Chapter Eleven

I had woken to a pounding headache and Mrs Hudson screaming at John to wake up. It had been with great difficulty that I got upright, trying to suppress my groan, so I wouldn't worry her, and I looked at the doctor. He had purple bruises forming all around his neck, and he didn't seem to be conscious. I reached up to my injured face and found that Mrs Hudson had stuffed my nostrils to stop the bleeding.

The second I sat up, she descended upon me in full worry mode, and I had to interrupt her to get a word in edgeways,

"Mrs Hudson, have you called an ambulance?" She shook her head, dabbing at her eyes tearfully, and I nodded,

"Would you, please, go and do so? I'll watch John until you get back." She hadn't needed telling twice, and I turned my attention to his limp form. His eyelids were flickering, which was a good sign, and I dropped my head to listen to his breathing. It was laboured, but he whispered,

"Sherlock?" I shook my head, before realising that he couldn't see it, and said,

"He's not here." He nodded slightly, and his eyes finally opened,

"Where'd he go?" I sighed, running a hand through my bloodied hair,

"I don't know. You alright, mate?" He chuckled, shakily,

"I don't think so. I think I need to lie down."

"Shall I take you upstairs?" He shook his head, pushing himself upright,

"Don't think I'll make it. Sherlock's bedroom."

I nodded, pulling John's arm around my neck, and we struggled to our feet together. It had taken much longer than usual to get to Sherlock's bedroom, and I was just lying him down on the bed when we heard the front door click open. I hoped that Mrs Hudson had the common sense to avoid the man – in case he was still inhabited by someone who could cause her harm – and luckily we didn't hear her interacting with him.

As the footsteps approached, John tried to sit up, desperately wanting to go to his friend, but I pushed him back down. We needed to err on the side of caution; we didn't know which personality we would be confronted with. So, rather than bursting out there like we wanted, we sat in silence. I opened the door just a crack to watch Sherlock disappear into the bathroom. He was blank, as if he was walking around in a coma, and his eyes were glassy. Convinced that he wouldn't attack, I called out to him, but he didn't answer.

I informed John of what was happening, fetched him the first aid kit from the kitchen, and went to help Sherlock. Waiting outside the bathroom, I listened to the sound of sobbing that drifted from the bathroom. It began as a light whimpering, like a puppy thrown outside for peeing on the carpet, but it increased. Eventually, it had increased a sobbing, gurgling noise, and then full-blown wailing. I went back to John, trying to figure out what to do, and saw that I wasn't the only one who was alarmed. Sherlock never let go of his emotions, and here he was bawling his eyes out.

Struggling with the duvet, John tried to get up and go to his best friend, but he had fallen. The bruises had formed a clear ring around his neck, and he looked no better than I did. Sherlock didn't need to see him in that state. It would only make him feel guilty, so I put the doctor back to bed and plucked up my courage. I was slightly apprehensive about what I would find, and I felt my heartstrings tug when I saw what lay behind the bathroom door.

It was a pitiful sight. The great Sherlock Holmes had been reduced to a sobbing, guilt-ridden, ball in his bathtubs. The tears were streaming down his face, and the confusion was clear on his pale, blood-stained face. He was so tiny and meek. It was as if he had been reduced to a child in so many ways.

Poor kid. He was beating himself up, I could see it in his eyes; he was lost and distraught. I couldn't find it in me to be angry at him. In fact, I didn't blame him at all, and I knew John didn't either. He'd told me so as we struggled towards the bedroom.

Sherlock looked up instantly when he heard the door opening, and I asked quietly, though I was almost certain that I knew the answer,

"Sherlock? Is that you, or one of the others?" He shook his head,

""It's me. Oh God, I can't even be sure of it myself, but I think it's me." I took a step forward automatically, seeing his pain, but the second the light fell on my face he began to howl even louder. "I'm so sorry… I can't… I can't control it—"

"Stop beating yourself up about this, Sherlock. It's not your fault; it's alright—"

"No, it's not!" I flinched instinctively, and I regretted it immediately when I saw the hurt on Sherlock's face. He physically recoiled, terrified of my reaction to him, and I felt my heart go out for him, "I'm so sorry, for everything. I could have killed you, Lestrade."

I forced myself to smile, trying to let Sherlock knowing that I didn't blame him and that it wasn't his fault,

"It'll take a lot more than that for you to take me down." I crouched quietly, trying not to startle him, and I was struck with how upsettingly young and vulnerable he looked. Even during his addict years, he had never looked like this. He had always been strong and guarded, and I felt the anger in my rise when I realise why he must have had to grow up and protect himself from such a young age. I pushed the curls from his face and murmured, "It's not your fault, Sherlock."

His mouth opened slightly, preparing to interrupt, but I cut him off, "No, listen to me now . You're sick, and that isn't your fault; that's your father's fault. You can't help it that these personalities are taking control of you, so you need help. John and I are going to provide that as best we can, but you have to get professional help as well." Silently, I prayed that he would accept the offer and that he wouldn't let his ego get in the way. I couldn't help the relief leaking into my expression when he nodded almost immediately,

"I will, I promise. I promise I will." He must have notice the expression on my face, "What's that look for?"

"I've known you five years, and you spent the entirety of that first year as an addict refusing help. I never thought you'd give in so easily."

"I've never tried to kill my closest friends before."

That touched me more than I expected. He had never even called me a friend before, but to know that he viewed me as one his closest? Even though he had just broken my nose, and left me with a throbbing concussion, I couldn't resist pulling him in for a hug. He broke down again, tears soaking the front of my stained red shirt, and I just let him break down.

When the tears began to subside, I wrapped one arm round his back and the other under his legs. He was so light and skinny, after days of anxiety and lack of food or sleep, I could easily lift him free of the tub.

He was still wet from the rain, so I gently put him on the toilet and wrapped him in the closest towel that wasn't soaked in blood. His curls were beginning to dry, which suggested that he must have been inside for a long time during the rain, and I wondered where he could have gone. He wasn't in any state to answer, so I simply wrapped my arms around him again to try and warm him up.

It was a few minutes before he began to squirm and try to pull away. His eyes were darting all other the place, as if people were calling his name from different areas in the room, and he let out a groan. The second I realised his arms, he covered his ears with his hands and seemed to shrink inwards.

"Sherlock, what's wrong? What's happening?" He moaned, and I watched him slip from the toilet seat to the ground, and he frantically pulled at his head.

"Have you ever had seven people inside your head?" He jabbed his fingers at his temples, "They're all squashed inside here, and they're all screaming and crying for my attention? It's like trying to fit a balloon into a box that's not quite big enough. Every time you squeeze a little bit into the box, another bit of the blood bursts free and it will never quite fit whilst whole an unpopped. Something always spills out."

He grabbed his head, fingers burying themselves in his hair, and tugged at his roots, "They just keep screaming! All of them wanting my attention. Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!" I was glad he wasn't look at me and couldn't see my terror.

His eyes widened, and I watched his eyes move to look at something behind my shoulder, "No! Stay away from him!" He shoved me out of the way and began to wrestle with what appeared to be thin air. He heaved his whole body weight into shoving the unseen assailant, and then – I don't know how – he was flying back as if he had been shoved.

The back of his head connected with the already shattered mirror, and he began to choke as if someone had wrapped their hands around his throat. I watched, frozen to the spot by a morbid fascination, as he screamed at an invisible attacker and slammed himself against the wall. Finally, seeing the damage he was self-inflicting, I was released from my paralysis and I jumped into action,

"Sherlock, you have to stop. Stop! There's no-one there!"

My shouts fell upon deaf ears, and I had to jump to grab his hands and pull his hands from my own throat, "Sherlock, you have to stop!" He blinked, a haze from clearing from obstructing his clouded eyes, and he spoke with a child-like innocence,

"Greggie, what's happened?" He asked. His hands reached up to dab at the back of his head, "Ow, it hurts." The light blue eyes widened, "What's going on? Oh no," he breathed. He dropped to his knees, paying no attention to the damage to his knees, and began grabbing pieces of shattered mirror with no attention to the cuts on his hands, "Oh no, I made a mess. Daddy's going to angry! Please, don't let him get angry at me. Where's John? I want John; he'll keep me safe. He promised."

"John's not here at the moment." The wide, unblinking eyes flicked up to look at me, with pain evident in the unwavering blue depths,

"Is he hurt?" I hesitated for a second, not wanting to upset him, but finally I had to nod. I dropped to my knees, took his wrists in my hands, and tried to stop him from picking up the mirror. Immediately, he began to panic when I tried to restrain him, and I hated realising what that could mean. Perhaps, it wasn't an unfamiliar gesture to him – having his wrists held in huge, adult hands. I released him instantly,

"Calm down, Sherlock, everything's alright. I'm your friend. You don't have to be afraid, but I need you to stop picking up the mirror. You're going to hurt yourself—"

"But daddy will be angry—"

"You'll be alright, Sherlock. I'll keep you safe until John comes back. I'm a policeman, I can protect you. It's my job."

His entire face lit up, the intelligent glint returning to his eyes. It was the same light that I saw when we were on the crime scene of a particularly interesting murder.

"Wow, that's amazing. I wish I was a policeman, or even a detective. Mycroft used to read me detective stories, if I was good, and it sounded like fun." I smiled at him, nudging him slightly,

"You are a detective, or at least the other is a detective."

"Wow," he breathed. The awe was evident on his face, "Can I come see a case?"

"Of course, but – in exchange – you have to do me a favour." He nodded eagerly, a huge smile on his face,

"Yes, what is it? Anything you want, you're my friend, and I'll do it." I took a deep breath, considering the quickly forming plan and thinking it through in detail,

"I want you to help Sherlock. You have to get the others to stop fighting, so you can all allow Sherlock to be in control. You've all be hurting him—"

"I didn't mean to," he said with tears welling up, and he began to sob pitifully. "I'm so sorry. I didn't want to hurt anyone. Did I do that to you, Greggie? Did I hurt John and Sherlock?" I shook my head, because in my mind it wasn't him,
"No, that was a different Sherlock, and you have to stop him. You have to get him and the others to stop, to go back to wherever you were, and protect Sherlock. Can you do that for me?"
"They'll be really angry. They'll be so angry at me."

"I know, but they can't hurt you. John and I won't let them hurt you."
"But, I don't know how to get them to go away. I don't know, how do I do it, Greggie?" I took hold of his shoulders and forced him to look at me, calming him down in his panicked frustration,

"Where did they come from? None of you have been out since Sherlock was younger—" He shook his head,

"No, no… I remember you from before. I remember when Sherlock was putting those horrible needles in his arm filled with happy juice. You were the nice Detective who looked after us." I froze. So, Sherlock's disorder had resurfaced during the time of addiction? He must have been pretty damn out of it if I hadn't noticed.

"Okay, so how did he push you all down again? Where did you go?"
"We went to his mind palace. We were in the dungeons. I don't want to go back there, Greggie. Please, don't make me go back."

I let him hug me tightly, sighing and running a hand through his curls,

"I'm sorry Sherlock, but you have to go back, or Sherlock will suffer. If Sherlock suffers, then so will John. He's your best friend, you have to help him. If you want John to be happy then you have to go back—" He looked up at me through the tears, and he nodded.

"Okay, but only for John. I'll get rid of them, but I'll need Sherlock's help. I'm going inside."

Before, I could ask what he meant, Sherlock went limp in my arms.