Too Close to Holmes - 8/?
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8 - Redemption
Sherlock lay as still as he could, eyes clenched closed, waiting for the bullet to hit. Any second now, the bullet would hit is head, and his life would be over.
Seconds ticked by in his head, and still Sherlock waited. Time seemed to run unnaturally slowly when waiting for death. He had heard the sound of the gunshot, seen Victor Trevor aiming the gun unerringly at his head, surely the bullet should have reached him by now?
And then he heard it. Somewhere to his right, Sherlock could hear somebody screaming. There were footsteps racing across the concrete floor, and then somebody grasped his shoulder.
Sherlock thrashed, desperately fighting to get away from those grabbing hands. He didn't want to, not again. This was meant to be over, he should have been dead by now.
Mycroft. Why wasn't Mycroft here? Sherlock tried calling his brother's name, not even bothered by the begging, pleading tone his voice had taken.
“Mycroft!” Another voice broke through the din in Sherlock's head. “Mycroft, get over here!”
Then, finally, those hands left his shoulders, and another voice joined the first.
“Is he alright?”
“Really, really no.” The first voice responded. “He was calling for you. I need to find the key to the cuffs.”
Out of nowhere, somebody grasped his face with cool hands, and turned his head to face them.
“Sherlock? Sherlock, open your eyes.”
Sherlock hesitated, wondering who he would see when he looked. That voice was so familiar, yet the panic and fear he heard in it seemed wrong somehow. Slowly, ever so slowly, Sherlock opened his eyes.
“Mycroft?”
Mycroft smiled tightly, slipping his jacket from his own shoulders and draping it carefully over Sherlock, covering his hips and buttocks but carefully avoiding contact with the numbers carved deeply into his back.
“That's right, Sherlock.” He said softly, running his hand through his brother's hair. “I'm here. I've got you now.”
Suddenly, Sherlock tried to sit up, crying out when his movement was halted by the handcuffs still keeping him restrained.
“Doctor Watson is currently searching for the keys.” Mycroft told him, rubbing his shoulders soothingly.
“Where is he?” Sherlock asked, staring into Mycroft's face with wide, panicked eyes.
“I just told you.” Mycroft replied, looking concerned. “He's trying to find the keys for the handcuffs.”
“No.” Sherlock snapped, shaking his head angrily. “Not John. Him. Where is he?”
“Oh.” Mycroft glanced to his right with disgust. “He's just over there. Doctor Watson shot him in the hand, and I knocked him unconscious. He should stay that way at least until the police arrive. I aimed the blow rather carefully to his temple.”
Sherlock nodded, relaxing slightly.
“Mycroft?” He said quietly, peering up at his brother. “There's an axe in the corner by the garage door. Just get these things off me.”
Mycroft nodded silently, standing up and walking to collect the axe.
“John?” He said, stopping by the doctor on his way back with the axe. “We can't wait. He wants his hands free now. I think it would be best if you did it.”
John hesitated, but, as his eyes fell on the axe Mycroft was holding out to him, and noted the violent trembling in the other man's hands, he nodded, reaching out to take the axe.
John knelt beside Sherlock's head, watching as Mycroft slowly stepped over to Sherlock's other side and knelt down beside him.
“Sherlock?” Mycroft said slowly. “We need you to keep your arms completely still.” His eyes fell on his brother's hands. “You're shaking too much, though, so I'm going to have to press your arms down to minimise the movement. Ok?”
Sherlock nodded slowly, watching as Mycroft leaned forwards and pushed hard on his forearms, pressing them firmly into the mattress.
“Keep your eyes closed.” John advised the detective while he stared intently at the chain between the two cuffs and steadied his grip on the axe's handle. “Just in case a bit of metal chips off when I hit it.”
Sherlock closed his eyes tightly, waiting for John to swing the axe. Finally, after what felt like a lifetime, there was a sharp tug on his wrists and the crunch of the axe smashing through metal and into concrete, and Sherlock was free.
Sherlock sat up immediately, pulling Mycroft's jacket tightly around him, covering his nudity as much as possible.
“See if you can find his clothes, please. They must be here somewhere for his GPS to have led us here.” Mycroft said to John, not taking his eyes off Sherlock's face. “If not, there must be a blanket or duvet somewhere in the house.”
“No!” Sherlock barked, eyes wild. “My clothes or nothing at all. I can wait until the ambulance for a blanket.”
“Sherlock.” John said, looking anxious. “You need to cover up with something. You've been in here at least five hours. You must be freezing.”
“I don't care!” Sherlock snarled. “I'll be fine with Mycroft's jacket. This is his house. I can't... I don't want anything of his touching me.”
There was silence in the room for a moment, before Mycroft nodded his head slightly, almost imperceptibly, and John walked through the door and into the main house to search for Sherlock's clothes.
Mycroft stared at Sherlock, his mouth opening and closing as he searched for something to say to comfort him.
“I was thinking about you.” Sherlock said before Mycroft had a chance to speak, a single tear trickling down his cheek. “While he was... I was thinking about that time when I was six and Robert Foreman pushed me over and I cut my knee. I still have a little scar from that, you know.” Both Mycroft and Sherlock immediately, for just a second, glanced down at Sherlock's right knee, where, sure enough, a very faint white scar could still be seen. “I was thinking how I wanted you to save me again.” Sherlock continued, staring straight ahead in the direction of the garage door opposite. “I just kept thinking 'where is Mycroft, I want my big brother'.”
“Oh God.” Mycroft gasped, wrapping an arm around his brother's shoulders and pulling him tightly against his chest. “God, Sherlock. I'm so sorry. If we had realised what had happened sooner, or if we'd been faster searching for you... I should have protected you better. I should have saved you, but I failed again.”
Sherlock pulled back slightly, peering up into Mycroft's face. “You did save me.” He stated simply, before burying his face once again in his brother's chest. “For a couple of minutes there I wanted him to kill me.” He continued, his voice muffled slightly. “But then, after you and John came... I thought I wanted to die, but then, when I was saved, I realised I was relieved I hadn't. I think I'd like to see what life's like without the question of who he is and how he got away with it hanging over me. Call it an experiment. See. You did save me. You saved me from dying and you saved me from wanting to die.”
Mycroft, sighed, gently kissing the top of his brother's head, thinking that, perhaps, Sherlock could eventually be okay, and perhaps, finally, he had earned his redemption. He had just tightened his arms around Sherlock, when he heard his little brother mutter quietly, “You still need to lay off the Jammy Dodgers, though.”
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