DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own Sherlock, nor any of it's characters.
BACKGROUND INFO THAT YOU SHOULD KNOW: The 'Car Crash' in this fanfiction happens as the Reichenbach Fall's replacement. Moriarty, instead of dying at the Reichenbach Fall, was 'killed' earlier, before the car crash happened.
Author Note:
So, I decided to continue... I have a feeling this little one shot experience is going to turn into a whole lot more.
Thank you guys for the positive feedback, it's really nice to know that you appreciate my writing :)
So anyways, I'll stop talking and continue...
And as always...
Love chu all~ Keep Reading :)
~Scar
Chapter 1:
The waiting room's occupancy rate occasionally changed, as it did now. The man who entered was rather tall (although, in retrospect, John Watson found a rather wide array of men to be tall, due to his infuriating shortness), dressed altogether too formally for a place such as this, and smelled rather strongly of expensive wines and cigars. "Such a time as this. Why couldn't brother have chosen a more convenient window in my schedule to be hit by a car, how rude of him," the man murmured, and although his words were bitter and horrible, his tone was condoling, soft even. The man settled himself into the chair directly opposite, watching our middle aged man, and knowing all too well how he was feeling. John looked up then, at the man who had just entered.
"Mycroft?" He then asked, in mild confusion. "Isn't our country in some sort of mortal peril or another? Don't you have meetings to attend to?"
"I canceled." The man said, as he procured a cigarette from the folds of his overcoat, and lit the end. John chuckled softly at that. "Is that really unbelievable to you?" Mycroft murmured as he exhaled a swirling cloud of smoke. John raised his eyebrows.
"You do know that's not allowed, don't you?" John's voice sounded rather weak, feeble. Mycroft didn't answer. Neither made any more attempts at conversation, the only sounds in the room were those of the couple from earlier, who were still clasping onto each other, practically drowning in a pool of their own tears. Mycroft glanced at them once or twice.
"How perfectly human," he said, quietly, like it was a secret that John wasn't meant to know about. Human? John looked at the couple then, while Mycroft looked at him. They were a rather ordinary couple, not worth taking the time to describe. Not worth anything at all in this large chess game Mycroft called life. Pawns. Ordinary goldfish. But to John, humans, that was what they were.
Throughout his life, John felt like he had known very few.
Humans.
The swirl of drugs greatly complicated the process of deduction for the curly haired man in the operation chair. Although heavily sedated, he wasn't asleep, which meant that he was awake enough to think, and that was a problem. The thoughts in his head swirled and pressed against his skull dangerously, as though trying to escape. He supposed it had something to do with the sharp metal instrument that was stuck into the back of his skull, either that or the drugs. And since he couldn't very well fight against the surgeons in his current state, he decided instead to interest himself with fighting the drugs. But fighting the drugs wasn't exactly a good idea, because each time he struggled, more would be pumped into him; to the point, where eventually he felt as though he was swimming. And then he was, swimming that is, through the crystal clear, shimmering water of the lake. The lake that resided just in front of his mind palace. It was rather ordinary for a palace, in fact, portions of it could be considered mundane. But to Sherlock, it didn't matter what the place looked like, as long as it served its purpose. A vault, a hundred vaults, all locked up in the impenetrable shackles of his own consciousness. He broke the surface, gasping for unnecessary breath, and heaving himself out of the water. Droplets showered off of him, at such a rate that soon he was quite dry, as he walked towards the large front door; or rather, where the front door should have been. There were no doors in Sherlock's mind palace, for it was his own. There was no need, no chance of any intrusion. The soles of his shoes echoed eerily in the dull space, and then he was at a crossroads.
Left: Observational Gallerias, Knowledge Library. Right: Personal Wing, Memory Collections. The thick lettering read, glaring down at him from a large, rather ostentatious plaque. Although the Left seemed rather useful at this point in time, the Right path caught his eye, and he turned in that direction, starting off down the hall. The rooms here seemed old, dusty, hardly used. Sherlock noted that there were dates, printed in large block letters like the ones in the front lobby. "August 25, 1994", "June 15, 1995" none of them seemed particularly interesting; fragments, like snippets of a documentary that had been going on for too long, assaulted him from behind gaping doorways. The rooms were arranged, in chronological order it seemed, Sherlock passed the 1900's and soon made his way to the 21st century, where he encountered something altogether impossible...
A door?
Sherlock felt the knob with his fingertips, and felt a sharp jolt of pain in the base of his skull, a throbbing. He sensed then, that this was off limits. Something had happened... the door swung open with this thought, allowing Sherlock to take in the vast expanse of grass and light beyond. Something had gone wrong... his memories were lost, on the wrong part of his map...
But where do you begin to look for something, in an infinite expanse of nothing?
The door that led to the operating and staff rooms opened then, and all eyes turned upon it. A young woman emerged, smiling softly. "John Watson?" She asked, scanning the faces of all the persons who occupied the room. He stood, walking lightly over to her.
"Yes, that's me," Mycroft had stood as well, and now resided uncomfortably close, behind him, like a shadow that didn't quite fit. The woman glanced at Mycroft's cigarette disapprovingly, before turning her attention back to Watson.
"He's stable," she smiled again. "You'll be able to go see him in a couple of hours, once he gets out of recovery; but for now, Lauren will take care of the financial papers and such with you at the desk." But John barely heard any of it. Happiness, great surging happiness that filled him up with warmth; it was like nothing he had ever experienced before, foreign, exciting, beautiful.
"Oh God." He murmured, a goofy grin on his face. Mycroft slapped a hand on his back, in what could only be seen as an affectionate gesture.
"He's too stubborn to kick the bucket just yet," he exhaled, along with another large curl of smoke. "Now, go get the paperwork sorted out, will you? You have quite the audience outside." John thought on that for a minute, remembering that only immediate family and close friends were allowed inside the waiting room. There must be a large party waiting for word on Sherlock's condition, Molly, Lestrade and his crew, Mrs. Hudson, all surrounded in a never ending pool of news reporters, wielding cameras and microphones, Irene might've even shown up. He smiled again, and turned in the direction of the over sized desk, behind which a solitary woman sat, clacking rather loudly on her keyboard. Behind him, John heard the other woman who hadn't introduced herself talk in a low voice with Mycroft.
"Sir, I'm going to have to ask that you dispose of that cigarette, we're sorry for the inconvenience, but this is a smoke-free facility." John glanced back as Mycroft sighed, taking it from his mouth and exhaling his last cloud of smoke, and then Lauren was talking.
"Sir?"
"Oh yes? Sorry I didn't quite catch that..." She laughed slightly.
"Who're you filling out paperwork for?" She asked again.
"Sherlock Holmes."
"Sherlock Holmes..." She murmured, searching for his file. "Ah, here it is. He came to us a few hours ago with reported brain trauma after a rather nasty car crash?"
"Yes." John murmured, behind him, a cacophony of sounds suddenly exploded. He turned slightly, seeing the couple interlocked in a joyous embrace. The woman from earlier was smiling broadly.
Humans.
John smiled a bit at that, as he got to work on his paperwork.