Chapter 2: Tainted love

Sterile.

The air he was breathing had an undertone of bleach. There were few places that smelled as such, he had a list with all of them in his mind palace. He could be in Molly's lab right now, taking a nap on one of the free autopsy tables but the cannula shoved down his throat seemed to disagree, as well as the stiff mattress he was laying on, the catheter dangling from his arm, the beeping coming from the machines, the indistinct chatter of the nurses outside his room.

French.

They were talking in french. Ah...This had to be Mycroft's idea. Always the overprotective brother. As much as they pretended to hate each other, in the end, after everything, love remained. There had been mistakes and bad choices but they never intended to harm their sibling. Mycroft was Sherlock's older brother and he would anything in his power to keep him safe, even if sometimes that meant to put him in danger. How ironic. To say their relationship is complicated is an understatement. However, what mattered at the moment was that he was alive. Disgustingly alive. Hatefully alive. He wished this sweet darkness surrounding him was death. Peace. The opportunity to forget everything, forgive everyone and live in an idealized world, the promised land. Nevertheless, Sherlock knew if Heaven existed he wouldn't be allowed entrance, he would probably be doomed to burn in the flames of Hell.

Thank God - the detective indulged himself with the pun - I'm an Atheist.

Sherlock tried not to struggle with the foreign object in his mouth, he had to stay calm and get used to the feeling. If he had a panic attack he would most surely choke and the nurses would put him to sleep again. And that he didn't want.

He slowly opened his eyes, it felt like his eyelids had been glued together and it took an awful long time to adjust to the light streaming through the window. It was sunny outside. He would have preferred London's gloomy weather a thousand time over. It would have matched his current emotional state more accurately. But instead he had this perfect day, he could almost hear families laughing together, parents playing with their children in the park making most the of the sun and warm temperature. They were laughing at him.

John and Rosamund.

He thought he had had everything. But now it was gone. He had believed the universe would let him get what he wanted this time. His chance to be happy after an existence of hiding his true self from everyone. However, he was destined to a life of emotional isolation. It felt like a curse, to die alone without a single soul who cared. From a very young age Sherlock had had to struggle with loneliness and rejection from his peers and the only thing that helped him get through the darkest hours was hope. He prayed for the day where he would find someone that loved him as much as he needed to be loved, someone who cared if he lived or died. The detective would never admit it to anyone but he yearned to feel the warmth of love, the touch of a tender lover, a smile that could light up his insides, the flicker of devotion in his beloved eyes.

John had been a delusion. The army doctor had not honored him with a single thing he had pleaded for. During their short 'affair' Sherlock had not felt that warmth even once, contrarily he felt his chest fill with an uncomfortable cold sensation that became more intense as days passed. Restlessness invaded him, anxiety followed him throughout the day, breathing became a hard task, suddenly air felt like Mercury* filling his lungs.

That chance was just a mirage.

Sherlock didn't really see a point in staying alive anymore, not that he ever did. He wanted to die, to vanish from this planet full of idiots. He saw an opportunity to live in John so he had given him everything. The soldier turned out to be a double-edged sword, he had the key to Sherlock's happiness but he could also take it all away from him. Now he had nothing. He was so dependent of the soldier he would probably die if he didn't see he him again. How romantic, to die of heartbreak. Shakespeare would be proud.

A sound teared him away from his thoughts. Someone had entered the room and was now clearing his throat. A strong wave of men's cologne hit him. It was an expensive perfume. Pompous bastard.

" Baby brother, It is good to see you conscious at last." Mycroft sounded undeniably tired, he was not wearing a jacket, his shirt rolled up to his elbows. Has not slept in 4 days. Always the worrywart.

" You've come out of your sedative induced coma a few times, couldn't even utter a single sound that resembled a word of the English language, or any existing language for all I know. Nevertheless, you did manage to say your doctor's name...- " he stopped as soon as he realized how accelerated Sherlock's heartbeat became when he mentioned Dr. Watson. " You had a heart attack. It isn't at all surprising considering your past drug dependency, your on-off relationship with cigarettes and the 'care' you put into maintaining the transport, as you so call it. It was only a matter of time and a bit of sentiment. And you, dear brother, seem to have a lot of that ". He paused and gave the detective a side glance. " The damage was not too extensive, you were seen to with swiftness as you fainted in front of a clinic. Felicitous. The physicians in charge of your case heavily advise you acquire healthier sleeping patterns and diet. Allow me to call a nurse so they can extubate you."

Mycroft left the room, he could hear him talking French in the corridor. He came back with a short ginger nurse following him. The lady approached the hospital gurney and initiated the protocol to take the tube out of his throat. Once he was liberated from it he noticed how dry his mouth felt, he accepted the glass of water offered to him and drank. The relief was immediate.

"We need to talk about what happened. ¿Do you want me to take care of John Watson?" The atmosphere had suddenly shifted, Mycroft turned to look at him straight in the eye. He's trying to deduce me.

"There's nothing to talk about. John didn't love me and wanted revenge for Mary's death. He plotted against me, built a plan to destroy me and was successful. I'm sure Moriarty would be jealous." He answered with a croaky, trembling voice. The mock was evident in the last words.

"In the end it was John Hamish Watson the one to burn the heart out of you. I warned you, all lives end... all hearts are broken... caring is not an advantage".

"As much as I hate myself for admitting this... I should have listened to you. Do not make me repeat myself. I know you heard me perfectly."

"So... What's next for the great Sherlock Holmes? Are you planning on returning to London and keep working with Scotland Yard? We're in Paris, I'm sure you've noticed. Mother and Father are here too, they are in the hotel refreshing themselves at the moment. They have barely rested. They are concerned about your wellbeing. And not only physically, they know how sensitive you are. After all, you were a very emotional child. You should expect a visit from our progenitors in about ...-" Mycroft paused to look at the watch in his right wrist. "- 35 minutes. I believe that will be enough time to discuss your future."

Mycroft walked until he placed himself in front of the window. The warm sunlight streaming through made his ginger hair shine like bonfire, it also exposed his thinning hair and receding hairline. His pallid skin glistened with a thin sheen of sweat. Posture slightly bent. His shoulders stooped forward, as if the weight of his brothers suffering rested all upon him. He would never forgive Watson for doing this to Sherlock. He shouldn't have let him in.

"I'm not going back. Not to London, not to Scotland Yard, not to 221B. Please take care of Mrs. Hudson. I expect John to keep living at Baker Street. He does not have the income to buy another house. Maybe he will move, eventually. If he does, make sure Mrs. Hudson receives the amount corresponding to the rent monthly. As for me... I wish to take up on your offer. That mission in Serbia. Is it still vacant?"

"Sherlock, that mission was your sentence for killing Magnussen. It was a suicide mission. Do not give everything up because of this incident, you are an invaluable asset to society. Your brain... you could change the world. And... It would break my heart to see you go." This blatant demonstration of sentiment from Mycroft was so rare, this probably would not happen ever again.

"I cannot live without him, Mycroft." Sherlock's sincerity astounded him. The young detective was no longer hiding behind invisible walls, he had nothing to loose. "I gave him everything I had, everything. And now I have nothing left, I don't know how to keep going, I feel like a helpless pup abandoned by its mother in a jungle full of predators. Doomed. There is nothing you can do, Mycroft. I had given up long before I met John, he just gave me a reason to live. I know this will wound Mother and Father deeply, but it is better this way. If you want to spare them some pain you could come up with a different story, tell them I ran away to start a new life somewhere else. Send them a few letters periodically, I could write them for you."

The silence in the room was disturbed by the muffled voices of doctors and nurses, the chirping of the birds near the window, the wheels turning inside Mycroft's head. It was obvious he was thinking of a way to save his brother. A rather difficult enterprise when that person didn't wish to be saved. Suddenly he remembered. He remembered something he read in John's file the first day he became of aware of his and his brother's newfound friendship. The idea was twisted at best, it could be considered unethical even. However, he would do anything to keep his brother alive.

"What if I told you that anyone who enrolls in the army is required to give away samples of sperm or ovum in case they die in action? And I have access to John's ." He spoke slowly, trying not to scare the young man in the bed. It was clear Sherlock wasn't following. " Dear brother, I know you hoped to have kids one day with John. And as a carrier -" Sherlock looked taken aback, as if Mycroft had slapped him across the face. He stopped him.

"NO! No, no, no. This is cruel even for you. How could I have John's child without him knowing it? I would not forgive myself. I desired to have kids with him, most ardently. But I would not resort to this as a revenge."

" Why not? He didn't think twice before doing this to you. You say you cannot live without him, you would have a part of him if we used his sample. His baby. Your baby. This baby wouldn't be a revenge it would be your lifesaver. I do not care in the least about John Watson. If you having his kid means keeping you alive then I have nothing say. I know how much you wanted it, I have seen your browser history. Quite a research you were conducting." Sherlock turned bright red at the thought of the long hours spent in front of his computer investigating about male pregnancy, carriers, cycles, side effects of suppressors, etc. He had wanted to talk about this matter with John, they never got the chance. They hadn't even been intimate, not once. Sherlock remained a virgin.

The detective stayed silent for a long time, mixed feelings were invading his mind palace. He craved to have John's child, at least that way he would have a part of him. This new being would be his reason to live, he would give them all the love he always felt missing in his own life, he would make them feel adored and cherished. He raised the arm that wasn't attached to the IV and placed it on his flat stomach. His breath hitched and his eyes filled with tears. It was his deepest buried desire, he had secretly dreamt about it night after night. But it was wrong, he wouldn't do that to the man he loved.

"He doesn't have to know. You could live here in Paris."

Before he could voice his decision to his brother, their parents burst through the door. They appeared to be elated and relieved to see him awake and conscious.

"Oh, my baby! We were so worried about you, we still are. How are you feeling?" His mother was all over, touching his hair, stroking his cheek as his father stayed silently in the back.

"Violet, leave the boy be. He is still recovering, we should let him sleep so he can heal."

As his parents kept fussing around him he turned to look at Mycroft. He felt a single tear roll down his cheek as he nodded curtly.

He had made a decision.