A/n: Sorry for the delay. Life sometimes... And this is where it gets crazy! Me balancing all of the characters while trying to include all of these strange subplots I've had in my head for a while now...I would like to thank all of my reviewers~ Kitiara88, gingerholmes, Teen Sherlockian, sherlockfan, Empathetic Psychopath, Anon, and cher bear (if you're still reading, can I just say those were the best? I died). Thanks to all of your commentary, I have decided to treat the ship to one such as friendship until a bonus extended chapter I complete at the end of the story so the romance is optional?
Disclaimer:
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My Absence, Hardly Worth Noting
Chapter 13
John watched in shock as Lestrade cuffed Sherlock. As he was about to speak up, Sherlock shook his head and shot him another weak smile. Stopping, John locked eyes with Molly, whose lip quivered, glaring daggers at the doctor. How long had they been hiding him?
Blankly staring after them, John stumbled over to the couch and plopped down on it, reflecting on what had just happened. Without thinking, the doctor procured his phone, dialing Mycroft.
"News?" Mycroft's voice sounded on the other line.
"What have you done?...Or didn't do, rather," the doctor accused. Surely Mycroft was to blame for this.
"Pardon me?"
John sighed, irritated by the man's ignorance. "Sherlock. Lestrade came storming up here and arrested him for murder."
There was a pause before Mycroft returned, "Don't worry, I'll take care of it." With a click, the line disconnected, and John set his phone on the coffee table, sound resounding through the empty flat.
"Dammit," the doctor swore, hitting the couch beside him.
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
After sending his lawyer to the police station, Mycroft sat at his computer, trying to figure out just where he went wrong. Typing his brother's name into the police database, he was rewarded with petty crime charges of the man's youth but no DNA results, as he had intended. He had changed the bullets in the evidence room and made sure that Sherlock's DNA did not match anything on file. What did I overlook?
I send for an ambulance to pick those two up, but left the scene to the police because they had already been called. There were witnesses, from what I've gathered, that gave statements as to the gunshots they heard, but no one claimed to have seen anything. With a proper ambulance leaving the scene, even those who had seen it wouldn't mention a thing about it to the authorities, assuming that anyone in said ambulance could not exist without their prior knowledge; therefore, it wasn't a witness that caused this.
The police had already been called, and I couldn't get a clean up crew there fast enough to dispose of the evidence before they got there. I had to let them take it, but I was certain my bases were more than covered.
The security camera footage was replaced with a less incriminating version, and I've just contacted the hospital to shift Sherlock's admittance date back a day if that bears a question. That family won't talk either, what with that illegitimate child's birth. With the bullet replaced, and Sherlock's DNA not in the system, what could it have been? It should have returned with no suggested matches, and I could have changed the results after the fact to something else entirely.
But it must be the DNA. There's nothing else that seems to bring everything back to Sherlock per se. Who was on this scene? With a quick search on his computer, he finally understood. Donovan, of course, and she's clearly contracted her services with Anderson...and Miss Hooper, who was the only person who could possibly have his DNA in any sort of record. Of course.
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
"Hey, freak, what'dya do to yourself? You're pale as death," Donovan asked, turning to the man in the back of her police car from her place in the passenger's seat.
Sherlock glared at the woman. "It's what happens when my brain cells attempt to flee for their safety," he recoiled only to be disappointed. Rusty...
"More like you got shot, didn't ya?"
Remaining silent, the detective averted his eyes, staring at his cuffed wrists, resting peaceably in his lap. With a deep breath, he assured himself that this was manageable; he wasn't totally out of control of the situation.
Sally rolled back to face the front of the car and announced, "I told you, Lestrade. We'd be standing in front of a body thanks to him...'cept this time it's not himself. Why couldn'tya have just stayed dead? That way Doyle'd be alive and we'd have that damned bastard down solid!"
A witness, Sherlock thought, swallowing hard, fiddling with his fingers. Stayed dead?
Lestrade glanced at the rear-view mirror at Sherlock and noted the blank look on his face. "What happened? Where were you?" he questioned, genuinely concerned for the sallow man sitting in his back seat.
"I'd rather not," Sherlock answered frankly, leaving the car in a strange silence save the active radio.
"Just doesn't want to incriminate himself, that's what," Donovan spat. "You know, Holmes, you've really done it this time. Molly's sitting there driving behind us. Look what you've done to her. She was perfectly well-adjusted without you and look what you've done. You came back and mucked the whole lot of improvement she's made! Not to mention killing that damn witness and all the other shit you've surely done with yourself. Fuck, in one shot you've ruined what I've been working on for months. You're just better off dead. Can't cause any trouble that way."
"Sally..." Lestrade chided as he saw a flash of sadness in the younger man's face.
"Don't Sally me!" she screamed. "It's all his fault. Everything's always been his fault, and now he's back here just to fuck up our lives. Seriously, the second he shows back up, he's at the center of all of this shit."
Sherlock watched her expressions from his position in the backseat from the rear view mirror and sighed, acknowledging the validity of her statement. The things he had been responsible for in the last week alone could land him in prison for life, not counting the entirety of the time he spent abroad, which could easily have had him executed several times over. Not for their lack of trying, the detective recalled grimly.
"Well, we're here," Lestrade announced as he pulled into the back of the station. "I'll do you this sort of courtesy, at least."
As the younger man was escorted through the back of the police station, all eyes in the surrounding area fell on him. Maintaining his composure, Sherlock walked as if he were treading on needles, gazes piercing into him. Though he wanted to survey the area for familiar faces, he couldn't bring himself to meet any of the officers' eyes. They were too good, too upstanding; he was ashamed, tainted, no longer worthy of the title "detective".
Not wanting to give the poor man who trudged beside him any more attention, Lestrade pulled Sherlock into an interrogation room and sat him in a chair, shooing Sally to the adjoining surveillance room. Sitting across from the pale man, Lestrade began, "Sherlock, what happened to you?"
Eyes downcast, Sherlock met him with silence.
"Look, I know that wound on your neck is a graze from a bullet. I need you to just tell me what happened between you and Doyle. What did you do on the fifteenth?"
Silence.
Temper wearing thin, Lestrade slammed his hand on the metal table, and Sherlock jumped in his seat. Frightened eyes piercing his own, the detective inspector rose as if a different angle would change the terrified look he saw on the once fearless man's face. "Damn it," he muttered, standing. "Just, I don't know. Sit tight."
Upon entering the observation room, Sally called, "The hell was that?"
"I don't know," he returned, watching the man in the interrogation room take deep breaths and steady his shaking hands. "He doesn't seem like he's all too healthy to start with..."
"Think he's a bit touched in the head? Well, more'n he used to be, anyhow."
After a tight knock, Molly opened the door and asked, "Do you want me to collect fingerprints and DNA?"
"If you don't mind..." Lestrade responded. "Maybe he'll say something to you, too."
Nodding, the young lab technician left the room only to enter the interrogation room, necessary equipment in hand. "Hello, Sherlock," she greeted with a deadpan expression, eyes still giving away her previous condition.
The detective looked up at the woman and smiled weakly. "Hello, Molly."
Pulling out a fingerprint card, a pen, and fingerprint grease, she took one hand in her own and helped him apply the proper amount before rolling it out on the card. "What happened, Sherlock? I thought you were dead...I sent in the report myself."
"I can only assume," Sherlock returned honestly as she pressed his right middle finger down on the card. The details as to how exactly he came to become what he was were still foggy in his mind.
Rolling his ring finger, she questioned, "Now what does that mean? You were there!"
"I suppose I was."
Finishing with the right hand, she wiped off the grease like she would for a child. "What's happened to you?"
"Nothing in particular."
Molly sighed and carefully pulled his cast left arm to the table. "I won't ask then," she maintained, unable to look at more than the man's damaged hands. Without another word, she finished collecting his prints and swabbed his cheek for DNA, cringing slightly as her eyes caught some of the faint yellow bruises resting against his prominent cheek bones. Packing up, Molly kept her eyes to the ground as she rose and left the room.
Groaning, Lestrade turned to Donovan and said, "Let's just take him to one of the holding cells and let the DNA and fingerprints do the rest...We'll talk to him again later."
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Resting in the provided bed, Sherlock closed his eyes and listened to the sounds around him, occasionally catching his name tossed around the cell block. Keeping his existence a secret was hardly now a viable option. At least I've brought some sort of ends to anyone who knew I was the one tearing their group apart. Half the time they didn't even have my name, let alone what I looked like. Some are rotting in some sort of prison with no means of contacting the outside, their group so far dissolved. The chances of repercussions for revenge's sake are minimal, compared to the accusations of murder I've acquired along the way. Mycroft should be able to cover those...
But do I even deserve it? I'm a murderer. Maybe I should stay here, confess to everything, pay some sort of penance to those I've killed, those I've simply ruined. How do I absolve this guilt, rid myself of their faces?
"Holmes," Lestrade's voice shook the younger man alert. "Your lawyer's here."
End of Chapter 13
A/n: That's it! Filler chapter *groans*. Sorry for the wait for that of all things. Anyhow, if you need something short (and a bit sad) way to occupy your time, go check out my other fic, Letters for You. Now that you've read, please review! 'Till next time!