Chapter 10

Day 10

The stars had been nice. It was calm. He relaxed and just went with it for a while. There was no thought about anything much really.

Just

…silence.

It was

…good.

The turmoil and noise were far away. Oliver wasn't here.

Everything was

…safe.

He wanted to stay here for a long time if he could. Knew that it wouldn't be possible. And then the high had dropped, as he knew it would. Had enough experience to expect it but it still came as a surprise. He was up in the stars and then he wasn't.

He opened his eyes and he was in the cellar of his mind palace. It was in chaos. All the file cabinets were open, the drawers gaping open. Some drawers haphazardly strewn across the floor. And everywhere files that were neatly packed away in the file cabinets were let loose. Some are still floating in the air. Others have settled into big messy piles on the floor. He looked around, full circle. He slowly moved forward, his feet scrunching on paper. His stomach knotted in fear when he came to the chest that contained Oliver's memories.

The chains were gone.

It was open.

Noooo! No. No. No. No.

His voice echoed back at him and he heard him. Eyes wide, he clamped his mouth closed. His chest felt tight, his breathing constricted. He looked around widely. Found a dark corner and he scrambled to it. Wedged himself tight and made himself as small as possible.

Mr Holmes?

Oliver appeared, his body taking form out of thin air. Eyes roamed the room as the man looked for him. Sherlock shrunk even further down, closed his eyes and hugged his legs tighter as he leaned his forehead on his knees. He heard footsteps and then they disappeared. He stayed like that for a while. Oliver came and went, looking for him.

After a while, his breathing came under control. He started to relax a bit. As long as he stayed silent, Oliver wouldn't see him. He tested the theory. Once, when Oliver came into the room, he cautiously moved an arm. Oliver's gaze just moved over him, without noticing. That was …good. If he stayed quiet, he should be able to move around. Do things. Index and sort his files.

Instinctively he knew that was important. That he needed to put the files back where they are supposed to go. He almost sobbed in despair when he looked at the mess around him. The sound had barely escaped before Oliver appeared and he almost stopped breathing. The spectre of the man looked here and there and then moved on again. Sherlock bit his lip, eyes bright but he stayed quiet. Slowly he randomly picked up a file. Opened it and looked at the memory.

Beach. Happiness. Mycroft eating fish and chips. Playing pirate.

He smiled. Closed the file and found the appropriate drawer. Place it back. It looked very lonely in the empty drawer. He sighed. Picked another file up. Looked at the memory and then returned it to its appropriate drawer.

He kept up with this. Picking up files and returning them. Cleaning up the mess one folder at a time.

It took a long time.

Oliver's memories were the hardest to find. They were actively hiding. He had to search every nook and cranny for them. Found some of them wedged just under the stairs, trying to escape upstairs. In the end he managed to get all of them. He sat on the chest, wedging it into place before putting the chains back.

Oliver was still there, though. He had thought the man would disappear when he had put all the memories back. But it didn't seem to work.

He almost gave a growl in frustration.

Remembered just in time, that sound would bring him closer. That sound would make Oliver see him. Find him.

Don't make a sound, Mr Holmes. I mean it…

Don't make a sound….

No sound….

Silence.

Silence will be safe.

He sat down on the stairs. Tired. Knew that it was time to open the door and exit his mind palace.

He didn't want to.

He sat on the stairs for a while, Oliver still roaming the rooms. Leaned his head on the railing. Hugged himself as he thought of Molly and John and Mycroft. Of Lestrade and Mrs Hudson. His parents. They would want him to wake up. He knew that.

But he was just tired.

It was too hard. Oliver was too hard.

Don't let him win, Sherlock. You fight, okay. I'll be here…

Molly stood in front of him. Her arms crossed. Her eyes piercing. He wanted to say he couldn't. Opened his mouth and then remembered just in time that he's not allowed to make a sound.

Come on mate. Don't do this. You're the great Sherlock Holmes. Wake up!

Well, John had him there. Except…he would probably ignore the great. He wasn't very great at the moment. More like pathetic.

Brother mine, what have you done? Time to fix it, Sherlock. Mummy and daddy are very cross.

Mycroft was in his office and he was a little boy again. He pouted. Wanted to tell his brother off but again, he couldn't. Knew the moment he spoke; Oliver would be there. He glared at his brother instead. Willed him out of his head but it didn't work.

Sherlock. Please….come back to us.

Molly seemed sad. And that would never do…

He got up. Made his way up the stairs and opened the door.

Sherlock opened his eyes two days after his overdose. Molly was there, watching for all the tell-tale signs. They had taken turns watching over him as the medical personnel kept a close vigil on Sherlock's vitals. A thin blanket covered him. The initial hyperthermia brought on by the overdose was treated with ice packs and a cooling blanket. Low blood pressure and strain on his kidneys followed by tachycardia. Sherlock was dosed up on meds, a central line cannula placed in his neck. He had a Foley inserted, a pressure cuff around his upper arm. Oxygen is fed to him via nasal cannula.

Molly knew that he was really sick. That the overdose had almost succeeded in killing him. If it hadn't been for John…

She took a slow, measured breath. Three seconds in. Three seconds out.

It was good that John had been there.

What was he thinking? Did he even think?

But she had no answers except to watch over him. Hold his hand. Watch his stats on the monitors. With each breath she was thankful. The only concern the doctors had and she and John shared was on how long it was taking Sherlock to wake up.

It was like he didn't want to wake up. Like he had given up.

"Come on Sherlock. It's time to wake up."

No response as all the other times she had tried. She squeezed his hand but there was just nothing. She wiped away a tear. Wondered at it. Had thought by now that she had shed everything that was inside of her. Wrung dry by grief. Disbelief. Anger.

For she had every right to be angry at him and the stunt he'd pulled. Dammit. He promised that he wouldn't. That he'd talk first. Let them know if he struggled.

He had broken his promise.

You bastard. How could you do this to me? To us. To John.

She stroked his hand with her thumb, still clutching his in her own.

"Sherlock. Please….come back to us." She tried again. And this time there was movement. His breathing increased slightly; his hand twitched in hers. She stood up, her hand smoothing back his hair, careful of all the wires that surrounded him.

"That's it, Sherlock. Come on. You can do this. Open your eyes for me, please."

He opened his eyes briefly. She didn't see much awareness. And then he was unresponsive again but it had been a good sign. She gave him a careful kiss on his forehead, wiped it away with her thumb.

"Good Sherlock. That's good. Do you want to try again for me? Open your eyes."

This time he did, a little longer. He managed to hold her gaze for a second or two and then they closed again. She knew she shouldn't push it. That he'd need time to come to full awareness on his own. The door opened and John strolled in, two cups of coffee in his hand. She looked up and smiled.

"He's starting to wake up."

John met her smile with one of his own as he moved to the bed. He placed the cups on the table and turned to Sherlock. Molly gave him some space, still holding onto Sherlock's hand. John gently placed his hand on Sherlock's forehead. Smoothed his friends' hair back.

"Sherlock, can you hear me?"

Sherlock gave a small frown. Shifted his head against John's hand. "Hey mate. Think you can open your eyes for me?"

Sherlock shook his head lightly. John frowned in concern.

"Sherlock, open your eyes for me, please."

Blue eyes opened, meet John's. "Hey mate. You with us?"

Sherlock's gaze swept past John to Molly. Stayed with her and his fingers closed around her hand.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock focused back on John. Held his gaze for five seconds and then he closed them. His breathing deepened and then he was asleep.

"Hey, that's okay. You sleep now. We'll be here when you wake up." He said softly. Moved back and picked up his coffee cup. Looked at Molly when she did the same.

"John…" she started softly. Glanced at Sherlock.

"I don't know." He said. "Let's just wait until he's fully aware. You know it takes time with trauma like this. It might be nothing."

Molly nodded. Clutched her cup tight, eyes bright. "Hey," John said, putting his arm around her. Pulled her closer and gave her a small kiss on her forehead. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves here. You know as well as I do that he's a stubborn bastard. Give him a chance to fully wake up. Then we assess okay." Molly nodded against his shoulder. She could feel the tears start. She wiped at them angrily. "Shhhh. Hey. Go home okay. My turn now anyways. You go home, eat some dinner that Mrs Hudson made and get a good night's rest in."

"Very good idea, John." Mycroft's voice from the doorway startled both of them.

"My driver will make sure you get home safe, Molly," the older Holmes said softly. "Anthea, do you mind?"

Molly allowed herself to be led away. She fell asleep on the short drive back to Baker Street. Anthea gently shook her awake and Molly exited the car and made her way to the flat. Mrs Hudson had made soup and buns and she barely managed to eat before she made her way to the bedroom. Someone had fixed the lock that John had broken trying to get to Sherlock in time. She sat down on the bed, pulled the duvet over herself and without any effort, fell asleep.

She thought she was too exhausted for dreams.

She was wrong.

"Molly…"

"The answer is no."

"You don't even know what I'm going to ask."

She turned to him. "Just wait." He stood exasperated as she left the room and returned with a pen and paper. Wrote something down and closed it.

"Ask then," she said. Holding on to the piece of paper.

"What is that?" Sherlock asked instead.

"Oh. Just proof that I know you, Sherlock Holmes."

He pouted. Glared at her but there was no bite to it. She gave him a grin. Raised her eyebrows. "Go on then."

"I don't think I'm going to anymore."

"Really? Scared?"

"Notscaredofanything," he mumbled. Avoided her gaze, his fingers playing a drum beat on his thigh. She stepped up to him, into his personal space. Looked up at him, the paper now firmly wedged between them.

"Molly," he breathed. "You're not playing fair."

"Who said anything about playing fair?" she said. "Why don't you deduce, Sherlock?"

His breathing increased slightly. His arms folded around her, pulling her even closer. He leaned down and kissed her. She closed her eyes, leaned into him. Abruptly there was air between them as he stepped away from her, the paper held in his hand triumphantly.

"Hey!" Molly shouted. "That's not fair."

He raised an eyebrow. Smirked. "You set the rules on this one, remember."

"Give that back."

He tilted his head. "No."

"Sherlock…." She warned. Stepped back into his space. Held out her hand. "Give it back. Now."

"Now? Or…."

She gave a small shriek. Stamped her foot.

"Really Molly. How mature of you."

"Fine. Ask the question then. Let's see how my prediction pans out."

"Okay. Molly, can I please have space in the fridge for an experiment. The bottom shelf should do it."

"Read the paper," she said. Folder her arms across her chest and smirked.

Sherlock opened the paper. Read her words. Looked up at her in surprise. "How?"

"I told you. I know you." She dropped her hands, stepped up to him and hugged him. "You have your own fridge, remember."

"But it's full," he started to complain. "That one is bigger…"

"And I'm not sharing the food we eat with your experiments, Sherlock," she stated firmly. Pulled his head down and gave him a small kiss. "Empty your own fridge and make space. That's what normal people do."

He grinned. "But I'm not normal people, am I, Molly?"

She undid a button on his shirt. Then another… "No," she breathed. "Definitely not normal."

His mouth was against hers and he pulled back. "Did you just insult me?" he asked. His eyes wide.

"How about extraordinary. Wonderful," she said instead. "Definitely not normal, everyday dull. Life with you is not boring, Sherlock."

"About the fridge space then…"

"Still no."

He shrugged. Pulled her close again and placed a kiss on her neck. Just behind her ear. "So, let's expand on the extraordinary…"

Molly woke up, a smile on her face. Leaned over but Sherlock's space was empty. She gave a small sigh. That had been a good dream for once. Sherlock had his ups and downs. She was hoping that there will come a time when the good days will outweigh the bad. When Sherlock will finally acknowledge those three days to Giles completely. Would stop trying to pretend that it didn't happen. Wondered how much of those memories were the reason he tried to get high. Tried to find a way to get rid of Oliver's voice in his head.

She got up. Made herself tea and then got back to bed. Opened a journal and started reading. But she read a page and then realised she hadn't taken in any or the words. She closed the journal. Took another sip as she finally relented and opened her texts.

You doing okay? MH

Better. Everyday better. SH

Wondered what had happened between the text and his overdose. What memory had surfaced that was so bad that Sherlock decided to end it with drugs. She opened the drawer of her side table and pulled out her diary. Opened it and started writing. Expanding on her thoughts. Her feelings. It helped settle her. Helped to focus her as she poured it into the pages.

It was midnight when she finally settled again. Fatigue was dragging her eyes closed and she put her diary away. Settled and switched off the light. Pretended she felt Sherlock behind her, his arms around her. They way they had slept ever since the bothy.

"Good night, Sherlock," she said softly. Closed her eyes and slept.

"How is he?" Mycroft asked John softly. They were both seated in Sherlock's room, watching him sleep.

"He's starting to wake up. It's good."

"Then why do I sense a but coming, doctor."

"I'm not sure…" John pursed his lips, eyes thoughtful. "His body has gone through a traumatic event, Mycroft. It's too soon to make any kind of assessment."

"Very well. Giles said to call him when Sherlock is fully awake and ready for him. He'll get things in place if intervention is needed."

"How is the case going?" John asked.

"Lestrade is still looking for her. We don't have any Jane Doe's matching her description that has been logged in the system."

"Okay. But if you find her, what then Mycroft?"

Mycroft was silent. Contemplative. He steepled his fingers in a manner very reminiscent of Sherlock. It was familiar and John looked away, thoughts of Sherlock sitting in his chair in Baker Street to vivid a memory at the moment. He scanned the monitors again, noting the oxygen and heart rate. The blood pressure reading. All of it is good. Not as crazy as it had been in those few hours just after his initial crash.

"Was it ever this bad?" he asked softly.

"Once." Mycroft gave a soft sigh. "My brother had a …difficult time at university. He got quite …destructive. It was a hard time."

"How…uhm. How did he come clean?"

Mycroft gave a soft chuckle. "Lestrade happened. He saw something in Sherlock. More than a junkie getting high. After his first case, Sherlock chose to step away from the drugs on his own. I guess that's why we indulge him playing detective. If it keeps him off the drugs, then there can be worse things."

"I still don't understand why now? When I asked him why he said: because Oliver said so. That just doesn't make sense. He knows Oliver is dead. Bloody hell, he's the one that shot him."

"Mmmm." Mycroft tapped his lips, eyes scrutinising John. They both got drawn to Sherlock when he gave a soft whimper. His head moved on the pillow; his hands clenched. His legs moved under the cover of the blanket, bunching it down to his feet. John was up and by his friend's side. He made shushing noises, his hand holding onto Sherlock's.

"Shhh, it's okay Sherlock. You're safe…" he kept up with the nonsensical words, bringing comfort as much as he could while Sherlock was gripped in the nightmare. It didn't last long before his friend settled back into sleep. His heart rate slowed, his breathing normalising.

"You're safe, Sherlock. I promise." John said softly, straightening the blanket. Did a quick check to make sure that everything was still intact. When he was done, he went and sat down by Mycroft again.

"You're good with him," Mycroft stated. "Thank you, John."

"Yes well, you did offer me money once…"

Mycroft chuckled. "You are the making of my brother. You and Molly."

"Before Sherlock…" John cleared his throat. Didn't meet Mycroft's eyes. Gave a small smile. "…well, life is definitely not boring anymore."

"Yes."

Silence stretched while they watched over Sherlock. It was comfortable. Determined to help their brother and friend beat this battle. Determined to protect.