Sherlock Fic: Ashes to Ashes - Part Three
Please take a look at the warnings and notes in the MASTERPOST.
Part One
Part Two
Mycroft paused again, and John swallowed hard. He didn't want to hear it, neither here in Mycroft's car nor elsewhere. The atmosphere was oppressive enough even without the horror Mycroft was conjuring. It was almost dark outside, and the light of the nearest street lamp could not pierce through the shadows in the car; it only made the breath-clouded windows more opaque. For quite some time now John had been unable to see either the trees of Regent's Park nor Mycroft's driver who stood somewhere outside, shielded from the heavy rain only by a far too small umbrella.
Mycroft breathed in. "He stood with his back to me; he didn't hear me. But Sherlock, he… he opened his eyes and looked straight at me. He was on his knees and…" Mycroft broke off again, and John bit down on nothing so hard his teeth ached; he badly wanted to follow Mycroft's earlier example, leave the car and puke his guts out in the bushes. This was worse than he had thought and it was even more horrible after…
"That is why he noticed me. Because Sherlock looked at me. I was right beside them when they parted. I shoved him back so hard he fell on the escritoire." Mycroft closed his eyes. "Only later on did I remember how badly Sherlock had flinched; like he believed I would hit him."
"Mycroft…"
Mycroft raised a hand. "Let me finish this, please. I should have taken Sherlock out of that room immediately. But again, I failed him. I wanted nothing more than… I don't know. And our father, he was… annoyed. Not scared or ashamed or even angry, no, he was annoyed. Like I had caught him with a pornographic magazine in his hand and not with his son on his knees in front of him!" Mycroft took another deep breath. "He actually told me to leave them. I… railed at him, called him every name in the book. He hit me with the back of his hand. To be honest, I don't remember everything that happened afterwards. After he slapped me, I must have gotten hold of his letter opener. Next thing I do remember is that there was blood everywhere; on my father, the floor, me… he was screaming. He was pressing a hand on the wound and it bled so heavily I was sure I'd hit an artery, sure I'd killed him. The butler came running and Father yelled at him to call an ambulance and that was when I pulled myself together. I looked around for Sherlock and found him in a corner, staring at our father. I grabbed him and dragged him downstairs; there I got the keys to Father's Land Rover. I was close to London when I noticed I left my own car behind."
Mycroft stopped speaking; after a while, John asked, "And then, what?"
"What do you mean?"
"What happened afterwards? With Sherlock, with your father?"
"I phoned him. One week after he was released from the hospital, he did what I told him to; he left the country."
"Wait a moment, what? What?"
Mycroft flinched, but he did not look up and he did not answer.
"You didn't report him? No police, no court case, no anything?"
"I made sure… he didn't… I kept him under surveillance." John gritted his teeth but before he could say anything, Mycroft continued. "After a few years, I was sure he was solely fixated on Sherlock. After all, he was fifteen years old when…"
Harshly, John interrupted him. "And what about Sherlock? How must he have felt when…?"
"He was the one who asked me not to, who begged me not to!" Mycroft barked.
"He was a boy!"
"He was fifteen years old!"
John looked at him for a second, then he tried to open the door; Mycroft stopped him. "I am sorry, John. I am. I know that I did the wrong thing. This isn't… I didn't know what to do. I was unable to cope with the situation, with Sherlock. I told you before, I couldn't reach him. I tried to help him by doing what he wanted. Believe me, I know I failed again."
John shook his head, trying to clear it. He was so angry he could barely see straight but he knew he was angry about the wrong person. Sherlock had been a boy, but Mycroft had not been much more than a boy either. "What about your mother?"
Mycroft crossed his arms. "Our mother had nothing to do with this."
"Excuse me?"
"She wasn't there when it happened and she doesn't know anything about it. It's the one point where we both, Sherlock and I, are in agreement. She is a frail woman, in body and mind. She would not be able to understand this; I doubt she would survive it."
John stared. It was absolutely clear that Mycroft was serious, and still, John could not believe it. "And what did you tell her when her husband…" He was interrupted by the ringing of his phone. Irritated, he got it out of his pocket to turn it off but then he saw who was phoning. "Sherlock? Is everything all right?"
For a moment, there was nothing but a jumble of sounds. Then, a bit muffled, he heard someone talking but it wasn't Sherlock. In the next moment, John was out of the car and running. Behind him, he could hear Mycroft calling out for him; he did not look back.
***
He was already racing upstairs, with no clear memory how he had gotten there or how much time had passed. He remembered falling down on the slippery streets at least once; his hands were skinned, he was dirty and soaked. Not stopping to check if it was locked, he kicked in the door to their flat. The living room was dark and the shadows were playing tricks on him because for a moment he could see not two men but a man and a child by the fireplace but even that did not stop him. He knew exactly where the bastard was standing - turning, surprised, hands falling off his prey.
Moving forward quickly, he hauled him away, far away, until they both crashed against the cabinet beside the window. The fan went flying, and he heard glass breaking. His left hand clawed at the other's throat. He pinned him sideward onto the wall; the angle was not perfect but it didn't matter. Blocking blows easily with his right arm, he started to smile; the other man was already choking. His fingers dug deeper into his neck.
Then he heard movement behind him; he turned slightly and Holmes threw him off. He felt a punch to the stomach and he tumbled to the right side and fell against the desk. The drawers burst open, one fell to the floor, the other was hanging precariously at the edge. The next blow almost brought him to his knees, but instead of hanging on to the unsteady desk he turned and grabbed the other man's waist. Both of them went down, and he managed to land on top. Immediately, his hands closed around the thin neck again. The lights went on and he heard voices yelling but he could not make out words; the roaring in his ears and the gasps of the man beneath him were far too loud. And still, the sudden brightness distracted him and Holmes managed to land another blow, this time directly on his face. For a moment, he saw black spots dancing before his eyes and his grip loosened; Holmes wiggled out and away from under him.
He made it back on his feet at the same time the other man did; Holmes was right in front of him, hand on his throat and a murderous look in his eyes. He started to strike out at him again but his movement was hindered; hands were clasping his arms, drawing him backwards. He struggled against them but before he could lash out at whoever was behind him he saw Holmes turn his head and looking at… The grip on his arms slackened and he acted immediately. He grabbed the gun from the open drawer and aimed. Holmes froze.
"JOHN, NO!"
He pulled the trigger, but his arm was shoved to the side. The shot went wild; something on the kitchen table fell down and shattered.
***
For a moment, no one moved. Then Holmes whirled around and ran out of the flat, passing a white-faced Mrs Hudson who had pressed both hands against her mouth and was staring at John. Someone tugged at the gun in John's hand; he blinked a few times and saw Mycroft at his side. He let go of the gun and watched as Mycroft unloaded it then threw it on the chair closest to them. John could not move, not think; he felt numb all over. Mycroft grabbed him by the shoulders and said something but he didn't understand what. He heard a whimpering sound coming from Mrs Hudson; Mycroft released him and strode over to her, guiding her away from the threshold into the hall and then it hit him. Sherlock! Oh Christ!
John stumbled the few steps over to the fireplace where Sherlock was sitting, falling down on his knees beside him. Sherlock didn't react at all to his presence; he was huddling there and staring straight ahead with unblinking eyes. Carefully, John looked him over, not daring to touch yet. He was wearing his dressing gown; it was obvious he had taken a shower, his hair was still damp. The collar of the gown was ripped, and Sherlock's lips… John took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He could not afford to lose it again, not now. Still, his mind shied away from what must have happened here while Sherlock had been alone with his father. At least -and god, right now he was thankful for even the smallest favours- Sherlock was wearing his pyjama bottoms. No t-shirt, no slippers, though, and he must be cold and there were shards in the kitchen and… John bit hard on his own lips and tried to rein his brain in.
"Sherlock?" he asked quietly.
No answer. Behind him, John could hear Mrs Hudson saying, "But he told me he's his father!" and Mycroft's clipped response, "He is our father," but Sherlock remained silent.
"Sherlock?" John asked again, laying a hand cautiously on Sherlock's arm.
Jerkily, Sherlock turned his head and looked at John. "He kissed me. I begged him not to," he stated, almost casually. John's stomach did a slow roll but before he could say something, Sherlock turned completely away from him, got on his knees and started retching.
John leaned forward immediately; he put one hand on Sherlock's forehead, the other on his stomach. He could feel muscles rippling under his hand, stomach heaving. Sherlock did not vomit but continued with the horrible retching.
"Hey. Try to breathe, okay?" John gritted his teeth again; he knew how inadequate his words were but he could not think of something more helpful right now.
"I'll call an ambulance."
Sherlock flinched. John turned his head slightly and looked up at Mycroft who stood behind them, mobile in hand, eyes dark and face white. "No, don't do that."
"John, we have to…"
With all his might, John tried to keep his voice calm. "I don't think he's physically hurt. If I'm wrong I'll make sure he gets help. But what Sherlock doesn't need right now is to deal with a hospital full of strangers."
"This is not for you to decide," Mycroft hissed and started dialling. Without really thinking about it, John let go of Sherlock, straightened up and took the phone right out of Mycroft's hand, closing it.
"Neither is it your decision."
That brought back quite a bit colour to Mycroft's face, and John felt his own temper rising. He stamped down on it; the last thing he needed now was a fight with Sherlock's brother about who was in charge here. Before Mycroft could do so much as open his mouth, John threw the phone on the chair where his gun was, then turned back to Sherlock. Thankfully, Sherlock seemed to have heeded John's advice and started breathing, calming down physically, at least. He was already trying to get back on his feet, so John rose too, reaching out. Sherlock took John's arm and while he did not look at John, he didn't release his arm, either.
"Sherlock, I'll take you home with me. We should…"
Sherlock interrupted him. "Go away, Mycroft," he said as he turned on his heel and went through the kitchen towards his bedroom, sidestepping the shards on the floor.
Hesitantly, John glanced at Mycroft and averted his eyes at once. Mycroft looked… lost. Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, John murmured, "I'm sure he didn't mean it; he is…"
"Spare me," Mycroft stated, expression blank. He picked up his phone and left.
Right. Shoving aside any thoughts about Mycroft, John looked at the glimmer of light shining out of Sherlock's bedroom. He left the door ajar. Wavering for a few seconds, John finally followed him. If he does not want company, I will just sit in front of his door. For the rest of the night.
On his way, John passed the refrigerator and had to stop for a moment. Christ. Just an hour ago… He closed his eyes and shook his head once. So not the time to think about that. He moved on.
Pausing again on the threshold, John just looked at Sherlock. Pyjama jacket on, gown thrown into a corner, he sat on the edge of his bed, head down, elbows on his knees. John knocked against the doorframe. "May I come in?"
Without glancing up, Sherlock nodded.
John entered slowly, wondering what he should do; standing awkwardly somewhere in the room or sitting down beside Sherlock on the bed, just as awkwardly. Finally, he just crouched down in front of him. "How are you doing?"
"Supremely fine."
"Yes, sorry. Stupid question."
When Sherlock didn't answer, John lowered his head even further, trying to catch Sherlock's eyes, to no avail. Sitting back onto his heels, John tried to relax a bit. Curiously enough, he found himself at peace with being silent and close to Sherlock; any questions he might have wanted to ask could wait.
Eventually, Sherlock looked up, a highly guarded expression on his face. "Just say it."
"I'm sorry, what?"
"Say it. Tell me I should have fought back, knocked him out. After all, he shouldn't be a match for me."
John was dumbstruck; the thought hadn't even crossed his mind. While he was groping for words, he saw Sherlock blinking once. Undoubtedly, Sherlock had no trouble reading John's thoughts but -just as undoubtedly- was very confused about what he saw… or about what he did not see.
Softly, John said, "Sherlock, you were conditioned to not fight back."
Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "What did Mycroft tell you?"
"Not much. Enough. Well, let's say I've heard more than enough from Mycroft."
"Do not blame him for anything that happened."
John sighed. "I don't. Your father's to blame. But I do not agree with Mycroft on many things; I try to keep in mind though that he was only 22 then." He gnawed on his lower lip slightly. "What happened here? I mean… how did he get in here?"
"Mrs Hudson." Sherlock swallowed; John could see his Adam's apple bobbing. "When I came out from the bathroom he was in the living room, waiting for me."
"Sherlock… level with me, please? How are you? Did he… are you hurt?"
Sherlock shook his head. "No. No. I… actually I am not sure I can remember everything. But he didn't have time to… You were here very quickly." He took a shaky breath. "I think he wanted to make a point. He did."
John laid a hand over Sherlock's that were once again tightly clasped. "Excuse me for a second, will you?" He tried to stand up but was hindered by Sherlock.
"John, don't. You won't need it."
Grimacing, John shook his head. "You don't know that."
"He won't come back. John, you almost shot him tonight."
"I wish I had." It wasn't lip service; John wanted to kill him… but he also wanted things to be that easy. He knew they weren't. "Anyway, I think you are right. But just in case you're not… I do not want to be sorry about this later. I'll be back in a moment."
John went back into the living room and picked up his gun. While he was reloading it, he made a mental note to phone a locksmith the next day; he wanted every lock in their flat changed. A carpenter, too; one door is kicked in. He shoved the gun into his waistband and turned around to lock the doors he still could. Almost jumping out of his skin, John found himself face to face with Sherlock. Dammit, how does he do that? Then he noticed the pillow under Sherlock's left arm.
"We're sleeping upstairs."
"… Are you sure? My bed isn't exactly big."
"I know."
***
John closed the door and locked it, then leaned back against it for a moment, keeping a close eye on Sherlock who was just inspecting the window locks. So much for 'He won't come back', John thought. He didn't really worry about Holmes returning -Sherlock had been right, the fact that he had actually pulled the trigger had shocked everyone present- but still, their home had been violated. John doubted he would get any sleep tonight no matter how tired he was. With a sigh, he straightened up and grimaced; god, his whole body hurt from the blows he had taken, not to mention his falling down on the streets.
"Your clothes are completely soaked."
Sighing, John looked up at Sherlock and stated the obvious. "Yes. It's raining."
Sherlock didn't react. "You have to take them off."
Frowning, John debated asking Sherlock again if he was all right, then decided against it. No reason to ask; he is not. He just nodded and started to shrug off his jacket when his wrists were suddenly seized. "Why didn't you tell me you are hurt?"
"This is minor, only a few scrapes and… Sherlock!"
Too late. Before John was able to realise what was happening, the door was already open and Sherlock running downstairs. Alarmed, John followed him only to stop after taking a few steps; he could hear Sherlock rummaging around in the bathroom. He threw a glance at his doctor's bag sitting in the corner, then sighed again. Not good. Not good at all. Leaving the door wide open, he removed the jacket, tie and shirt, keeping only his t-shirt on, then slipped out of his shoes and the equally sodden socks. When he started on his belt, Sherlock blew back into the room, towels over his shoulder, in one hand a bowl with water, in the other hand various… things, including for some strange reason a box with suppositories against fever.
"Where is your bag?" Sherlock asked, looking harassed.
Pointing at the corner and stepping out of the cord trousers that were clearly bound for the rubbish bin, John saw Sherlock blushing. This would have normally been a welcome opportunity for a jibe but now it was painful to watch and highlighting everything that wasn't right. John had to hand it to Sherlock, though; he only gritted his teeth momentarily, then put the bowl on the floor beside the bed, grabbed the bag, threw it on the mattress and ripped it open. John thought about giving advice but let it go and put his pyjama bottoms on instead. In the next moment he was hauled over to the bed; he sat down on it and in a strange repetition of their former positions in Sherlock's bedroom, Sherlock crouched down in front of him, clutching John's wrists again for closer inspection. Then the bottle with hydrogen peroxide landed beside him, and it was raining cotton balls.
"Sherlock, cotton balls aren't…"
"Yes, I know!" Sherlock was back at digging around in the bag until he finally re-emerged, in his hand packages of sterile bandages that he ripped open with his teeth. John kept his silence; he was deeply worried, Sherlock looked more than crazed. John also said nothing when Sherlock cleaned the wounds… it hurt like hell, especially because Sherlock was moving far too quickly and roughly. John recognised the signs; something bad was coming, was waiting to explode, and he tried once again to gather his wits together, blocking out the threatening feelings of exhaustion.
Finally finished with the hands, Sherlock looked up at John out of dark eyes, then all of a sudden he took hold of John's face, turning it slightly. He hissed in a breath, and John cursed under his breath. He had all but forgotten that Holmes had landed a blow on his face. Again, he tried. "Don't fret, it doesn't even hurt. He hadn't…" Just as suddenly, Sherlock released him, stood up and backed away until his backside collided with John's small desk. In an awfully high voice, Sherlock whispered, "He's right. He's right."
Hair standing up on end, John got up quickly. "Whatever you think he is right about, he is not."
Sherlock didn't seem to hear him; he kept whispering, too silently for John to understand.
"Sherlock? Sherlock!"
Looking John over from head to toe Sherlock finally stated -thankfully in his normal voice-, "This will not work." He huffed. "What am I saying? There was never anything happening that could work."
"We already had this conversation."
"No, we did not."
"Yes, we did."
"No, we… "
"What did your father say to you?"
Paler than ever, Sherlock shook his head and retreated further, almost bumping into the wall. "Nothing."
John followed him slowly; he didn't want to crowd Sherlock but he also couldn't stand the distance. "Sherlock," he said quietly, "talk to me. Talk to me, please."
"I must not," Sherlock said hoarsely, and then he stared at something behind John, eyes wide and filled with such horror that John whirled around, hand immediately reaching for the gun. Nothing. Nobody. John took a deep breath. When he turned back to Sherlock he found him sitting on the floor, knees drawn up, face buried in his hands. For a moment, John's mind went through all sedatives he had at hand but discarded the thought at once. He gently placed one hand on Sherlock's knee and murmured, "There is no one here."
"I know," the muffled reply came. "I'm losing my mind."
"No, you're not. You're in shock. I'll spare you the blanket." That earned John a slightly hysterical chuckle that ended in a sobbing sound. When Sherlock lowered his hands though, his eyes were dry but so desperate looking that John sat down on the floor beside Sherlock. "Hey."
"No one stays," Sherlock bit out, "No one. I never wanted them to stay. But now…" he bit on his lips. "I'm sorry. I sound like…"
"No, no, no," John interrupted him. Inwardly, he decided that a bullet would provide a far too quick death anyway; Holmes deserved someone who would take his time with him. "I won't leave. Sherlock, come on. You know me."
"But you didn't know that."
"It makes no difference…"
"Look at me!" Sherlock spread his arms as wide as possible. "I'm a mess!"
"Would you hear me out? It makes no difference to the way I feel about you. I do not think I'm in love, Sherlock. I am in love. I love you. And I don't love easily, so please do not talk about me leaving you!"
John could see that Sherlock was reeling; so was he. He had not intended to throw out declarations like that. Stupid! Stupid! Jesus Christ!
"I don't think I can do it. I don't know how to do it."
Swallowing hard, John asked, "What do you mean?"
Sherlock gestured towards the bed. "Relationships!"
"Look, sex isn't all that…"
"I'm not talking about sex!" Sherlock almost yelled, "I have no problems with sex!"
John had severe doubts about that but kept them under wraps. "What are you talking about then? Sherlock, I hate to break this to you but we are already in a relationship, have been for over two years, actually."
Sherlock made an impatient noise and John smiled a bit. "It is the truth. The one thing for you to decide is whether you want us to become closer or not."
Closing his eyes, Sherlock nodded slowly. "There is no way you could be too close to me." He opened his eyes again. "You scare me to death."
"Likewise," John croaked. He raised a hand to lay it on Sherlock's cheek; Sherlock immediately nestled against it. John's thumb carefully caressed the soft lips, almost not touching them. Grey eyes watched him closely, then Sherlock asked, "Would you?"
Instead of answering, John leaned forward and kissed him, lips moving slowly against each other. Eventually, he wrapped his arms around the lean waist and drew Sherlock into an embrace. Close like this, John could feel the faint tremors still running over the body in his arms but he also felt the moment when Sherlock ultimately relaxed. He nosed a bit through the dark locks and asked, "Bed?"
"In a moment?"
"All right," John answered, pressing another kiss on the soft cheek.
***
When they finally had settled down, Sherlock's head on John's chest, John stroked slowly through the curls and tried to suppress a yawn. The last hours, hell, the last days were catching up with him. His gaze swept over the loaded gun on the nightstand to the door.
"It's locked, John. Please do not develop an OCD."
John huffed. "I just went back there once."
"And you just thought about getting up again."
"Maybe." John's fingers combed back Sherlock's fringe then let it trickle down again. "May I ask you a question?"
"Mhm."
"Where do you think your father is right now?"
Sherlock's head pushed slightly against John's hand. Realising he had stopped, John continued the soft petting motion, very aware why he had stopped. He had -again- rocked the boat, despite not wanting to.
"Hmmm." John started breathing again; that was definitely Sherlock's analysing tone. "Probably at the airport, in the common waiting room. Business class. Mycroft would never look for him there."
"At the airport?"
"He is booked on the first flight to New York, tomorrow morning."
"He is?"
"Yes." Sherlock craned his head backwards to glance at John. "This isn't over yet, though. He will…"
"Oh, there you are right! This is so far from over, I can't even tell you."
One corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched. "Stop that." His expression became serious again. "John, he will try to make your life hell, now more than before. Believe me he has his own connections, resources. You took… something away from him. Something that he thinks belongs to him. To say he won't like it would be an understatement and to think he will let it go would be a fatal mistake."
"My stance on that has not changed; I don't give a shit about him or about what he can do."
Sherlock kissed John's chin. "Thankfully, Mycroft isn't without connections, either."
"Can't we leave your brother out of this?"
"No, John. Unfortunately, we can't." Sherlock wriggled upwards and laid his head on John's pillow. "Do you think you can sleep?"
John shrugged. "I don't know."
"There's something else on your mind."
John didn't answer; Sherlock was right, of course, as usual. But the topic he was thinking about wasn't something he wanted to discuss right now. He just had to think about Mycroft's reaction to it to…
"It's about my mother, isn't it?"
"How…?"
"It's perfectly obvious. What do you want to know?"
"I cannot figure out your mother's part in this… I mean, how could she not know?" Sherlock sighed and John back-paddled immediately. "You don't have to…"
Sherlock interrupted him. "It's not that. It's just… I'm not sure how to explain the way my mother looks at the world. She is… eccentric. Always had been. So eccentric, my father was able to put her into a sanatorium without meeting any resistance. Mycroft brought her home after… after my father had left. To this day, she has been diagnosed with almost every mental disorder that exists," Sherlock sneered. "Utter idiots, all of them. Her behaviour… or her symptoms, if you like the word better, do not fit any of them."
"What symptoms?"
Sherlock made a pained noise. "She lives in her own world, John. Look, she never even realised my father had left for good. For the last twenty years, whenever I visited her and Mycroft, I had to listen to her explaining to me that my father was on vacation but would come back home soon."
"Jesus."
"Yes. I don't visit her very often."
Sherlock sounded guilt-ridden so John drew him closer, cursing himself for bringing this up in the first place. "If you ask me, it's understandable. It must be hard to hear that." John rubbed his hands in what he hoped was a soothing manner over Sherlock's back. "Sorry for prying."
"She still spends lots of time at the manor. Not right now, of course, it's too cold and too remote. But the moment Spring comes, she goes back there." Sherlock wriggled upwards until his head was resting beside John's on the pillow. Seemingly lost in thought, he stroked one finger over John's nose, over and over again. "I never went back to the house. Maybe I should have."
"Maybe."
Sherlock looked straight ahead for another moment, then he literally shook himself. "None of this is important, not now. You are important."
John smiled helplessly. "I am?"
"You always were."
***
"This couldn't have waited? It's eight o'clock in the morning and I just… - It is not for you to decide whether I stay in London or not! It is also my choice whom I take with me and whom I leave behind; as you know I have my own domestics. - Do not 'Mummy' me, young man! Now, I have already invited my friends for my birthday on Saturday, and I want to see both of my sons here as well. Promise you will prise Sherlock away from London? - Very well. - No, whatever it is, we can talk about it the day after tomorrow. Goodbye sweetheart."
Galiena Holmes put down the receiver and smiled at the man standing beside her. "Mycroft can be so difficult at times, Richard."
~*~