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Sherlock held his hand up. Greg was struck silent, Sherlock was not in his traditional "I pretend not to care about such ordinary things as clothing, whilst wearing £500 shoes" Sherlock was wearing a t-shirt, jeans and barely worn trainers. No Belstaff coat, no scarf. Sherlock fixed his eyes onto Lestrade's. Sherlock carefully placed John's note atop Lestrade's desk "I raped him. Charge me."
Lestrade did not move, he finally reached for the letter "I'm not charging you."
"You read it! You read the damn thing. Did you know I placed valium in his tea? That I...." Sherlock turned "...I acted like a petulant child when John said her name? After I screamed out names. That I faked everything? That I've never had sex? I researched and prepared. I prepared Lestrade, like it was a case, or a criminal I needed to "befriend", a club I needed to gain access to. I knew what state he was in. I knew. And the single person, the one individual that is not related to me, understands who I am, what I need. Has saved my life. The man that had made me. "A good man"? I treated him as-as." Sherlock walked to the nearest chair and slumped into it.
"Arrest me. Arrest me. Please."
"Get out." Lestrade carefully placed the letter on Sherlock's lap.
"What you did" Lestrade sighed "I'm not arresting you. You'll never do this again, but it's what you want. I'm not about to charge you with rape because you want it. You'd get so much attention, you could sulk and you would love it."
Sherlock raised his head "I raped him."
"You used him. In the worst way. You used him for your own selfish wants. You did a disgusting, and to me an unforgivable thing. It sickens me after all he's done. After all you both went through. But you did not rape him. I'm not about to give you what you want. That satisfaction to sit and sulk and whatever it is you do. Get out."
He'd failed. A former doctor, a former soldier, and he'd failed. He had all the right drugs, taken an anti-emetic. And now? Well, he was obviously waking from a coma of sorts. Perhaps he was brain damaged. It was a horrific hope, an unkind one to those who truly suffered from brain injuries.
But perhaps he could be sent to a "home" of sorts. Allowed to be wheeled, or sit, at a window. Looking at nothing.
Remembering Mary, every extraordinary thing she had been. Their child.
Sherlock, before he had jumped. Sherlock before he had killed. For John. Not for Mary. Sherlock didn't like Mary. He'd likely rather spend time with...
"John?"
That was Greg.
"Dear God, you're actually awake this time. Truly-"
John listened as Greg moved and yelled for help.
John wanted to say "there's a call button" he wanted to say "don't call for doctors and nurses. Help me. Hold a pillow against my face." But he'd never allow Greg to be charged for murder.
Watched as doctors finally rushed in, the noise was too much, the movement. John faded sllwly away.
His last thoughts were "Mary" and "did he read it? Understand it?"
Sherlock held his hand up. Greg was struck silent, Sherlock was not in his traditional "I pretend not to care about such ordinary things as clothing, whilst wearing £500 shoes" Sherlock was wearing a t-shirt, jeans and barely worn trainers. No Belstaff coat, no scarf. Sherlock fixed his eyes onto Lestrade's. Sherlock carefully placed John's note atop Lestrade's desk "I raped him. Charge me."
Lestrade did not move, he finally reached for the letter "I'm not charging you."
"You read it! You read the damn thing. Did you know I placed valium in his tea? That I...." Sherlock turned "...I acted like a petulant child when John said her name? After I screamed out names. That I faked everything? That I've never had sex? I researched and prepared. I prepared Lestrade, like it was a case, or a criminal I needed to "befriend", a club I needed to gain access to. I knew what state he was in. I knew. And the single person, the one individual that is not related to me, understands who I am, what I need. Has saved my life. The man that had made me. "A good man"? I treated him as-as." Sherlock walked to the nearest chair and slumped into it.
"Arrest me. Arrest me. Please."
"Get out." Lestrade carefully placed the letter on Sherlock's lap.
"What you did" Lestrade sighed "I'm not arresting you. You'll never do this again, but it's what you want. I'm not about to charge you with rape because you want it. You'd get so much attention, you could sulk and you would love it."
Sherlock raised his head "I raped him."
"You used him. In the worst way. You used him for your own selfish wants. You did a disgusting, and to me an unforgivable thing. It sickens me after all he's done. After all you both went through. But you did not rape him. I'm not about to give you what you want. That satisfaction to sit and sulk and whatever it is you do. Get out."
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He'd failed. A former doctor, a former soldier, and he'd failed. He had all the right drugs, taken an anti-emetic. And now? Well, he was obviously waking from a coma of sorts. Perhaps he was brain damaged. It was a horrific hope, an unkind one to those who truly suffered from brain injuries.
But perhaps he could be sent to a "home" of sorts. Allowed to be wheeled, or sit, at a window. Looking at nothing.
Remembering Mary, every extraordinary thing she had been. Their child.
Sherlock, before he had jumped. Sherlock before he had killed. For John. Not for Mary. Sherlock didn't like Mary. He'd likely rather spend time with...
"John?"
That was Greg.
"Dear God, you're actually awake this time. Truly-"
John listened as Greg moved and yelled for help.
John wanted to say "there's a call button" he wanted to say "don't call for doctors and nurses. Help me. Hold a pillow against my face." But he'd never allow Greg to be charged for murder.
Watched as doctors finally rushed in, the noise was too much, the movement. John faded sllwly away.
His last thoughts were "Mary" and "did he read it? Understand it?"
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