Too Close to Holmes - 10/?
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10 - Rebuilding
The next couple of hours passed by like a hazy dream for John. Sherlock was bundled quickly into the ambulance, and, after Mycroft threw the full weight of the British government behind his demands, both he and John accompanied the detective to the hospital, while Lestrade, Donovan and Anderson followed behind in a police car.
Sherlock spent the majority of the journey staring numbly into space, before finally passing out a few minutes before they arrived at the hospital. Upon arrival, he was wheeled quickly into surgery, where the internal damage would be repaired, and John found himself sitting in a chair outside the operating theatres with Mycroft, waiting silently for news.
An hour into their vigil, John looked up to see a primly dressed lady rushing down the corridor towards them, and Mycroft stood quickly to greet her.
“Mummy.” He said in greeting, grasping her by the shoulder. “He's in surgery.”
“What happened?” Sherlock's mother demanded, her eyes panicked. “Your assistant - Anthea or Beatrice or whatever she's calling herself today - telephoned me and said Sherlock was rushed into hospital.”
Mycroft led his mother towards John. “Mummy, this is Dr John Watson. He's Sherlock's flatmate and doctor. He examined Sherlock's injuries at the scene, so he will be able to provide accurate information. Dr Watson, this is Sherlock's and my mother, Elizabeth Holmes. You are to give her all of the information. Hide nothing.”
John stared. Mrs Holmes was a stern but kind looking woman, She was tall and slim - clearly Sherlock had inherited his height from her - with sharp blue eyes, currently wide with fear, and dark grey hair pulled back into a tight bun. How was John supposed to tell this woman that her youngest son had just - again - been brutally raped?
“Mycroft.” John said, looking helplessly at the eldest Holmes brother. “Everything?”
“Everything.” Mycroft confirmed firmly.
“Right.” John said with a deep breath. “Mrs Holmes, why don't we go for a cup of strong tea in the cafeteria. It'll be at least another hour before Sherlock comes out of surgery, and you may as well be comfortable while I explain. Mycroft can wait here and phone me if there's any news.”
Mycroft looked as though his was about to protest, but closed his mouth quickly at a look from John. This was the type of news John felt best sharing one-on-one, where he could more easily slip into 'doctor mode', rather than 'concerned flatmate and occasional lover mode'. Mrs Holmes followed her son's lead, and accompanied John down the corridor with a firm “Elizabeth, please” that reminded John so strongly of his second meeting with Sherlock that he felt his world briefly spin.
*
Ten minutes later, John was sitting opposite Elizabeth at a table in the cafeteria, both of them cradling hot mugs of tea, thinking desperately of what to say.
“Right.” He began, bracing himself with a deep breath. “Recently, Sherlock has been investigating the recent sexual assaults against children, and he was aware immediately that the man responsible was the man who assaulted him as a child.” At this, Elizabeth placed her head in her hands, closing her eyes sadly. “He decided to make the perpetrator aware that he was working with the police in an attempt to lure him in and catch him.”
“Oh, Sherlock.” Elizabeth sighed, rolling her eyes in frustration. “You stupid, stupid boy. What happened?”
John stared for a moment before continuing. “Tonight, Sherlock was abducted. He was restrained, he had the number twenty-five cut into his back, and he was raped. Trevor was going to execute him, but we arrived just in time. Or, you could say, too late.”
Elizabeth stared, her lips pursed tightly and her eyes brimming with tears she desperately tried to hold in. “Thank you.” She said after a moment. “For saving my son.” She hesitated for a second before continuing. “How did you know where to find him?”
“Well.” John said. “After our first case together, I set up a GPS tracker on Sherlock's phone, in case he ever disappeared. Once we realised what had happened, I traced the phone, and Mycroft and I went to find him.”
“That's very clever of you, knowing Sherlock's tendency to put himself in danger.” Elizabeth commented. “What's happening now?” She asked, taking a sip of her tea. “Why are they operating.”
“After the assault, Sherlock had considerable internal injuries.” John explained. “The brutality of the assault tore him inside. They will be cleaning and stitching up the injuries. As you can imagine, the location of the damage means there will be considerable risk of infection. The area will need to be thoroughly cleaned and stitched very carefully to minimise the risk.”
“I see.” Elizabeth said while John drank some of his tea. “How was he, when you found him? I mean, how did he seem in himself? Last time, it nearly broke him.”
“He was up and down.” John told her. “There were times when he was just staring into space, but then there were moments when he was more lucid. It was good that Mycroft was there. He just held him and talked to him, kept him grounded, stopped him going off in his own head, and kept him distracted while Sally and I administered first aid.”
“They were so close when Sherlock was small.” Elizabeth said, wiping away a tear that had escaped. “Sherlock idolised him. It can be difficult, raising a child with Asperger's.”
“Asperger's?” John asked. “I never knew Sherlock had Asperger's.”
“Well, it took them a while to decide on the diagnosis.” Elizabeth told him. “It's mild Asperger's. Sometimes, very occasionally, he could almost seem like any other little boy, so they weren't sure whether it was Asperger's or sociopathic manipulation. It was very difficult. He used to get into such terrible rages, but Mycroft was always able to calm him. And then he was assaulted. Mycroft blamed himself for failing to protect him, and Sherlock resented him for the same reason. It was terribly upsetting to see how this monster had succeeded in destroying the close relationship my boys used to have.”
“I can imagine.” John said. “It must have felt like they were letting him win.”
“It did.” Elizabeth replied. “I wanted to forget the whole thing had ever happened, but of course that wasn't possible.”
John was prevented from replying by his phone ringing, and he quickly answered it.
“He's out of surgery.” Mycroft said. “I've arranged a private room, and they're taking him through now. Lestrade and his two colleagues are here as well.”
“Right.” John said. “We'll be right there. Keep Lestrade and everyone out in the corridor when we get there. We don't want to overwhelm him when he wakes up.”
John hung up the phone and looked at Elizabeth. “He's going into recovery now.”
*
It took a while for Sherlock to wake up after his surgery, and even longer for him to become fully lucid. John, Mycroft and Elizabeth all tried to calm him when he panicked and thrashed during his drug-induced haze, but, though he calmed a little, they were never able to keep him fully relaxed. It seemed that, wherever in his mind the drugs had trapped him, he was constantly trying to fight off a vicious attack, and all three of them were all too aware of the nature of this attack.
Finally, after a further two hours of waiting and calming, Sherlock slowly opened his eyes. He stared blankly at the ceiling for a moment, before his eyes suddenly darkened, and he rolled over with a croaky “Oh, god.”
“Sherlock?” John said, stepping forward carefully. “How're you feeling?”
“Thirsty.” Sherlock mumbled, turning over again while John quickly poured a cup of water. “And like I want to die.” Elizabeth gasped in the background while John helped Sherlock sip at his water. “I don't suppose any of that was just a dream?”
“I'm afraid not.” John said sympathetically. Sherlock's eyes snapped to his face, and he suddenly assumed an angry glare.
“Don't you dare!” He snapped furiously. “Don't look at me like that!”
“Like what?” John asked, confused.
“Like I'm something to be pitied.” Sherlock growled. “I'm not some kicked puppy rescued by the RS-fucking-PCA.”
“I don't pity you, Sherlock.” John said, sitting down on the edge of the bed and stroking his hand soothingly through his friend's hair. “None of us do. I couldn't ever pity you. If anything, I'm... grieving. I'm grieving for you and what's been done to you.”
“But John...” Sherlock said, sitting up and staring into John's face. “How can you even look at me? How can you ever want...”
“God, Sherlock, shut up.” John interrupted, feeling his heart sink. “Sherlock, what happened has changed nothing between the two of us, okay? Absolutely nothing.”
“Nothing?” Sherlock asked.
“Nothing.” John confirmed. “All that matters to me is that you're okay. We'll take things one step at a time. Just take our time until you're comfortable.”
There was a sharp, deliberate cough from behind him, and John span around to see Mycroft nodding his head towards Elizabeth, his eyebrows raised and his expression clearly saying 'Should you really be talking about shagging my brother with his elderly mother in the room?'
“Sherlock.” Elizabeth said, breaking the suddenly awkward silence and stepping forwards towards her son, closely followed by Mycroft. “How are you feeling?”
“I'm fine, mother.” Sherlock said calmly. “I'm still on some drugs so I'm not in much pain.”
“I didn't mean that.” Elizabeth said with a cool smile. “I meant how are you feeling in here and here?” She gently touched a finger to Sherlock's forehead and then to his chest above his heart, staring into his face, apparently trying to read his emotions.
“I...” Sherlock's gaze darted from his mother to Mycroft and back again, before he closed his eyes against their gazes. “Like my whole world just came crashing down around me.”
Mycroft rushed forwards as his brother's resolve suddenly started to break in front of him. He perched on the edge of the bed and pulled Sherlock into his arms, rubbing his back soothingly as his little brother clung to his shirt and started to sob.
“Come on, Sherlock.” Mycroft muttered quietly. “It'll be alright, I promise.”
“How the can it be alright?” Sherlock demanded, tugging angrily on his fistful of Mycroft's shirt. “How the fuck can this ever be alright?”
“Well,” Mycroft said. “Like you said. Your whole world has crashed around you. So, what do countries do when disasters like earthquakes cause their worlds to crash down? They rebuild.”
“You think it's that simple?” Sherlock demanded, his face slightly less angry, but the tears still coming.
“It really is.” Mycroft told him. “It's hard work, of course. But like John said, we'll take it one step at a time, and slowly rebuild your life. Maybe we can even rebuild it better than we did last time.”
Sherlock was silent for several minutes after this, staring ahead while he tried to get himself under control. After a while, he mumbled something into Mycroft's chest.
“What was that, Sherlock?” Mycroft said, looking down at his brother.
“I said I need a cigarette.” Sherlock replied, sitting up straight and pulling his blankets away from him.
“Sherlock.” Mycroft said reproachfully. “You just came out of surgery. I find it highly unlikely that they'll let you go for a cigarette.”
“They will.” Sherlock replied with certainty. “You will go out there, wave your identification and threaten to extradite them to Guantanamo Bay to be waterboarded and trussed up by their toes if I can't go, before assuring them that John will be accompanying me, and that he is a doctor and so will be aware if any complications arise. And if that fails, I will simply go into one of my legendary rages, which I seem to recall once made my headmaster cry. I will scream and shout about how I have just been through a terribly traumatic experience and will discharge myself against medical advice before going to the Daily Mail with my story of how unsympathetic staff at this hospital are towards victims of violent sexual assaults if I don't get a cigarette. So, I believe you may want to talk to the nurse now.”
Mycroft gaped, clearly weighing up everything Sherlock had said, before he nodded and turned towards the door. “Fine.” He said. “But you are getting a blanket to go outside with. And a wheelchair.”
Sherlock opened his mouth to protest against the last requirement, but Mycroft was already gone.
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