Chapter 26
Day 153
It's been two weeks since Sherlock and Molly had arrived at the hospital. Sherlock's IV line has been removed completely. The two single hospital beds had been replaced by a double. It seemed Mycroft's name was enough for the unconventional to happen. A comfortable duvet over comfortable sheets. Two small tables each side. Molly had a novel next to her side, Sherlock two forensic journals haphazardly strewn on his with the textbooks that Giles had provided. The couch had a permanent home in front of the big bay windows. A table had been set up against the wall, a kettle, tea and sugar on it with a small bar fridge that contained milk. A basket with crackers sat at one end of the table. Sherlock and Molly had graduated to crackers and soup. Their stomachs were slowly learning to cope with eating solid food.
The first week after Sherlock's IV had been removed, he had started physiotherapy to help him recover from his broken ribs. Breathing exercises and stretches were employed. It had been hard work as Sherlock's kidneys were still recovering as well as all the bruises and sore muscles that was the result of the last few weeks at the bothy. On top of that, although he and Molly were now eating more regularly for the first time in months, it took out a lot of energy for their bodies to expand on digesting the food. He had slept for two hours straight after a fifteen-minute session. He had woken, still tired and cranky afterwards. It had taken effort to just do basic things, so in the end John and Molly had just let him be and he had wallowed in his own self-misery. He had not spoken to them that day. Had eaten and slept pretty much the rest of the day. The second time he had seen the physiotherapist, he had decided to get the exercises done so he could get back to reading the textbooks Giles had left him. In one of the exercises, he had not listened and the physio had used 3 words that in all honesty should have been fine but had set off a chain of events that had shown Sherlock just how much Oliver had control over his life, even when the man wasn't even physically present.
"Sherlock, if you push too far you are going to set your recovery back. Just a deep breath, hold it and then let it go. Let's start again."
In that moment, Sherlock had been transported directly back to those three days that Oliver had him. He was in the hospital room with Molly and John and the physiotherapist, and then he wasn't. Blind and deaf to his current surroundings, his memory had taken over. Hands were on his body again and he fought back blindly. Hit out, felt satisfaction when his fist hit flesh. Staggered backward, stumbled, and then went down. His head hit something hard. He felt skin split and then the familiar tang of his own blood filled his nostrils. He was now completely in the past, reliving those days as if he was back there. He managed to get on onto all fours and staggered blindly forward. Hands were on him again and he flailed, unaware of the screams that were exiting his mouth. He could hear words in there. It felt familiar. He remembered the floor and hands and Oliver and a stream of denial was flowing behind him as he pushed his body forward. His hands reached a door and he was through before anyone could stop him. He locked the door, sliding his back down against it. Hands on his eyes, blood sticky against fingers as he curled up tight.
"Sherlock?"
He ignored John's voice. Leaned his head on his knees as the ghostly feel of Oliver's body against his skin made him retch. He uncurled, leaned forward and everything that was inside him was emptied on the floor in front of him.
"Hey mate, think you can open the door?"
He pretended not to hear. Went into his mind palace. Pretended everything was okay for a while. He was having tea with John and Mrs Hudson. The fire was hot. Everything was good in this room. But the smell of blood still filled his nostrils mixed with the smell of fresh vomit and it permeated his safe space inside his mind palace, tainting everything in there.
He gave a growl of discontent and frustration, slamming his fist onto the floor. The pain blossomed and he took a staggering breath. Leaned his head back against the door, eyes closed.
Do you know despair yet, Mr Holmes? No. Let me show you a little more. Let's start again.
"Shut up!" he screamed. His voice was raw. Silence reigned for a bit. Oliver's voice hidden in a hiss, contaminating his mind. His body. His core.
"Just go away," he whispered desperately.
"Sherlock, Mummy made roast chicken."
The voice wasn't John or Molly. Nor was it Oliver. He tilted his head, listening if he could hear that voice again. Despite the desperation and screams and Oliver's voice overlayed over everything inside his head, it had a familiar twang to it. And he realised that the voice had been speaking for a while. A drone in the background that had been a soothing balm over his heated thoughts.
"You know how she loves it when we're all home for Christmas."
His breathing slows. Shifts slightly on the floor as he continues to listen.
"I'm sure she baked sticky pudding. You always have seconds. There will be custard too."
He frowns. Oliver's voice was less. His presence and ghostly feel still lingers but it was ephemeral.
"I think dad is hanging socks again this year. You know how he loves Christmas. Do you remember his ridiculous jerseys he always seemed to wear."
He relaxed. Fists uncurled. He took another slower breath. Focused on his body. On where he was sitting. Felt the cool of tiles beneath him.
"Do you remember our last Christmas together?"
"That was ages ago," he says. "You hate Christmas."
He heard a soft chuckle. "That is true. I think I'll make an exception this year. Think our parents would find it a nice surprise, don't you think?"
"You would go for Christmas dinner?"
A sigh on the other side of the door. "Mummy's insistent that we get together."
He found that he was smiling. Oliver faded away completely. "You're going to hate every minute of it," he said.
"It's a cross I'll have to bear," came his brother's voice drily. "So, do you think you can open the door? It's very undignified to be sitting on the floor conversing with you like we're in primary school."
"You never sat on the floor, Mycroft."
"True. I guess there's a first for everything."
Sherlock opened his eyes for the first time. Blinked against the light of the bathroom. Ignored the mess he'd made earlier as he slowly got up and unlocked the door. His brother was on the other side, one eyebrow raised.
"Feeling better?"
He shrugged. "You know how it is. Bit of a mess, I'm afraid."
"Yes, well. Nothing broken that can't be fixed. How's the head?" Mycroft asked, standing aside. Sherlock wasn't sure he could take a step. His head and chest were in agony. Mycroft stepped inside his circle and deftly placed an arm around his middle. Sherlock held onto Mycroft as the brothers silently shuffled to a chair.
"Are you ready for John?" Mycroft asked, when he was seated comfortably. It was then that he noticed for the first time that Molly and John weren't in the room. The physiotherapist was gone. He noticed the time. He had lost three hours. He had no idea how that had happened.
"Sherlock, John?" Mycroft's voice brought him back and he nodded. John had entered the room silently. Had helped to clean him up shortly afterwards. He had a nasty cut just above his temple that had required five stitches. Apparently he had fallen backward and had hit his head against the corner of the bed. His chest wound was cleaned and sorted. Someone had come in and cleaned the bathroom. He'd taken a shower, gotten dressed in new pyjamas. Giles had come to see him shortly afterwards and Mycroft had left and they had spoken about triggers and what to look out for. He had been frustrated. Had asked Giles why this was happening now as he was doing fine at the bothy. Giles had looked at him and then asked him to think about the difference. Sherlock came to the realisation that he had been running on adrenaline while at the bothy. His body and mind never really had time to process everything that had happened to him. Had hidden it away so he could function. And Sherlock had learned that recovering from trauma wasn't straightforward. The next time he had seen the physiotherapist he had apologised when he saw the black eye the man was sporting. The man laughed, told him it wasn't the first time it had happened. That he'll be careful. They had come up with alternative words to use when the physio wanted him to start again. Sherlock had determined to find a way around his reaction. Had spoken to Giles the next day out of his own volition. Had analysed and pulled apart his remembered reactions. Had gone a little into those three days. Giles expertly titrated Sherlock's recollections so as to not elicit emotional overwhelm, whilst directing lateral eye movements which Sherlock found weird at first but was encouraged to trust the process. Somehow he had felt better for it. Molly and John hadn't said a word on his reaction. They pretty much still behaved the same around him, which made him relax. Time flowed as he did exercises, read, ate, and slept. John had been careful to watch out for concussion signs. Was gratified when Sherlock seemed to be symptomless. Sherlock had learned that Giles had phoned his brother. That he'd barricaded himself in the bathroom in such a way that it wasn't safe for them to force their way in and when he hadn't responded to John or Molly's voice, Giles had determined to use his brother. Sherlock was surprised and later realised that he'd underestimated how much his brother really cared for him. He knew his brother would be mortified if he voiced sentiment, so he had kept his observations to himself. Mycroft was a warm presence now in the secret room of 221B Baker Street in his mind palace, and it made him feel safe.
In the second week Sherlock had been to see Dr Hurst twice. He got more used to the EDMR therapy. He was quick to initially question its efficacy, but the more he let go, the less anxious he became. Sherlock took solace in the hope that over time it would help lessen the intensity of his triggers. His reactions to stimuli that reminded him of Oliver. Molly had opted for more conventional cognitive behavioural therapy. She saw Giles almost every day. The first time she had been to see him, she had returned and had gotten into bed. Emotionally wrung and physically tired beyond measure, she had turned on her side. Sherlock had thrown John a warning look and had made his way to her. He had gotten into the bed with her and held her. He hadn't said a word. Molly had relaxed in his arms. Had fallen asleep soon after. She had woken later from a nightmare and Sherlock had held her until she had calmed, the thudding of heart slowing until he had felt her breathing deepen. She had fallen asleep again. She had told him earlier in the day that she swore she could smell Oliver's aftershave, possibly an olfactory cue that triggered the emotionally laden memory.
Sherlock was another matter. Between his EMDR sessions, he had gone quiet. He would often take his violin and hold it to his chest as he sat on the couch motionless for a couple of hours; almost catatonic. Molly was scared. Scared that they would lose him to Oliver. Dr Hurst had told her and John to let him be. That he needed time to process.
So they dealt with the trauma that Oliver had left on very different levels. But always together.
On the 14th day when Molly had gone for a session, John had just made some tea when a discord note fell from Sherlock's violin.
"Oliver?" he questioned, coming around the couch with two cups. Sherlock had sighed. Put his violin down and took the cup. "His memory is especially bothersome today."
"Ok. Remember what Giles suggested. Ground yourself in what's here. Now."
"I'm not an idiot, John." He was silent. Blue eyes met his full on. "It is helping."
John nodded. Took a sip of his own cup. They sat in silence and then Sherlock's eyes widened. "John, you will need to get Molly some feminine products in the next three to four weeks."
"Wait. What…" John spluttered into his cup. Looked at Sherlock, who was staring at him in all seriousness. The change in topic was dizzying.
"She will obviously be getting her menses back now that we are eating properly again and she is gaining weight. I estimate within the next four weeks. I can chart her moods if you want."
"Uh, no. That won't be necessary. I'll get one of the nurses to have a chat with her." John was silent. A thought took hold. He couldn't let it go. "Uh, Sherlock. How did she manage…you know." How did you, he thought silently. Oliver didn't seem the type to care. He barely fed Sherlock and Molly as it was.
Sherlock frowned briefly. Tilted his head. "Well, it was only really a problem that first month. After that she had lost too much weight and her body stopped her cycle. This topic, I've learned, is one of five that Molly said is not to be discussed."
"One of five?"
"Yes, John. Do I have to repeat myself?"
"Ok. So how did you manage…"
Sherlock sighed. Took another sip of his tea. Looked at John. "I made her pads."
"You did what?"
"Well, it's not that hard, John. By then Oliver had provided us with a towel and soap. She could keep herself clean which is important to help her with hygiene. I still had the bandages that were used on my feet. I tore some pieces from the towel and used the bandages and managed to cobble together a reasonable working absorbent pad."
"Okay. Wow."
"I'd appreciate it if we now move off this topic. As I said, Molly was very clear that this is not up for discussion. Then or anytime in the future."
"So, the other four topics are?"
"Not up for discussion."
They were silent, finishing their tea. John moved in his seat.
"John. No."
John chuckled. "Fine. But you're the one who brought this up."
"Only because she will need…"
"Yes. Okay, Sherlock. I get your point. I won't ask about the other four, okay."
Sherlock nodded. Took up his violin, plucked another string. The harsh sound filled the room. He gave a frustrating growl. Got up and ruffled his curls. Marched his way to the window, violin forgotten on the couch. A hand touched the glass, eyes staring past the window, past the manicured gardens into the past.
John was silent.
"You were there with me at the bothy. In my head. Your voice kept me going. Helped me survive Oliver, especially on the days where his challenges felt too hard. Impossible." Sherlock closed his eyes, leaned his head against the glass. "The second month we were there, Oliver took me away from Molly for three days." John didn't move. Didn't dare breathe. This was the first time Sherlock had ever said anything about his time at the bothy. His friend seemed to be unaware of his presence. Didn't move from his position by the window.
"I was cold, hungry and tired. It was the third challenge in a row that Oliver had made me do. The third day in rain and cold. There was no chance for rest. No chance to recover. I was getting angry. Resentful. It had finally sunk in that Mycroft wasn't going to come galloping over the horizon and save us. That we were really and truly stuck in Oliver's cycle of deprivation and abuse. I knew at that moment from a video I had made for my brother the first time we met Oliver that we would be there at least four months. I didn't see much hope. I rebelled. You see, John. Oliver always sets parameters on his challenges. Rules I had to abide by. Time limits. I ignored all those parameters that day. Was determined to not follow any of them at all. I deliberately failed his challenge. I was three hours late. I thought he'd pretty much do what he'd always done which was a beating or keeping food away. I was badly mistaken." Sherlock's left hand clenched, the knuckles turning white. He visibly shuddered.
"It wasn't the only time I made the mistake of misreading Oliver. But it was my biggest mistake. The one I regret the most. Suffice it to say, I learned a few things about myself in those three days. I learned about the human capacity to endure hardship. How much pain your body can absorb. The colour and texture of agony is different to pain, did you know that." Sherlock smiled wistfully, "He was very good. He had made falsified recordings of Molly and had me believe that he was hurting her. I learned about desperation. He was adamant that I needed to understand it. Had to delph into its depths. I understand it now…" he said softly, "…I wish I didn't. I wish I could erase it but I can't. I tried, John. I tried to delete it from my memories but it keeps coming back." He gave a small chuckle. "I guess it might not be a bad thing to understand it. Who knows, it might come in handy one day." Sherlock was silent for a moment. He grimaced and then sighed. "I also learned about giving in. Completely. There was no pride left in me. In the end I just wanted it to finish. I was beyond caring. And in just three days Oliver did what I had not thought anyone capable of. He broke me in pieces. My body. My mind. He didn't leave any part of me untouched. Unbroken. And when he was done, he promised me that if I ever rebelled again, that Molly would go through the exact same training." Sherlock swallowed. Took another moment to compose himself. "Things changed after that time. You see, John, there were three rules that he kept repeating throughout those three days. It is etched into my psyche. I had to obey him. I wasn't allowed to lie to him and I had to always do my best on the challenges. I followed them to the letter. I couldn't take the chance that Oliver would do to Molly what he'd done to me."
Sherlock went silent. Opened his eyes and turned abruptly away from the window and faced John for the first time since he started speaking. "So you see, John. If Oliver walked through that door right now, I would go with him willingly. I just can't…." his voice broke but he rallied. Stood up straighter. Placed his hands behind his back. Didn't meet John's eyes. "I can't go through that again. I can't let him do that to Molly. If it meant saving her that pain, I would do it in a heartbeat."
"But you still tried to escape, Sherlock. Molly told me."
Sherlock smiled sadly. "Because he didn't make it a rule. We found out later that he had planned for it. That he had been tracking us from the beginning. It was a test. One that I failed."
"Failed how?"
"He wanted to see how trustworthy I was. If I didn't make the attempt, it would be an indication that I'd started to accept my fate. Molly's fate. I'd be deemed more trustworthy. More privileges would follow. If I took the chance to escape, then more training would follow. And he could show us that it was useless to attempt any escape. He was very good at taking away hope."
"Would you have tried again?"
"For Molly's sake. Yes. I wanted to take her home. It was just hard at that point to think that I'd have to wait a few months for things to calm down before we tried again. And of course, Moriarty came into play."
"Mycroft had foreseen it, you know. Had discussed plans for that first two weeks. That Moriarty would kidnap me to be with you. What he hasn't foreseen is how long it would take before that happened."
"My brother is good at what he does," Sherlock replied. "Oliver told me that he'd only let Moriarty play because he'd made the suggestion to him about me. That was their agreement. Once I had my 'big test', I wouldn't see him again."
"I'm sorry it took so long to find you and Molly, Sherlock."
Sherlock's eyes were veiled when they met John's. Sadness and something more hidden in the depths. "It is what it is, John. Oliver was very good. If it wasn't for Moriarty, Molly and I would probably still be at that bothy. Small mercies, ay." Sherlock's eyes softened. "Know that I valued your voice. It kept me moving forward. Because of you, I had endurance. Because of Molly. I had hope."
"Sherlock…"
"I know. Sentiment has finally settled in my heart. Something I have always endeavoured to avoid. I was convinced that it would lessen me in my pursuit for intellectual excellence. That I would end up on the losing side. Had professed as much to The Woman. Oliver's enforced habitation with Molly Hooper has taught me a few things. I had come to understand about partnership. About forgiveness. About love given unconditionally. That all of this gave Molly Hooper a strength that shone through the darkness and lit up the world around her. It gave me strength to keep fighting. To keep going even when Oliver's challenges seemed impossible. That sentiment would heighten my senses. That I could be more than me. And your voice was always there, encouraging. Understanding. Never judging."
"Bloody hell, Sherlock."
"I will not speak of this again." Sherlock walked to the couch. Sat down and picked up his violin, holding it against his chest protectively.
"Are you going to tell Molly?"
Sherlock met John's gaze. "Why?"
"You moron. You love her. Let this tragedy have an ending worthy of the suffering you went through. Tell her."
Suddenly John saw Sherlock's vulnerability. His eyes screamed uncertainty. Brokenness. His mouth opened. Closed. He gripped the violin tighter. His head dropped.
"I don't know how."
John sat down beside his friend. Cleared his throat. "Why don't we figure that out together?" Sherlock looked up. Eyes focused on John. "Your track record with women is not really inviting a lot of confidence, John."
John laughed. "Thanks a lot, mate."
Sherlock sniggered. "Well, statistically it's true."
"Sod off."
It set off another burst of laughter. Sherlock relaxed, stretched out on the couch in the sun. Closed his eyes. John grabbed the cups and went off to the kitchen to get them in the dishwasher. Made his way back to the room to see that Sherlock looked like he was asleep.
"Thanks for trusting me, mate." He said softly. "We'll work it out, don't you worry."
"Stop mumbling John. You're interrupting my nap."
John smiled. Greeted Molly when she entered the room as he was leaving.
"Sherlock?"
"Napping on the couch. You good?"
She nodded. Gave him a fleeting smile. "It's hard. But better." John gave her a peck on the cheek. She frowned. "What's that for?"
John grinned. "For saving Sherlock. For making sure he survived. For bringing my friend back."
"I didn't save us, John. You and Mycroft…"
"Not what I meant." John exited the room, Molly still staring after him with a frown. She heard Sherlock shift on the couch. His voice piped up.
"Molly, you need to speak to a nurse about getting those feminine products. You're picking up weight. Which is a good thing, by the way. I estimate your menses will start in the next four weeks."
"Taboo topic, Sherlock. Remember."
"Fine. But you won't get past the biological…"
"Sherlock!"
She didn't see the grin on Sherlock's face where he was hidden behind the couch back. It felt as if a great burden he had carried had been released when he had told John about Oliver. Knew that his friend would look out for him. He settled further into the couch and this time he did fall asleep.
John made sure that he was alone before he phoned Mycroft. It barely rang before the older Holmes answered it.
"Yes, John."
"How is the search going for Oliver?"
"He's gone to ground. We're not even sure if he's in England anymore."
John cleared his throat. Internally he was torn. How much could he share of what Sherlock had said? "John. You know this is a secure line."
"Sherlock said if he ever saw Oliver again, he would go with him willingly if he'd spare Molly. He will disappear with that maniac…" he swallowed his anger. His hand around the phone clenched tight. "Mycroft, you cannot let Oliver near Sherlock…"
"I see."
"How are we going to protect them when they are back home?"
"I'm working on that. Things will be in place once you are back to Baker Street. Logistically it would be easier for all three of you to stay in the same place. If you would encourage Molly that it'd be in her best interest."
"I don't think that will be a problem."
"Ah. So, sentiment has gotten the better of my brother. Good."
"About Oliver…"
"We're on the same page on that one, Dr Watson. Now if you don't mind…"
"Ok. Thanks Mycroft."
John hung up. He didn't feel guilty at all. Knew that Oliver will be taken care of the moment he showed himself. That Mycroft would make sure that the man that had hurt his friends so deeply would never live to hurt Sherlock or Molly again.
