Sherlock Story
Forgotten Memories, Chapter 190
*Thanks so much for reading. Please do not forget to comment.
A disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to BBC along with the talented writers Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss; along with the amazing Martin Freeman and Benedict Cumberbatch. No money was made. The story, however, is my original thought and comes out of my overactive imagination. Other characters introduced are also mine.
"Good old Watson! You are the one fixed point in a changing age."
~ Sherlock Holmes, The Last Bow
Current Day
Current Time
The hospital staff gave the lunatic of a man a wide berth. His shirt was torn and bloodied. Soot covered his face, and by the sound of his hoarse voice, he should be sitting down and receiving short term oxygen therapy. Instead, he was being difficult and uncooperative.
"Fix him!" Sherlock said with a raspy voice, as he paced up and down with increasingly erratic steps. His hands gestured wildly back and forth. "What good are you if you can't fix him?" He stepped abruptly in front of Mycroft.
A fit of coughing interrupted his rant. Sherlock did not let that stop him. He rallied himself and resumed the insults.
Mycroft allowed him to. He pulled his lips into a grim line, as he looked at his brother's anguish face. He took the verbal abuse. He always did. This was Sherlock.
"What good are you," something that sounded suspiciously like a repressed sob escaped Sherlock's lips. He hung his head down with an angry look. He stared at his brother's shoes, while repeating with an almost childlike petulant, "What good are you what, what good… what…"
It was difficult to breathe. He knew that it was more than the inhaled smoke. Sherlock inhaled and exhaled with great effort. John always helped him when he was like this.
John.
There was a physical sensation in his chest, and internal compression that felt almost pathological. He felt as if he was on the verge of tears, or uncontrollable, and hysterical laughter, or perhaps he had slipped into insanity itself. At the very least, he had to have been experiencing cardiac arrest. Maybe all four conditions at the same time. Maybe none. Before that moment, he'd never thought himself capable of any of the former. But that was thirty hours ago.
Mycroft stepped into his brother's personal space. He found his own voice strangely rough. He refused to acknowledge the reasons behind it. He had to keep a level head. Someone had to.
"Sherlock," Mycroft took a few seconds to breathe deeply in and out and gain control. A control that he denied he was having trouble maintaining. "I am a man. A man with power, perhaps, but just a man." His smile came to his face. It was a sad sort of smile filled with regret, and surrender, and if he was honest, fear. "And you, dear brother, you are not an emotionless machine." Mycroft smile became broader, and more pained. "Despite my best efforts."
Mycroft stepped as close as one could get without touching. He noticed that Sherlock sniffed once, before turned his head away embarrassed and wiped at his eyes. His eyes and head were still downcast.
"Look at me Sherlock."
Mycroft waited for Sherlock to compose himself.
Sherlock cleared his throat and slowly lifted his eyes toward his brother's face.
"It's time we saw each other as we clearly are," Mycroft said. "Talk to him Sherlock. You always seem to have found a way back to him when he talked to you." At the surprised look in his brother's eyes, Mycroft shrugged and confessed, "Perhaps not logical, yes. But logic cannot help right now. Perhaps it's time for," Mycroft seemed to be searching for the words, "faith?" Mycroft decided. Mycroft would not say more.
"What do I say?" Sherlock asked in an uncharacteristically small, and unsure voice.
"Speak from," Mycroft pointed to Sherlock's physical heart and tapped once. "Here." Mycroft's smile became real now, as if he was reliving the fond memory. "Although I'm not an expert on hope, I think that is what he would say. That's what he always did. Hoped."
Sherlock caught his brother's eye for the first time in minutes. He looked into Mycroft's eyes. Mycroft looked back then, saying nothing for a long pause in time. Sherlock then turned abruptly and walked back into John's room. He calmed a fraction. He had been given a task, something he could do, besides just waiting. He had a desperate determination that was obvious to all. But, would it be enough?
Current Day
Current Time
Professor Holmes pushed the group of papers aside easily. She was almost finished with the last stack of papers. She had been in her new office for only nine days. It was cluttered with items that were partially unpacked. Her telephone system was not even set up yet. She frowned as the door to her office opened so quickly that the door bounced slightly on the filing cabinets and boxes located behind them.
Her friend's large girth shifted around the partially opened door. Her eyes were wide and a frown had warped her normally pleasant countenance.
"Miranda," her friend's frown deepened. "It's your son." Miranda had told her everything, and despite her love of gossiping, the University employee decided that she would rather die than betray her trust.
Mrs. Holmes looked at her mobile phone. She had forgotten that she had silenced it. She picked up the offered telephone. She spoke, as she quickly followed her friend through the door. Her eyes closed briefly before they opened again with determination.
"I'm on my way," she said as the phone line disconnected. Miranda's feet seemed to move on their own accord, as she tried to remember how to breathe.
Current Day
Current Time
His hair was still damp. Sherlock had cleaned himself, and had finally changed from the bloodied clothing into a clean suit. He had even allowed a nurse to clean and bandage an area on his wrist. There was a slight burn to his left wrist, when an ember from the charred ceiling had fallen. He had used his body to shield John. Luckily, the suit that he had worn at the manor had taken most of the assault. He had even allowed the staff to administer Intravenous fluids, and oxygen to him until his lungs cleared. He quickly agreed to anything, as long as they would treat him in John's room. He did not intend to leave John's side.
It had taken a threat from Mycroft for him to take the world's fastest shower. Mycroft had informed his younger brother that if he did not take a shower in the adjoining room, and allow the staff to administer medical treatments. He would have him, drugged, physically removed, medically treated, and bathe. He knew his brother well enough to know that he had not made an idle threat.
He ignored the footsteps that entered. He pursed his lips defiantly, as he continued to read. He watched her out of the corner of his eyes. She walked up to the still figure on the bed. The face of the normally strong and confident freelance Agent was stricken with concern. She took a moment to look him over and touch him. She then kissed him gently on the lips, as if anything more would break him.
She frowned when she looked at Sherlock's bruised face. He sat stiffly in the chair. She opened her mouth to speak but he interrupted her.
"I'm not going to leave him just because you are here." Sherlock tone was petulant, but there was a hint of desperation. "I won't leave him." Sherlock did not notice that he had one hand on John, as if he was prepared to fight if someone tried to physically remove him from the room.
She smiled sadly. Most people saw Holmes arrogance, but she saw the other side of him. "I was only going to ask if you were alright." She saw the fierce protectiveness that he had for John.
"I know what he means to you, and how important you are to him. I would never try to change that. I think that you make each other better." Mary Myers put a hesitant hand on Sherlock Holmes hand, before She added. "John wants me, but he needs you."
Sherlock just looked at Mary. He did not say a word for the longest time. She allowed him to look. Finally, and slowly, Sherlock returned the grip on Mary's hand. Something in Sherlock shifted then. He looked at Mary differently. He looked at her, as if he was seeing her for the first time.
Sherlock cleared his throat before turning his eyes back to John, and saying. "I think he has a little more color."
Mary held on to his hands, as she asked, "You think so?"
"Yes."
They both stood holding hands. They tried to draw comfort from each other.
Current Day
Current Time
He watched Moriarty entered his room. The mad genius had not said one word to him since the manor. He grimly stood and watched, as his boss strolled over to him.
Moriarty walked over to Moran. Moran frowned but refused to lose eye contact with him. His only regret was that he had not killed Holmes. But, this was better. He knew how much he cared for the other man. This was better than killing him. This was an eternal torture. Moriarty had been correct after all.
He had always been able to read Moriarty. At least that's what he told himself. But right now he could not detect what the Consultant Criminal was thinking. And, that was quite frightening. Sebastian's heart was racing inside of him. Jim's hand came out to touch the sides of Moran's face. He moved his lips close to Sebastian's right ear before he whispered.
"Run. I'll give you a little while before looking for you. For both of our sakes Seb, don't let me find you. This is the last thing I'll do for you." No one else was close enough to hear the private conversation.
Moran's mind could not wrap his brain around the concept of separating from Moriarty. He expected anything else; torture, forgiveness, even a bullet in the brain. But the idea to be alive, yet separated from the man that he idolized, did not even enter into his list of possibilities. He turned devastated eyes toward Moriarty. He opened his mouth wordlessly, but self-preservation kept him from uttering a word.
When Moriarty looked back at him there was utter wrath, and a thin line of self-restraint. However, he thought he also saw a shadow of regret. He could not be sure. Within a second, Moriarty's expression was blank again, and unreadable.
Sebastian Moran watched in shock, as Moriarty and his men around him walked away. Moriarty did not look back.
Current Day
Current Time
He squeezed his eyes shut. His fingers squeezed the bridge of his nose. He lay down the novel on the cool, wooden table. He did not know how John could tolerate reading such rubbish. The plot was completely unbelievable, and he had known from page ten who the murderer was. Sherlock cleared his throat, as his hand reached for the cup of water. He drank until the cup was empty. His abused voice was raspy with overuse. He had been reading or talking to the sleeping man almost every waking hour. He had not allowed himself much sleep. He had to let John know that he was not alone.
He turned to his left and looked down at John. "Time to wake up, John," he whispered gently.
They had removed him from the ventilator. That was a good sign, was it not? There were too many tubes, and wires running from and to John. John's normal skin tone had changed. He looked unnaturally pale and fragile. He looked like a paper doll, which could be torn apart with the slightest amount of pressure.
This was all wrong.
Is this how John felt the many times he had to sit in the chair, Sherlock wondered to himself. He was now sure of something that he had always suspected. John was much stronger than he was. He was unaware of how he could stand the feeling. No feelings, which were determined to make themselves known. He stared at John. He looked for signs of change, a finger that twitched, a change in breathing patterns, anything.
Sherlock did not notice that he worried his lower lip between his teeth. He concentrated on keeping his breathing even. He ran a hand roughly through his dark curls.
The doctors were wrong. They were all idiots. John would be alright. He would wake up soon. He just needed a little more rest. Just a little more. Sherlock closed his eyes for a brief moment to gather himself. He would not allow his thoughts to become dark. John needed him.
His body stiffly shot up from the chair. The hospital bed that his brother had brought into the private room, was unused. Except for removing his suit jacket, and begrudgingly accepting tea, coffee, and finally food when he began to become dizzy, he did not leave John side.
He pulled the linens up to his friend's neck. He felt he had to do something, anything, to make the man before him more comfortable. His hand lingered as he rested it on John's shoulder.
"Don't you let go John Watson." Sherlock's voice broke, "Don't you dare give up."
Sherlock heard the movement coming from behind. He did not move. The footsteps transformed into a body. He stood silently by John. Time seemed to stretch into an eternal nightmare. He was unsure if it was five seconds, or five hours before he sat down in the chair next to his bed.
Irene moved in front of Sherlock. He did nothing for several long minutes, but then he pulled her to him, as he buried his face into her stomach. She frowned as she wrapped her arms around his head gently. Even though she did not hear a sound, his breathing became erratic. She did not comment when she felt wetness soak through her clothing, and onto her stomach. She only held him closer.
Mycroft closed the door quietly. Mummy Holmes and Mrs. Hudson both took Mary's arm. He looked at the small group of eight who were beside him. They were John's makeshift family. They all decided wordlessly to retreat and give Sherlock time to grieve, and if necessary, say goodbye.