hour and 41 minutes and he is not waking!"
"So he still has another 19 minutes. Now give it a rest before you walk a groove into the floor."
Sherlock was the first one to notice the movements of John's face and was next to his bed in a flash. A slight twitch of an eyelid, then a tiny motion of the lips, it was such a stark contrast to the complete lack of motion that was present only moments ago.
"John?"
Another flutter of the eyelids, but they did not open.
"He's waking up. Go and get the Doctors," Sherlock ordered.
Just as Lestrade left the room, John opened his eyes. Sherlock moved closer to his face, to allow him to see a familiar person. But then he frowned. Something was wrong. The eyes were open, but not focused. They did not follow his movements in any way either. Worst of all, there was no recognition in them. Sherlock used his hand to wave in front of John's face.
"John? Can you hear me?"
Nothing. Sherlock tried not to panic, but there was a certain edge in his voice.
"Can you blink if you hear me?" Nothing. "Please, John, anything!"
When Lestrade returned with Dr. Lee and several nurses in tow, Sherlock was in a state of full blown panic.
"He's not responding. His eyes are open, but there is no reaction at all!"
AN: Last cliffhanger of the story, I promise!