Chapter 9: Truth
Ophelia Holmes stands in the doorway of her older brother's bedroom, staring at his lax form. She watches him twitch and jerk in his sleep and tries to tell herself he's only exhausted from his twenty-second birthday party that Mummy threw for him yesterday.
In truth, though, she knows he's high as a kite and probably will be out at least another twelve hours. She doesn't really like to think about it, but it's not like anyone else here is trying to deny it.
"He won't talk to me when he's like this," Ophelia mutters to her companion. The oddly-dressed boy beside her is levitating off the floor about six inches so that they're on eye level with one another.
"Ah, Ophelia, he's in a state of bliss. I'll bet he'd talk to you if you were able to get on the same plane he's on." The boy smirks, his brown eyes dark and filled with malice. He reaches up and smooths his black hair into place from where it has fallen sloppily over one eye then fiddles with the buttons on his pristine white shirt.
Ophelia glares at him a little because what she'd rather do is actually smack his arm like she does her brothers, but there's no use in attempting to hit something less than solid, a lesson learned early in their acquaintanceship. "Jimmy, you know there's no one like Sherlock. He says he only uses that stuff to shut down the voices in his head." She rests her hands on her hips and turns her attention back to her brother.
"Look, Ofie, he's even left some out for you!" A girl a little younger than Jimmy has appeared on the opposite side of the bedroom, one long finger pointing at the little mound of white dust still piled up on the top of the chest of drawers.
"No, Janey, I don't think it is such a good idea…" Ophelia starts to back out of the doorway, but Jimmy bobs up right behind her, his mouth close to her ear.
"Think about it. Really. Then you would haven't to be stuck here all day all alone. Imagine if he stays this way for the rest of your Christmas holiday? Hmmm?" Jimmy croons, the soft Irish lilt of his voice making her brain feel like mush.
"Watch me! It's really nothing!" Janey calls as she dips her finger into the pile and then licks at it with her tongue. She's almost solid right now and Ophelia almost forgets what she really is.
"No!" Ophelia cries with a shake of her head. Jimmy is nothing more than a memory but Janey hangs in midair a second longer as Sherlock bolts upright, then she, too, is gone.
"Ophelia?" he asks, his voice raspy, eyes cracked open against the weak winter sunlight.
"Just me. I was…I was checking on you." She takes a couple of steps closer, unconsciously reaching out.
"I'm fine," Sherlock half snarls as he jerks his arm away from her. "Go find something to do. I'll be up…"
As he drops his head back to the pillow, Ophelia sighs. With a weary expression much too old for her face, she pulls his blankets up and covers him. She looks at the mound of white powder one last time before leaving the room and turning her thoughts to keeping herself occupied for the day. Perhaps Mummy or Mycroft might come home early today and play chess with her. In the meantime, if she can find something engaging to do, Jimmy and Janey will stop bugging her about the stuff in Sherlock's room.
ooo
"Sherlock, you don't have to tell me any more of this." John runs his fingertips over the doll's sooty hair. He is no psychic, but he's got a pretty good idea where this story is heading. Sherlock's gaze is far away and he knows the other man is not aware of him in this moment.
John takes another deep breath and tries to decide whose broken heart he's going to have to mend first, Sherlock's or his own.
ooo
A week later, Ophelia takes Jimmy up on his offer and tries the cocaine. She tries to tell herself it is so she can experience what Sherlock is going through, maybe find out what it is that is so noisy inside his head that he has to shut it up. In the first few seconds before her body reacts to the foreign substance, she makes up more than one excuse, but in truth, she is simply a lonely thirteen year old stuck in a big old house with no one to talk to most of the time but a pair of malicious ghosts and a strung out brother.
Well, and the puppy Mycroft brought home two days ago. Ophelia likes the pup well enough, but she's never been much of a dog person and has less idea what to really do to train him even more so than Sherlock knows what to do when it is just the two of them at home. She didn't even name him, Sherlock did, calling him 'Redbeard' so she just kept it.
She's stretched out on the sofa in the sitting room and suddenly the world is filled with colors. Perhaps she can rainbow to catch up and Sherlock will digestives listen and he will share purple with her all the chaos in his silly brain his super swift treacle intelligent mind that mushrooms and pizza and American telly I like rock and roll on the jukebox Mummy what's this for? It is cold in here and I need to build a fire… red fire is so pretty…thank you Jimmy, you can be a good help chocolate bars Sherlock always knows what pudding we are going to say before we say it…did I tell you orange Mycroft said sometimes not the truth our dead uncle and…
Oh. Yellow.
It is hot. The colors are burning.
Jimmy? I can't breathe.
Janey?
Janey, please let me out of here.
Where's Redbeard?
Janey…Janey…no. Don't go now…Jimmy?
Sherlock?
Anyone…
ooo
By the time Sherlock smelled the smoke it was too late. Something about the horror of waking up high and finding your house on fire sobers you up very, very quickly. As foolish in his bravery in his state as he always is even as he ages, he fights through the flames until he finds his sister, her striped blouse singed and hair blackened with soot.
And he knows. He now knows the where and the how and the who. What he doesn't know is the why. Anger burns his bones until he's crying, Ophelia in his arms and he's begging her not to do this, not to be gone, but her small body so much like his own is heavy against his chest and her mouth is slack and her eyes…her blue eyes so glassy. Her eyes stare through him, accusing him of not caring enough about her wellbeing to stay sober for seven fucking hours. Even through his tears, he can see the burns on her arms and legs. Sherlock lets himself feel every blister, every moment she suffered as the smoke filled her lungs. It is no more than he deserves and oh, he knows, he deserves much, much more.
Everything from that point on is crystal clear, the dull edges of the memories honed to a sharp edge, to ever be a precision tool to cut through him and leave terrible wounds that refuse to bleed. The paramedics come and they take her away from him, even though he begs them to let him try to bring her back. They tell him it isn't possible, she's gone. He's there, then, a messy-haired figure on his knees in the middle of the street, head bowed and weeping with utter grief when the skies open up with rain that is frozen solid before it hits the pavement.
ooo
"They'd been haunting our house since my first case two years previous. I made the mistake of calling in an exorcist, who only made everything worse. Granted, he managed to force out the twisted spirits of two children responsible for their parents' and their own deaths, but in doing so he also gave them free will." Sherlock finally stops speaking and drops his hands to his sides. His expression is one of a man who has just been gutted with a butter knife when he turns to face John fully.
John is quiet as he processes all of the information. Finally he stands up from the sofa, the doll still clutched in his hand. "Come on," he commands without stopping to allow Sherlock time to argue or balk. He walks right past and doesn't stop until he's perched on a stool at the breakfast bar in the kitchen and Sherlock is opposite him.
Sherlock's eyes are wary now, both haunted and hunted.
"I'm not going anywhere. That was the past. I have to ask, though, do you still get high?"
Sherlock looks down at the counter top. "I haven't done it since you showed up at the crime scene."
John nods, satisfied with that answer for now. There's more pressing things to attend to, however. "Tell me about your first case. You'd already figured out what was happening inside your mind, yes?"
Sherlock nods. "Yes. Being able to talk to the dead is a rare gift, even among those with my skill set."
John almost smiles at the way Sherlock refuses to give his gift a name. "You are a true psychic, then?"
"No, I can't see the future. I can, however, learn about the past through means most people are unable to."
"I got that, yes. Tell me about your first case." John shifts on the stool then reaches out and rests his hand over Sherlock's.
"There really isn't much to tell. I went in blind, without guidance, without help of any sort and was immediately in over my head. The Moriarty siblings were trouble from the start, setting small fires all over the house and mocking me by using my own memories. Instead of thinking logically, I grew angry and thought only to show them I was more powerful. As I said before, I called on an exorcist, the man was an idiot and now I've been chasing the same pair of apparitions from house to house for the past seven years. They've even appeared on a couple of my cases for New Scotland Yard, though I can hardly tell anyone there how two dead children are able to coax people into committing terrible crimes."
John slips down from his stool in order to fill a black kettle sitting on the bench next to the sink. He sets it on the hob to boil then opens cabinets until he finds the tea. He holds back any words until he's fixed two cups and set one down in front of Sherlock. Beyond the house, full darkness has fallen.
Ophelia has appeared in the kitchen in the meantime and now she floats behind her brother, her hands resting on his shoulders, tear-filled eyes watching every move John makes.
"That's why you tossed me out on my ear at the Norton house?" John asks.
Ophelia nods, but Sherlock still feels the need to explain. "I was afraid they would do something to you or that you would find out that it is my fault my sister was killed."
John sighs then sips at his cup.
"Don't hurt him, please." Ophelia whispers. Something registers in John's mind at her words, something he can't quite hold onto; someone else has said similar to him recently.
John raises his eyes to her then grasps Sherlock's hands in his own. "Never. Do you understand me, Sherlock? It hurts, hearing this story and knowing what you've both been through. But to walk away from you now that you've opened your heart up to me? Never."
Sherlock blinks rapidly, gripping John's hands in his own. "Thank you," he manages. Behind him, Ophelia smiles warmly.
"Good then. Let's move on for a little while. How can we get rid of these devious phantoms once and for all?" John queries, taking one of his hands back to raise his cup to his lips. Both Sherlock and Ophelia look stunned and John can't help the chuckle that escapes him.