CHAPTER 9: THE BURYING (Part 3)
Ever since that demonic psychopath had come into their lives, John had had that horrible sense of dread washing over him repeatedly, making him anxious of an unforeseen event even before he actually suspected something cataclysmic would happen. The criminal entered their tranquility in a subtle but cunning way at first, secretly poisoning each bit of their existence with one touch until their whole lives had gone stale without their knowledge. They kept frantically spinning, trying to get ahead on a game they ignored was already lost. The falling form of his best friend and the freezing cold headstone made John lament not realising the situation had gotten so out of control before it was too late; just before they had lost everything. He mourned, and he suffered, and he grieved, yet the detective came back, and they all basked in a unquestioned victory, glad to have abandoned to oblivion all grievances from before; but they celebrated too soon, fatally mistaking survival for deliverance until those laurels crumbled away in ashes and they were plunged into an even worse purgatory where nothing would ever be the same again.
The doctor knew he would be paying for all those liberties they took the moment he set a foot out of the cab. He had been kept in the dark about the shape in which his friend was, but he doubted it could be any good. The surging anger he felt at the unjust life had him reeling for a second or two, not really knowing how he could feel enraged instead of afraid. The place at which he arrived was relatively big, but certainly not enough to look suspicious; in fact, the uncovered blue-framed windows and the rusted doorbell were all you needed to falsely deem this house as ordinary, almost boringly so, and this made the already existing choler inside the soldier flare up more violently at the sight of such harmless-looking residence in which were probably casted the worst acts human cruelty could conjure.
He did not run inside, desperate as one would imagine in his need for knowledge of the torture his lost friend had endured. Instead, he walked slowly, mindlessly trying to put off for as long as he could what he knew would be an unpleasant confirmation of his fears. Up until then he had so fervently desired to just get the detective back, but now he was utterly scared of what he may find once he entered that house.
Still, his feet dragged him inside, passing through the busy police that was already gathering clues and evidence from the scene where the consultant was found. The haunting sound of the ambulance siren played on the background as he floated through in a haze. Sooner that he thought, the doctor found himself in a dim-lit corridor, and people were rushing around him, trying to figure out exactly what had happened. Several doors outlined the hallway until it turned to the right and became steady stairs that faded out of his line of vision. He approached those steps cautiously, not really having any idea where to go, until he saw a doctor conversing with a man clad in an expensive suit gripping an umbrella as if it was the only thing keeping him grounded to reality; and John empathically would say it very well could be.
"How is he?" The blogger couldn't help but ask as the doctor was turning away from Mycroft. The expression the other gave him let him know that he was definitely not going to like whatever he was going to hear. He felt as if a guillotine was hanging above all of their necks, and the smallest of words would send it down, snapping them in pieces. "Is he in there?" He asked impatiently, motioning to the door awaiting at the bottom of the stairs.
"He's not well, John." The taller man replied, letting distress paint each word as it was casted upon fearful ears. Said blogger did not know what to make of their meaning, he could only imagine what his frightened mind could supply, which was not helping calming him down.
"Tell me." He said stubbornly, as he tried to find any clue that could anticipate him the answer of his friend's state. He was aware the response was going to tear a big hole in his life, but at the moment, the cloud of doubt needed to be cleared once and for all. He accepted he had to know what he was fighting against, because there was no way he was going to be spared of that war; he was a soldier, and Sherlock was the best man he had ever known, he refused to come out of this battle without him.
Mycroft schooled his features once more as he began to go over the devastation inflicted to his little brother. Still, John could recognise a Holmes' facade of indifference against any sort of feelings swiftly, he had seen that exact same expression on the detective too many times to not know it when he saw it. "The paramedics have counted four cracked ribs, a swollen shoulder and some healed wounds." He started. "Severe malnutrition and dehydration, several deep fresh lacerations, a slight fever and," After this, the government official took a brief moment to continue, as if it was really difficult for him to say the next part. "and considerable evidence of heroine and cocaine use."
The doctor had dreaded that case, in which the great progress that Sherlock had made would be snatched from him by some maniac with an agenda, yet he felt mildly relieved to know the detective was alive, and that none of the injuries were long lasting. If he had known what the real damage was, he would not have been that quick to be assuaged.
He takes confident strides towards the room which contains the man he has honestly missed more than he would care to admit, only to be stopped by an intruding umbrella blocking his way. "I'm afraid there's something else." The government official states, the lines appearing in his face spoke of a defining armageddon; tidal waves big enough to flood their heads with endless thoughts of darkness. "I won't let him see you." Mycroft says, as if that were enough to derail him in his quest.
"Why the hell not?" John asked venomously, he did not have the time to be playing at power with Sherlock's brother of all people, and if said man believed, even for one second, that he would harm the boffin in any way, he was not nearly as skilled at reading people as he thought.
The grip in the umbrella got tighter as its owner delivered the sour information, not quite short in compassion given the dire situation in which they were all trapped."We believe he's experiencing a strong psychotic episode."
That was not even close to what the blonde had been expecting, "What?" He heard himself ask, terrified in the way that only a man who has had very intimate encounters with catastrophe can.
"He is barely conscious, but keeps attempting to scrape the skin off his forearms." The condemning declarations kept flying freely out of the other's mouth as John was in the brim of panic himself, clutching the wall next to him and trusting it to support the stance that he could no longer hold. "He's also under the impression that you are dead and that he is the one who killed you."
However, said information jostled the blogger's insides. Reworking his guts into belligerence and leaving fear for posterior moments. Putting aside every profane vulnerability and dissolving away everything that scared the hell out of him. "Well I'm clearly not, so excuse me but-" He tried to walk past the offending object, but Mycroft was steady in his position.
"No." The taller man said, with as much certainty as he possessed. Clearly repressing the urge to physically control the situation, a need very strong, only rivalled by the doctor's own.
"Let me through, Mycroft." The blonde got out through gritted teeth. His shaking hand reached to swat away the umbrella.
"No." However, the ginger did not appear to be swayed, going as far as stopping the other by grabbing his elbow. Unwilling to setting in motion the consequences they would have to face if the soldier step through that door now.
"I said: let me through, or I swear to God-" Everything that had happened ever since his friend started having those bizarre visions had been jarring his nerves violently, and the surplus of weariness and trouble has left him deeply wounded, heaven only knew what the devil may have done with Sherlock. "Look, he's in there: alone in a crowd of strangers, and he's probably terrified. If he sees me-"
"It could prove very detrimental to his mental health." He stated, and John just refused to believe that, not a single word of it made any sense. There was not a slight possibility that Sherlock would not benefit from a friendly face after all that loneliness, even if it made him confused, it could very well be the first act of kindness he experiences in a long time. Yet, his brother did not seem to see eye to eye about that. "If he sees you now, given his current state, no one is able to predict what he could do, or what that would trigger inside his mind."
"But Moriarty had him, for God's sake-" The breakdown was coming, the blonde could feel it. He could recognise that Mycroft was hiding something else from him, something even bigger, and he was certain that it would set ablaze whatever ashes were left from his soul. The government official wasted no time on providing said information.
"The room was completely empty when they found him, the door was unlocked and open, as was the house." John struggled to make sense of what could that possibly mean. Sherlock was supposed to be trapped and he had been working beneath the assumption that kidnapping was the definite scenario. "Whatever happened here, Dr. Watson; he had every possibility to leave." Mycroft said, trying to drive into the other why it was so important that they tread lightly, any rash movement or impulsive action could damage the detective forever. "I know you may despise me, but right now I've got to do what's best for my brother's psyche." He added, firm enough to not leave any doubt of the decision's finality. Clearly willing to go through with it whether John was on board or not. "Not to worry, I'll keep you informed." He finished with sympathy. Taking one last apologetic look at the doctor and then turning around to enter the room in which they had found the boffin.
It stroke the doctor how truly mad is that life could play out so unfairly to even those who attempt to do right by their peers, how the world could be filled by such poisoned souls just craving to see everything around them corrode. He pondered this as he heard loud and rushed noises coming from inside the cellar, watching a slightly burned end on the corridor's carpet.