"What do you mean, it's over? It isn't over, Mycroft!" Sherlock yelled, forcing his brother to wince and pull slightly away from the phone in his hand. "It's far from over!"
Mycroft shook his head, then held the bridge of his nose between his index and thumb as he explained the situation to his sibling.
"Carthy has been found and captured, Sherlock, and the man who shot him committed suicide. The Italian and French governments just want to move on, and there is strong International pressure to declare the mystery solved in order to avoid any further involvement of the media. It seems each country prefers to keep the assassin's commissioners in its midst, rather than face any more scandals...Or the people involved are currently too influential to be imprisoned.I warned you the politics of the case would be a delicate affair..."
Mycroft's face softened, but he kept his voice firm and unyielding over the phone. "You need to come home now, little brother."
Sherlock bristled. "But..."
"And you will have your picture taken with the ambassador at the consulate to show that everything is fine."
The consulting detective gritted his teeth. "It isn't fine."
"Sherlock..."
"It isn't over, Mycroft."
His big brother sighed.
"I know."
The quiet, rhythmic beeping of the equipment had something soothing about it.
It was a reliable, trustworthy sound, free from bias and emotion as it coldly informed the world of the patient's conditions.
Sherlock glanced at the clear blue sky outside. It contrasted starkly with the bars on the windows and with the shadows they cast ominously against the cold white walls of the penitentiary hospital.
Doctor Crispini, a tall, lean man in his early sixties (chain-smoker, father of two girls, dog-owner and huge star wars fan) shook his graying head.
"It is a miracle he's alive." the Italian mused. "Doctor Hooper dragged him kicking and screaming from death." He shook his head in quiet admiration. "Despite his current condition...He was lucky."
John looked at the assassin.
Was...This... Really lucky?
Sherlock towered over Michael Carthy as he lay on the hospital bed, bandages covering his head and most of his face.
Vapid, empty eyes looked back at him.
"Carthy barely survived a subarachnoid haemorrhage." John murmured, a slight frown creasing his forehead as he glanced at his friend's dark expression. "He's suffering from post-traumatic epilepsy and has severe brain damage..."
The Italian doctor nodded somberly, instinctively handling the patient's sheet as he spoke." We're trying to keep him as comfortable as possible; if it weren't for the morphine, he would be in extreme pain. As for the brain damage...I am sorry to say it is most likely irreparable. With hard work and consistency, it will take years of rehabilitation for him to even hope of having anything close to independence." His shoulders fell slightly. "And he might never succeed."
Carthy was drooling.
Sherlock blinked.
His grip tightened around the steel railing, to which the patient's wrists were tied in case of another epileptic fit.
"Doctor Hooper is not with you?" The Italian inquired.
The consulting detective's jaw clenched.
"No she..." John coughed. "She was... Tired and...And she had some phone calls to do."
Sherlock's eyes turned to thin slits as he looked at the morphine drip which dulled the killer's pain.
"Doctor Crispini." The consulting detective said, turning his back on the patient and walking out of the room. "You mentioned earlier that Carthy is only able to mutter one word... "
"Yes." The Italian nodded. "Wovs. He cannot say anything else. We don't even know if it means anything..."
"As a neurologist, have you seen anything like this before?" Sherlock asked the Italian, then turned to his friend. "And John, when you were in Afghanistan, did you see any soldiers survive a shot to the head? Did any of them have a similar reaction?"
The two doctors, animated by the topic, were soon deep in conversation and suitably distracted. John and Dr. Crispini walked down the hospital corridor, comparing experiences and opinions. The consulting detective lingered behind...
The doorknob in Michael Carthy's room turned slowly. A tall, dark figure slid inside silently, followed by a soft click as he closed the door.
Sherlock moved impassively next to the bed, then stood as still and foreboding as a herald of doom.
For a few moments he simply looked down unblinkingly on the helpless, drooling assassin.
Then, almost with nonchalance, Sherlock's fingers slid up the tube attached to the morphine drip.
"You'll live." The consulting detective said matter-of-factly, his eyes fixed contemptuously on the the listless creature. "As a witness you're useless to me, they have no reason to kill you now."
He held the tube and pinched it tightly.
It didn't take long.
Michael Carthy began to blink when the pain kicked in. His breathing patterns became erratic.
He gasped.
Sherlock tightened his grip.
"Wovs." the assassin sputtered. "Wovs."
"You got what you wanted." the consulting detective murmured quietly. "You'll live."
"Woovs." Cathy moaned pleadingly. "Wooves"
Sherlock blinked. "Wolves." He corrected the killer.
"Wolves." The man gasped. "Wolves!"
His expression unreadable, the consulting detective picked up a cloth with his free hand and shoved it into the patient's mouth, stifling his groans and annoying whimpers.
Sherlock looked at the squirming, bandaged assassin.
Then he spoke with a voice as cold as his countenance and as icy as his eyes as they condemned the criminal.
"You made Molly cry."
With those words Sherlock ripped the tube out of the connector, the morphine dripping steadily down to the floor as the silent shadow walked away from the muffled screams and closed the door behind him.
John blinked as the cameras flashed incessantly.
He stood in one of the consulate rooms, brimming as it was with journalists from all over the world, a forced smile plastered on his face. The doctor shot a sidelong glance at his friend, who stood stiffly to his left. After seeing his demeanour when leaving the hospital, John had called doctor Crispini and asked him to just check everything was ok in Carthy's room. He had seen that expression on his flatmate's face before and remembered it well...
Usually he would have said something to Sherlock. He would have protested, appealed to his better self... But not this time. Just this once, he would simply hold his peace and limit himself to preventing his friend from killing anyone.
A journalist called his name for a question and the doctor was snapped out of his reverie so he could look up for a picture next to the consulting detective.
Sherlock glared coldly at the journalists, glowering quietly on the ambassador's right as James Bailiff smiled for the cameras while French, Italian, Austrian and British diplomats and inspectors made their official, empty and worthless statements.
Ascanio Rigamonti, charged with the responsibility of returning the ambassador safely to Rome, had been asked to participate and answer some questions for the press. His replies were humble and unassuming, short and to the point. The Italian's scowl had returned in full swing, but cleared slightly when he mentioned Mr. Holmes, of whom he spoke most highly and with the utmost respect, giving him full credit for the capture of Michael Carthy.
On the other side of the room, behind the wall of cameras, Molly watched the scene.
She bit her healing lip, now softened with a touch of lipstick, and smiled as she watched Sherlock seething quietly next to James Bailiff. She almost wanted to laugh at his apparent discomfort.
After being mistreated and misunderstood for so long, Sherlock should enjoy the recognition!
He should be proud of himself.
She was.
Molly took an unsteady breath.
Oh God, he looked so handsome up there...
The ambassador moved closer to Sherlock at the journalists' request.
"You did an amazing job, Mr. Holmes. I owe you my life, thank you." He said simply, low enough for his interlocutor to understand, but not loud enough to be heard by others.
The consulting detective matched his volume, his lips barely moving. "Don't thank me, I didn't do it for you."
"I know." James Bailiff nodded slightly. "There are few people in this world for whom you would do anything, am I right?"
Sherlock looked up, past the wave of irrelevant faces and camera flashes, to see Molly. She was wearing a simple blue dress, her hair parted to one side, and she was clutching close to her chest a small purse with both her hands. When she met his eyes her face brightened and she gave him a small, quick wave with a timid, exited smile.
"Lovely." the ambassador admired the young pathologist. "She truly is a unique girl."
"She's nothing extraordinary." Sherlock blinked, his eyes still on her face. "It's just Molly."
"Exactly." James nodded. "Truly a girl worth fighting for. But I have a question for you, Mr. Holmes."
A group of journalists moved in front of the pathologist, obstructing his view as the French Inspector talked about the arrest and death of Bonlieu.
"How many relationships?"
Sherlock's brow furrowed for a moment. "Pardon?"
"How many relationships have you cost her?"
James' smile remained frozen on his lips as he nodded in feigned interest, pretending to listen with rapt attention to the French Inspector.
"If you are really going to do your best to make her happy, if you're going to give her what she needs." he paused. "Everything she needs, then I will harbour no hard feelings and consider this a game well played."
French and Italian diplomats were now talking about the wonderful cooperation and friendship of their two countries, etc etc.
James continued. "If, however, you plan on doing what you have always done by thinking about yourself and neglecting her feelings,as I suspect you will, I need you to answer this question: how many relationships have you cost her? I am sure you know the answer, Mr. Holmes."
Sherlock blinked.
One at a time, a line of men formed in his mind:
short, fleeting encounters,
occasional short-lived boyfriends,
men he knew fancied her, but to whom she never even gave a chance...
Tom...
Sherlock blinked as people stepped aside, once more revealing Molly's sweet, hopeful face.
The cameraman called for Ambassador James bailiff and Sherlock Holmes to shake hands.
Smiling obligingly, the diplomat gripped the consulting detective's fingers as he murmured softly.
"Can you honestly say you care about her? Can you really make her happy? If not, isn't it time to let her go? How many relationships, how much happiness have you cost her, Sherlock Holmes?"
At the request of the journalists, James smilingly wrapped an arm around Sherlock Holmes and waved to the camera.
The newspapers the next day would talk of the charismatic Sherlock Holmes, and readers would look at the pictures and comment on how brilliant minds often come with sad, troubled eyes.
.
.
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Aurthor's note
Over 300 reviews! Wow! Thank you all so much! The person who posted review number 300 gets a little prize, and that kind reviewer is...*drum roll*
Rocking the Redhead! Yay!
My most sincere thanks to: mrspencil, SammyKatz, likingthistoomuch, Renaissancebooklover108, 16magnolias, OpalSkyLoveDivine, Guest, Arcoiris, Rocking the Redhead, TheSongOfTheNighingale, Bucky5, NiceNipps, EliTch and SaraBahama for the reviews and imput. I appreciate your comments.
Thank you for reading my fic!
Feral