Author's note: Like a gaze from a crowd of strangers suddenly one is aware of staring into the face of an old friend. Well then. Short version: Not dead. I know it appeared as if I was, but I'm not, and I have come back with the longest chapter (or slice of chapter as I tend to call them) ever. The next update won't probably be posted right away, but after that you can expect chapters a bit more regularly, unless, of course destiny has other plans. So I'll stop my rambling and let you get on with the story, you've already waited long enough.
CHAPTER 7: THE PENANCE (Part 3)
For the following hours, pigments kept slowly turning into water colours until there was nothing left but unsaturated shadows painting every surface of his vision. The spectrum gone, replaced by the bleak grey scale of which everything was made now. As he looked around the mainly empty room, he started to draw back, to retreat into his Mind Palace and see if he could find any reaffirmation of his doubts or at least some comfort or solace in the familiarity.
Once inside, he forced a weak smile to play on his own face. To almost laugh at the hilarity of the situation in which he found himself at the moment. If what the maniac was saying were true, he would know. He would have noticed, because surely something had to change. 'It already has' his mind supplied, but he quickly smothered the part of him that so much as dared to think of this as anything other than a dream from which he should be waking up shortly. He knew the devil will always lie through his teeth, no matter how much his voice was sweet to hear.
He wandered around the corridors and pondered where could Moriarty have acquired the idea to invent such atrocity, as if he wouldn't see right through it. As if he would believe that any foul fate could be bestowed upon his flatmate if he had any say in the matter. As if, the situation being real, —which it wasn't— he would hesitate to make sure the man responsible for it ended up six feet under ground. Because he knew he wouldn't, when those American thugs hurt Mrs. Hudson, he became rampant with wrath; but that would be nothing compared to this. This he wouldn't solve with a mildly violent hurl from a window. This, he would avenge, making him see crimson. This, he would not forgive nor forget.
He paced a few more halls, feeling strangely lost. Ever since he had arrived at this captive life, his layout of the place had changed and it all seem weird in a fuzzy and whirling sort of way. Nothing was were it was supposed to, and there were too many aisles that appeared to go nowhere. He was searching for that case he had found the other day, before he was tortured and his brain turned to mush. Those punishments may have seem mild compared to some other methods, but as everything the consulting criminal did, they were tailored-made just for him. They had messed up his psyche so much that ever since the beginning they left him thinking he had actually gone dumb.
However, he could still navigate through the wings with some degree of certainty, albeit a bit confused, and attempt to find what he meant. He reached a poorly lit foyer, and silently wondered when exactly it was he decided a decoration such as this would be appropriate for a place that only existed inside his own head. After ascending a series of stairs he found himself at a door, and subsequently, at a room. The chamber was almost vacant, save from one very important item in the centre of it. A small chest.
He found it at last, and he knew the criminal would not haul him out of his absorption this time. Not before he took a look of what was inside of the box. The temperature heightened a bit from his anticipation, and he was aware of sirens sounding somewhere in the back of his mind. He ignored both in favour of channeling his energy and concentration to the object in front of him and the contents that were about to be revealed.
He knelt before it and traced the wood of the lid for a second, noticing it was unlocked and ready to be opened. He placed his hand in the crack and stopped, suddenly unsure on how to proceed. Would it be beneficial for him to know whatever was in there, given the dire situation and difficult scenario he was experiencing.
"You did it for a reason, you know." He rapidly turned around to see Molly —or rather the Mind Palace version of Molly— standing beside him. Looking unassuming in her floral jumper and white lab coat, which made her presence all that much stated.
"For a reason; what do you mean?" He asked the pathologist, and she took an imaginary step towards him. Fiddling with her ponytail.
"You are frankly quite brilliant, Sherlock." She said softly, but her words were heavy as a foot stomp. "Your brain must have had its reasons." He turned to watch the wooden case once more, Molly was right, if his mind decided to spontaneously repress it, it must have had a logical explanation to do so. But still, could he just walk away from it, though? Could he let his curiosity eat him alive for the sake of being cautious?
"You can't keep doing this." Said a different voice, which was far more masculine than Molly was entitled to have. Behind him, he spotted Lestrade, who was watching him with a mixture of interest and exasperation, as usual.
"Do what?" He asked oblivious as he saw the other two members currently occupying his imaginary room paced around it.
"You've got to stop being so reckless. Throwing yourself headfirst into danger is going to get you killed eventually." He said running his hand through his hair.
"But this is my own head! Don't you think that I should know what's in it? Specially if it could very well be the reason I'm trapped in here!" He lost his tempter at the figments of fiction. And both of them whirled and stared at him with pleading eyes, begging him not to do it. "I've got to know, I've got to find out if it's true." When resigned that he was not going to change his mind, Lestrade disappeared and the pathologist came to rest a hand on his shoulder as he reached out and pulled open the lid. What he found inside rushed its way out and started consuming everything in its path, making the walls tremble and the ceiling start to fall above them. All was falling down in pieces, and if he lingered he was afraid he would be crushed with the weight of everything he had seen. All the detective could do was quickly gather round his belongings and run to the door. Leaving everything else behind.
"We should tell Lestrade." He said putting his hands on his pockets, as he always did when he was anxious, according to his flatmate.
"You're not telling anyone about this." Said flatmate stated as he stood up from his resting position on the couch. "This needs to be kept secret."
"You are not supposed to take cases." The blogger reminded him. All this was wrong in his eyes, the detective could see it from a mile away, but he could hardly be expected to stop working and let his brain rot just because the Yard and his royally annoying brother decided he was not stable enough. It's not as if he was going to mess this up.
"Exactly why it has to be secret." He stalked and sat down at his usual seat, and John unconsciously followed him and sat on his. "Now, either make yourself useful or stop bothering me." He hissed. He seemed to be doing a lot of that lately. He also found everyone had taken up the habit of handling him with a pair of tweezers, as if he were going to burst open any minute.
He could hear the doctor sigh resigned, as he reluctantly chose his battle and asked. "I just can't understand why can't they just arrest the wanker instead of us setting up a trap." He ran a hand over his jaw in a pensive manner. "I mean, we have all the evidence we need-" And he stopped short the second he saw the look that passed through his friend's face. John's deductive skills hadn't improved that much, but he somehow seemed to be able to read Sherlock perfectly, enough to tell when said boffin was hiding something from him. "We do have the evidence, don't we Sherlock?" He asked, and the curly-haired man didn't know how to answer him without sounding idiotic. He knew the blonde wouldn't understand why that was irrelevant. After staying silent a few seconds his flatmate queried again. "Sherlock?"
"I'll find it." He assured. Because there was no need for his friend to be worried, he knew how he worked, it shouldn't come as a surprise if his methods were a bit unorthodox.
"You don't have evidence to prove it's him?" He receive no response, act which he took as confirmation, so instead he said. "You know, that's surprisingly irrational of you." The body of his flatmate was quickly raised from the armchair and he set to pacing across the sitting room. If anyone was to see this, they would say the both of them resembled a child being scolded by his parent. "What if it's not even him?" His blue eyes asking a million questions more than what he was voicing.
"It's him. I know it. We don't need evidence, it's just a detail." The doctor halted his circuit around the room to look at him bewildered. His gaze was searching for signs on his face.
"A detail?" The blogger pinched the bridge of his nose. "Jesus, Sherlock! What if-" His mouth closed, the gravity of the situation crushing down on him. "We should really not do this if you're not sure-"
Sherlock interrupted with contempt, he seemed nearly offended by his friend's comment. "I am sure." The blonde man didn't appear to be so sure, so he tried a different approach. "More people might die if we don't do this." That should be enough to stir John in the right direction.
The doctor, however, was not buying it. "Are you sure this is all there is about this situation? Saving lives?" He came to stand directly in front of his friend."Because if I'm about to go out there and do some bat-shit crazy stunt I want you to at least tell me the fucking truth behind why I am doing it!" He stated, and the boffin knew this time the blogger would really require an explanation, explanation he couldn't give.
"Of course it is." He answered, although if he were able to manage to believe it himself he might had made John accept it too.
"Is it, though? Are you sure there are no other intentions? Are you sure you would act like this if you didn't think Mori-" As soon as he saw the apprehension paint every one of his friends features, he back-pedalled and decided to never use that monster's name again, at least not in front of the detective. "That that sick bastard is out there?"
"But he is out there!" The outburst shocked both of them. And the musician never knew how much the subject affected him until that moment. He thought he held the rains of the situation, when in reality he was just giving drowning man kicks.
John was getting really concerned for his friend. Sherlock had been acting strange —more so than ever— and his blogger was starting to worry this problem had a deeper hold on the boffin than he let on. "Are you sure you're not doing this just so you can prove this is him?" The silence stretched on for a few moments, and the doctor had to catch the detective's attention again. Something was definitely off.
"I think I know my own intentions better than you do." And his eyes casted downwards. John was burning holes with his gaze. "And there are no other than those I have already told you. If you don't believe me there is nothing I can do to change your mind." The blonde stood back a bit and crossed his arms, as his companion looked at him defiantly. "I just thought there would never come a day when I'd see the worth of my word loose importance to you."
The thought of clenching his fists to prevent from hitting his flatmate square in the jaw appeared all over the short man stance. "That's not fair, Sherlock. When have I ever failed at doing something you asked of me?" He questioned. "I just want to know if you're bloody sure about this because you're acting like a fucking stubborn child and I can't take it anymore!" As soon as the words left his mouth the detective saw his friend regretted them completely. But he could recognise that John was also not going to back down from this.
"May I remind you that you don't have to take it? You can-" Sherlock turned now to look at the one man in his life who had always believed in him. Knowing that putting him in a situation such as that was not anywhere near just, but not being able to help himself. He was aware his world would shatter if said man did choose to leave, to not put up with his personality any longer.
"Alright that's enough of this. We'll do it your way, as usual." The soldier grabbed his keys and took his jacket off the hook. "You stay here repeating that until you believe it, Sherlock. Because honestly, I think you're scared out of your mind that there's even a slight possibility that it is whom you think it is and you just don't want to accept it." He slammed the door after him, and the scene somehow showed a level of parallelism that reminded the boffin of that time he made his friend storm out of Bart's before The Fall and how horrible it all had turned out after.
The flat felt like a vacuum, as if suddenly a great hole was eating away everything and the boffin would soon have to hold on to the pipes to prevent from being swallowed whole. Outside, the clouds were already circling their favourite spot, like a dance taught ages ago. The brunette got lost in the pattern, the push and pull, the inevitability of the situation and the way gravity could do so much for a soul already used to its own pretence of soaring. And like a bullet aimed right at his throat he was able to take away the fog in front of his eyes and realise how much of an ignorant fool he had been.
Letting John go on with the plan alone, specially when it was specifically designed as a two person scheme, was probably the biggest miscalculation he had ever made. He just let his own helplessness blind him and had provoked the doctor to go down the stairs, out of the building, and into the street, alone. So utterly on his own that there was a slight chance that he would not return to Baker Street in one piece, if at all.
Like a man possessed, he ran down the stairs, skipping three steps at a time and stepped out on the sidewalk. The storm was coming nearer and nearer, and Sherlock could only hope that once it hit, he would be able to find a shelter which could protect them both. He ran and ran, trying not to think too much on the consequences his acts could have, instead opting for just placing one foot in front of the other as quickly as his limited physical body would allow him, which in reality was not nearly fast enough.
He cut his trajectory time short by using some roofs and practically shoving people aside. Ignoring the indignant glares coming from the several individuals on the floor once he had managed to make them fall back. All of their voices and cries for attention did nothing to get him out of the trance he was in. Above him a subtle breeze of the first droplets were starting to pour down from the sky.
For some reason the steps were becoming more difficult, he didn't even realised he had been running at full speed for straight 12 minutes and his body was beginning to feel heavy. His pockets full of stones and his feet made of unreliable tar, he just couldn't reach his destination soon enough. No matter if by sprinting in he would probably ruin everything, he just had to confirm with his own eyes that his world was not shattered yet.
He was really close, just a few meters away and he would be able to put a stop to the whole situation. Except that just as he was about to round the corner, he heard a gut-wrenching scream. A distressing wail as he watched his blogger standing inside an alley being stabbed in the abdomen by a hooded man who seemed to sense his presence better than the doctor himself. He looked at him for a full second, knife still inside of John's body; and the world appeared to stop spinning for those agonising moments, until the bastard turned to look at his own blade and how it was impaled in another man's middle just in front of the only man who could ever be clever enough to find him.
Sherlock took to running towards them, but the stranger was already sprinting away from the scene. The detective considered following him and giving him a taste of exactly what sort of wrath he was capable of when his best friend was hurt, but one look at said friend made him run to him instead.
John was clutching his left side and blood was pouring from behind his hands. His eyes hid a storm of panic beneath them, the boffin could only guess his expression was probably a mirror shock. He rushed to his side and tried to pry away the soldier's palms to take a look at the wound below. "John." He just couldn't, as soon as the pressure was off his friend almost doubled in pain, he unwrapped the scarf around his neck and pushed it towards the opening to stop the flow.
John grabbed his wrist tightly as he let himself fall on the pavement, the place desolated enough not to have a single person as audience. "John!" He said surprised as he followed his flatmate down to the floor and kneeled beside his sprawled form. "It's not good, Sherlock." The doctor said with a small and pained tone that made dread fall over the detective's shoulders. That was the last thing he wanted to hear right now. Guilt ran its course through his soul. "Tell me what to do." His panicked voice was probably distressing even John, as if he was the one who were really dying.
"There's- I don't think you can-" He was having trouble speaking between the sharp breaths the ache was causing him. And Sherlock could only see red, on his hands, on the pavement, on his friend's body, so much red it seemed to spread like wildfire. Peeling of his skin, corroding the concrete below them, like a chemical burn. He saw something glint amongst it and picked it up. The damned knife which had ripped through his flatmate's flesh, attempting and succeeding at bursting his veins and spilling that crimson liquid which never seemed to end, still had the nerve to twinkle at him as in mockery. He was entranced by the weapon for a second, he guessed that's what going into shock felt like, until a tug at his arm made him come back to reality.
He dropped the blade as soon as he remembered he was not wearing gloves and tried to clutch at his scarf again. Attempting to rip it away and find nothing underneath; no wound, no hole, no more of that fucking blood, to prove this wasn't happening to prove his mistakes could be fixed. The doctor, however, didn't let him see the real damage, being considerate even in this situation. "John." The curly haired man pleaded.
"No, Sherlock." He sighed. "It's- it's over." He said as another jolt of pain racked through his body. "No, you can't- It's not- you'll be fine, John." His friend chocked out as he palmed his abdomen to search for more injuries. John shook his head at his best friend and smiled sadly, his eyes were starting to close; the detective was appalled, he couldn't give up now. "No, John! Stay with me. Don't close your eyes." He whispered through sobs he didn't know he was convulsing out. This was all his fault, he should have stopped this.
Somewhere in the far end of the adjacent street there was the sound of a siren, far away to still be invisible, but close enough to hover over them like the pouring clouds were doing above their heads. "John, I need to-" He chocked out as he disentangled his hands from where they were gripping his own scarf tightly. "No, Sherlock, please don't leave me now." His friend begged, it was the first time since The Fall that Sherlock saw that heartbreaking expression of his blogger's face. One of so much despair and helplessness. The boffin closed his eyes, knowing that if he kept watching it he wouldn't be able to deny him this, he would give up his resolve and stay, and that was something he couldn't do, not even for this. "Sherlock, please-" John reached out to try and grab a handful of fabric from the brunette's body, as he was already beginning to stand up, pawing at his clothing to try and coax him into staying. However the soldier, in his current situation, didn't possess the strength to tug his friend back down, and the other man could stand up fully, prying his fingers away from his coat with a remorseful face and saying "I'm sorry, John." Like he meant it, because he did.
"No. Sherlock." His broken and afraid voice was disappearing in the background as he ran away from the dying form of the only person in the world who truly, unconditionally, irretrievably, believed in him. The only person he had sworn to protect with his own life at all costs. The only one who was important enough to not let him be able to subsist without. The one he had failed so many times and had betrayed beyond forgiveness.
He blinked away the tears and kept going as fast and steady as physics would allow him, when suddenly, he felt two arms on his back and a few punches until the air somehow smelled like wrong tinted alcohol and the world, in its entirety, became black.