Sherlock (BBC) Fanfic - Survival - Chapter 10
Title: Survival (chapter 10)
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Characters: Sherlock, John, Molly, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, Moriarty (men.), Homeless Network, Col. Moran
Genre: Drama, hurt/comfort, angst, friendship - there will be a great deal of bromance (or pre-slash, you can in fact read this one either way)
Rating: T
Chapter Length: 3,889 words
Spoilers: End of series 2, “The Reichenbach Fall”
Warnings: Spoilers, angst, some violence and mentions of drugs
Status: Incomplete
Summary: “Sherlock had never expected dismantling Moriarty’s empire would be anything less than gruelling, however he also never anticipated just how desperately he would miss home.” Post-Reichenbach to reunion; Sherlock’s p.o.v.
Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7
- Chapter 8 - Chapter 9
A.N.: I am so, so sorry for the lengthy delay. Unfortunately, I’ve been very unwell - my depression ramped things up a lot, and I’m afraid in all the ugliness this ended up taking a back-seat. I won’t bore you with the details, but I will assure you that it was neither planned nor a conscious choice, and that I’m extremely sorry. To try to avoid a repeat, I’m afraid I’m changing the scheduling slightly. Instead of a new chapter every Monday, I’ll be updating once a fortnight - this is to help me get a handle on my brain again, and to avoid putting unnecessary pressure on my betas. I’m very sorry to do this, but I’m afraid that, for now at least, it feels like the most responsible option.
Anyway, I need to thank everyone for their lovely comments here on LJ, and reviews and adds over on FFn. Even though I’ve got them so late, they’ve been a joy to read, and I am ever so grateful for all the kind words. Thank you!
As ever, thanks need to go to my wonderful betas - infinityuphigh, interjection, patchsassy and velveteenkitten - for all their hard work, kindness and patience. Thank you so, so much.
Cover by carolstime
ooo
SURVIVAL - CHAPTER 10
ooo
Sherlock is barely a meter from the doors, taking his first drag on a sorely-needed cigarette, when the Lucerne branch of Bachmann’s explodes behind him. The blast of superheated air shoves him forward and down towards the pavement; Sherlock throws his hands against the ground first in an attempt to save his face, hoping that his gloves will somehow hold, only to cry out at the feeling of his skin being shredded by the friction. The action may have prevented the flesh of his jaw and chin being ripped away, but it does little to temper the force of the unavoidable impact and his head strikes hard against tarmac. He hears, as though from a great distance, brake pads protesting sudden abuse. The road. He is in the road.
Panic seizes him. Not so much due to his location (the shop is set back on Shwanenplatz, with far less traffic than the main road a few extra, life-saving meters away), but because of the sudden sluggish quality of his thoughts. Each one takes so many more seconds than usual and a frightening amount of effort - he hit his head, yes, but this cannot be due to concussion alone. Sherlock knows concussion well, has thought through and around the foggy, slow sensations many times, and this is not it. Concussion does not freeze his thoughts part-way to completion like this.
His fingers are cold. He briefly entertains the thought that they should be, now his gloves are gone, but the torn skin should be burning pain along his nerves. Instead, they are already freezing at their tips.
Shock, Sherlock realises with a jolt. He is going into shock. Interesting. There were times, of course, during his seven percent days, but he has never suffered such a reaction to simple violence before. All he can assume is that the heat and debris have done more damage to him than he is currently able to discern.
The sound of the initial blast echoes in Sherlock’s head and he cringes against the ground, raising torn and bloody hands to shield his skull and cervical vertebrae. They are precious little protection. He desperately wants his coat, his wonderful Belstaff, and finds himself unable to recall where it went. He knows it is in London, but cannot remember where; the idea that he has somehow damaged his memory sends his heart-rate soaring for a moment, worsening his panic and causing him to hyperventilate, until he remembers that he was never privy to where it went after Molly carefully bagged it. An evidence locker, perhaps, or to Lestrade once it became clear that its presence in 221B was hurting John. A skip.
Thoughts of the coat inevitably creep closer to thoughts of the last time he was on the ground like this, the last time he was bleeding on the floor with a concussion and jumbled thoughts, and he throws up the mental blocks. Sherlock cannot afford to be distracted from the present. Not with a semi-destroyed, still-burning building less than fifteen meters from his feet and his health becoming more compromised by the moment.
The screams have finally started, the brain’s instinctive “bubble-wrap” reaction wearing off as people slowly accept what they are seeing. One woman is laughing hysterically, uncontrollably, somewhere to Sherlock’s left; her reaction triggers his own crazed giggles, hauling them from his throat in spite of his attempts to suppress them. It is not at all the same as standing beside John, giggling companionably at a crime scene in London. Except that it is, even if it is frenzied rather than warm, because what is the bombing of a shop full of civilians if not a crime? Not that he would be required to assist with this one, when the answer (suicide bomb, mark carried a backpack so probably aiming for Sherlock himself - unaware of the latter, the authorities will put it down to terrorism) is so simple and clear.
He opens his eyes. Black. Tarmac. No, his head is turned to face the source of the laughter - at this angle it cannot be only the road. Blindne- Sleeve. It is the sleeve of his jacket. His hands are still above his head, going numb as less blood reaches them. Bad for shock, that.
He lowers them, settling his arms out at thirty-degree angles to his sides and wriggling his fingers as best he can. He has to improve his circulation. It is rather less than healthy at the best of times, never mind when he is dazed, bloody and in shock in the middle of a Swiss road.
(Swiss road. Swiss road, Swiss roll, jam - John - dessert - desert-Afghanistan-John - breakfast - John - kitchen - John - 221B, JohnJohnJohn, need John, need doctor need John - )
He can see the laughing woman (mid-twenties, single, jeweller, day off). Her arm is missing. No, not missing. Removed from her person but not missing because he can see it lying three meters above her head, taken off by a piece of fast-moving debris. Glass from one of the large windows, most likely; the angle was very unlucky. She requires assistance within the next eighty-eight seconds if she is going to live. Shock and blood loss - she needs a doctor.
She needs John. Sherlock needs John. John is a soldier and a doctor and brilliant. John would know exactly what to do or say to stop the infernal racket everyone is making. John would be able to tell Sherlock whether he has damaged anything aside from his hands, and would be able to force Sherlock’s body to accept his mind’s attempts to get it under control.
The shouts begin as a handful of bystanders regain their self-control. They ask, inanely, whether everyone is alright, the question posed in German and then translated through language after language after language - when Sherlock dares to hope that they have finished broadcasting their stupidity, they begin again from the start. Yet no one comes forward to help. The wreckage behind Sherlock is obviously unstable, judging by the smell of smoke and intermittent crashes coming from it, and no one dares to risk coming any closer. If a gas main is damaged, or if a second bomb is waiting… Sherlock can understand the caution being shown, but that does not stop him wanting to throttle the idiots calling on him to “hang in there,” and telling him, “it’ll be okay.”
Eighty-nine seconds. The woman is going to die.
Sherlock wants to tell her. She is calling out for help between barks of uncontrollable laughter and the odd half-screamed sob, yelling in German (Baden-Württemberg region, most likely Stuttgart - she is terrified and letting her accent slip) for someone to save her. Her remaining hand is clamped hard over the stump of her left arm, trying and failing to stem the heavy blood-loss. It is as painful as it is pointless, Sherlock is sure; he should tell her. If he tells her not to worry or struggle, that she will be dead within the next seven minutes no matter how hard she fights it or how much medical attention she may receive, then she can let go of the wound. It will be faster, and far less agonising. A ‘kinder’ end. And Sherlock might not particularly care for her or the racket she is making, but he can still be kind.
Wait. Kind. There is something about kindness, something John told him to consider when Sherlock intends to be kind. It was after the incident with Molly and Jim, he is sure of that much - he can see John, standing across from him a week after their first encounter with Moriarty (their first chance to really talk about everything, due to the chaos of the case and the resulting backlash), wearing a painfully bright, cadmium orange jumper (sent by Harry) and looking both frustrated and sympathetic as he realised that Sherlock had genuinely been trying to help. Still, he had insisted that Sherlock plan out an apology for Molly before he allowed a trip to Bart’s.
What was it he said, though? A strict instruction, John slipping slightly into the military tone employed to make Sherlock eat or sleep or cease playing the violin between the hours of one and five in the morning. He can hear it in his head, but the words seem foreign. Frustration swells. He needs to remember, quickly, so that he can tell her and she can let go of her arm. Do not be ‘kind’ when… When what? John always appeared so pleasantly surprised when Sherlock showed unnecessary compassion to strangers or acquaintances, so it has to be important. He closes his eyes, trying to use the vivid mental image of John in that hideous jumper to sink into the memory of the accompanying lecture. The older man only wore the damn thing twice before trying not to look too relieved when Sherlock ‘accidentally’ caught one of the arms with some foul bile during an experiment, so it should be far easier to reference than it is proving to be today.
Shock, blood loss and concussion; not a helpful combination.
The temptation to disregard whatever promise he gave John soon becomes enormous; it is not as though he will ever find out, and the jeweller’s cries have become incoherent squeals between laughter and sobs as she works herself into an even worse panic. She is giving Sherlock a headache. It would not be the first time he has broken a promise to John, and it almost certainly would not be the last either, although it is rare for him to do so deliberately.
John will never know, and ignorance is bliss.
Ah. “Ignorance is bliss.” That was it. When someone is happier not knowing, it is not always a kindness to force the truth upon them.
The woman does not want to die - that much is obvious. She may be in agony, but she is happier clinging to the hope that she will be, by some miracle, saved. Informing her that she will not be would not be a kindness, and would probably only cause her to become more obnoxiously loud.
Sherlock keeps quiet, simply watching as the bruises begin to form on her face and neck. He studies her wounds and calculates trajectories and blood-loss, taking as much data from her as he can. There is no sense in wasting it, after all.
Little things keep distracting him as a result of his own injuries, proving that he must be worse off than he can feel. He has been injured as a result of experiments and cases, and has repeatedly indulged in legal and illegal highs, but losing his ability to concentrate on useful or important data is a rare thing. For example, there is a pistachio macaroon four inches from the jeweller’s hip, which Sherlock finds himself almost mesmerised by until the emergency services finally make their grand entrance (Lestrade would have had men here in half the time) and the right knee of a paramedic crushes it.
His medical and technical German are both excellent, so it confuses him when he finds that he cannot make sense of what is being said. A woman (freshly-trained, single, former youth worker) comes to hunker down at Sherlock’s side, half blocking his view of the jeweller; she asks him five questions, repeating each one, but Sherlock cannot decipher a single word. After more than a minute of dreadful confusion, Sherlock realises with a jolt that he has been trying to translate her words using Russian.
“Robert,” he tells her, grabbing her sleeve as she begins turning towards a colleague to ask whether he speaks any foreign languages. “I’m Robert Clarke. My hands and head, my hands and head are hurt, but I can’t really feel anything - I’m in shock, you need to treat me for shock,” he instructs.
His German is still somewhat wobbly, and he thinks he may have used the Spanish for “hands,” but the paramedic offers a smile and a nod, ignoring his patronising words. “We are very good at what we do,” she replies, speaking slowly for him. Her tone is warm, and full of confidence (faked). “You just keep still and try not to worry.”
A ridiculous statement, in such circumstances. He cannot help but be concerned, especially when she is being so noticeably and excessively careful of his upper back. He has proven that he can move his extremities without trouble, and the concern she is showing with regards to a possible spinal injury is separate, in any case. There is something wrong with his back; something Sherlock is currently unable to feel. The thought makes him embarrassingly uneasy.
When they load him onto a stretcher with no more than a cursory check of his front (not that he is concerned about that - his back was to the shop when it exploded, his hands broke his fall, there were no unexplained or unaccounted for pains as he landed, and he is experiencing no trouble breathing), he allows himself to feel just a little afraid.
ooo
Sherlock wakes in a private room, his memories hazy and disjointed. He knows that he lost consciousness at least once in the ambulance, and thrice in A&E. At one point he was being readied for surgery, he is certain, however he has no recollection of waking up again between then and now.
He ignores the phantom cry of his name. It is a figment of a confused mind trying to find the familiar; John is not here, and will not be coming here, no matter what his half-drugged brain is telling him based on prior experience, and he needs to accept that quickly. Or, at the very least, distract himself until the stronger and more addling medications wear off a little.
He turns his attention to his location instead. The average idiot would assume that he is waking in the Kantonsspital, a couple of hours after a successful surgery. Sherlock knows better. He is on his side, facing the window, but the sound of the torrential rain just beyond the glass would have made it obvious that he is no longer in Lucerne even if he had been turned towards the door; the forecast there had been clear skies for the next three days. Aside from that rather obvious clue, the décor is simple, clean and reassuringly professional, but not overly cheerful as most hospitals are. Combined with the steady, smart footfalls and other ambient noises, Sherlock is tentatively confident that he has been kept sedated after surgery and quickly transferred to a military hospital. Mycroft’s doing, naturally, so British military and reasonably close to London - Sandhurst, most likely.
A voice echoing in the corridor (smart, clipped, respectful, and speaking English) confirms Sherlock’s inferences.
The owner is also speaking to his brother.
Sherlock allows himself one heavy sigh, feeling the bandages securing a thick layer of gauze to his back tighten as he does so (slight pain - Mycroft has already begun insisting that Sherlock be weaned off the heavier painkillers). He is in no mood to suffer his brother’s company. They may have established a brittle peace between them, particularly after Dublin, but the majority of their conversations continue to end with stinging barbs and vitriol. Sherlock is frustrated and confused and still rather thoroughly drugged, and the last thing he needs is to humiliate himself in front of his older brother in such an impaired state. He wants to speak to a doctor, to be told what exactly has happened to him, when he will be able to move around, and what can be done to hasten his recovery; he does not want to spend the next hour being lectured for his evident mistakes.
It would help if he were able to determine just what those mistakes are - at least then he would have the advantage of being able to come up with an appropriate defence. Unfortunately, he has no idea. Going back through his actions, step-by-step, he cannot find one instance of carelessness or failure to follow proper procedures. There is nothing he would now choose to do differently, even with the benefit of hindsight.
When Mycroft walks in, striding across the small room to stand directly in the centre of Sherlock’s field of vision, the concern and lack of recrimination written into his face make it obvious that he has already come to the same conclusion. It is a relief to know that he did not miss anything, that he was not responsible for the explosion, and Sherlock allows himself another sigh as he relaxes his tensed and dully aching muscles. The deaths do not bother him, per se (death is a fact of existence; lamenting it is pointless), but the thought of having so much metaphorical blood on his hands was a distinctly uncomfortable one. People die, yes, and aside from a handful of important exceptions Sherlock is not at all troubled by that, but he is still not particularly comfortable with the idea of directly causing innocent deaths. Killing assassins and the odd serial killer is one thing; effectively murdering jewellers, tourists and shopkeepers is something else entirely.
“It was a set-up,” Mycroft informs him, voice pitched low. “The work of the Colonel you identified as an agent, it seems. As far as we can tell, the Lucerne office was expecting one of our operatives in the near future but had no idea who would be assigned; they never would have suspected you without help. The Colonel arrived to ‘bring them back into the fold,’ as it were, four nights before the bombing. We believe he brought information and relevant surveillance from various other offices with him.”
“Coimbra. Barcelona had passed the word along,” he mutters, irritated with himself for having disregarded a possibility out of sheer hope, “which is how they knew to follow me that first day. Then they managed to get a photograph out before your raid.”
“Precisely.” There is no apology there, and Sherlock finds that he is unwilling to ask for one when they are both clearly at fault.
“He didn’t see me slip outside, then.”
Mycroft’s lips twitch, almost to a smile. “Not until he had pressed the detonator, and the two seconds he had weren’t enough for him to do anything about it, obviously.”
Sherlock offers a tight smile of his own, before asking, “My injuries?”
“Mostly minor, thankfully,” the older man tells him, moving to finally take a seat. “You avoided any primary blast injuries thanks to your little smoking habit, but you suffered secondary and tertiary damage, as you should already know. I’ve been assured that none of them are serious. Shallow lacerations and deep bruises, that’s all. Three of the deepest cuts had shrapnel embedded and may scar slightly.”
“Of course. Neurotrauma?”
“Nothing serious or permanent. You were in and out of consciousness for a while, and apparently seemed confused… You were suffering both circulatory and mental shock though; some minor confusion and memory issues were to be expected. The concussion was only grade one or two, depending on which system you would like me to reference, and you were properly monitored.”
Sherlock hums, largely unconcerned. “And my hands will be fine, I can see that much. What about my back, Mycroft? Or am I trussed up like this due to lack of an available training dummy?”
“Don’t tempt me,” is the retort, although it is half-hearted at best. “You suffered a rather serious second-degree burn across your shoulder blades and upper back. It was deep - required a skin graft.”
“What sort?” Sherlock questions, eager at the thought of first-hand data with its many and varied advantages.
“Allogeneric. There will be scarring around the edges,” he points out, entirely unnecessarily. Mycroft is far less fussy than the Brussels team though, which is a relief - had the elder Holmes discarded his usual detached demeanour, Sherlock may have had to request another stretch of unconsciousness in order to recover.
“Hmm. The shock prevented me feeling the pain of it,” he mutters, uncomfortable with the knowledge that his ‘transport’ had hidden such a thing from him.
“A piece of burning debris landed on you,” Mycroft explains. “It wasn’t particularly large, but it burned through your coat and jumper.”
“Irrelevant,” he huffs, abruptly glad to have been without the Belstaff after all. “I expect I’ll need new ones anyway, now that the Clarke identity has been compromised.”
“We’ll need to organise a new persona for you, yes. Do you have any preferences?” the older man inquires, and it is such a small thing, but Sherlock is incredibly grateful for the opportunity to choose.
“Erik Sigerson,” he answers, after some consideration. “Everything is already in place - all the necessary papers can be found at number two Berry Way, Rickmansworth.”
If Mycroft is surprised that Sherlock has managed to hide not only an entire third identity from him but also a property, he does not allow it to show. “I’ll have someone pick them up, along with new clothes and essentials. I assume nothing sensitive was left in your hotel room - they’ll have found it by now.”
“Nothing,” he confirms, allowing some of his irritation to seep into his tone. “I don’t even leave the keyrings in the suitcase, after my ‘abduction.’ And I see my bag was rescued.” He nods towards the corner cupboard, where the dark strap of his shoulder-bag is just visible, trapped in the door.
Mycroft dismisses the implied thanks with a flick of his wrist. “Then they have nothing of use. One, ah, one last thing, Sherlock,” he says, and it sounds like a hesitant promise. The elder Holmes’ discomfort is obvious, and Sherlock can feel his stomach clench. “With regards to your little collection. Do you need me to have someone procure a keyri-“
“No, thank you, no,” he interrupts, almost babbling and feeling as awkward as Mycroft looks. “I have one.”
“Right. Good, that’s good.” Mycroft is stumbling over his words as well (understandable - they don’t do this).
There is no long moment of staring in opposite directions - Mycroft stands and leaves without even a cursory farewell, and does not return. When Sherlock is finally discharged three hellishly boring weeks later (Mycroft arranging for him to be kept ‘safe,’ yet again), it is Whykes who arrives with his new identity. It is Whykes who drives him to a generous flat in central Cardiff; Whykes who cooks pancakes and makes tea at all hours of the day and night; Whykes who assists him with what remains of his injuries and dyeing his hair and eyebrows a more strawberry shade of blonde.
With the young soldier present, his longing for John’s company eases just enough for him to sleep properly for the first time in almost two months. The twenty-five-year-old may not be the most heartening or mentally stimulating company, but he is company nonetheless and the familiarity is very much appreciated. By the end of the third day, when the younger man is preparing to leave on another assignment, Sherlock has fallen effortlessly into the routines and habits they kept in Brussels. It is almost as though the interim months never occurred.
He wishes he could be ignorant and naïve enough to believe that the same will hold true when he returns to 221B.
ooo
As always, thank you so much for reading, and I really hope you enjoyed the chapter. If you do have the time and inclination, I would love to hear what you thought; no flames please, but con-crit is always welcome. Thank you!
Oh, and just a reminder that chapter 11 will be posted in 2 weeks rather than the former schedule of one chapter per week, so it should come out on the 1st/2nd of July. Again, I’m really not doing it to drag things out - I just want to do my best to make sure that such a long gap doesn’t happen again, plus I’m trying not to put too much pressure on my ever-amazing betas. I’m sorry, and I hope you’ll be willing to keep reading despite this.
Continue to Chapter 11...
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Characters: Sherlock, John, Molly, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, Moriarty (men.), Homeless Network, Col. Moran
Genre: Drama, hurt/comfort, angst, friendship - there will be a great deal of bromance (or pre-slash, you can in fact read this one either way)
Rating: T
Chapter Length: 3,889 words
Spoilers: End of series 2, “The Reichenbach Fall”
Warnings: Spoilers, angst, some violence and mentions of drugs
Status: Incomplete
Summary: “Sherlock had never expected dismantling Moriarty’s empire would be anything less than gruelling, however he also never anticipated just how desperately he would miss home.” Post-Reichenbach to reunion; Sherlock’s p.o.v.
Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7
- Chapter 8 - Chapter 9
A.N.: I am so, so sorry for the lengthy delay. Unfortunately, I’ve been very unwell - my depression ramped things up a lot, and I’m afraid in all the ugliness this ended up taking a back-seat. I won’t bore you with the details, but I will assure you that it was neither planned nor a conscious choice, and that I’m extremely sorry. To try to avoid a repeat, I’m afraid I’m changing the scheduling slightly. Instead of a new chapter every Monday, I’ll be updating once a fortnight - this is to help me get a handle on my brain again, and to avoid putting unnecessary pressure on my betas. I’m very sorry to do this, but I’m afraid that, for now at least, it feels like the most responsible option.
Anyway, I need to thank everyone for their lovely comments here on LJ, and reviews and adds over on FFn. Even though I’ve got them so late, they’ve been a joy to read, and I am ever so grateful for all the kind words. Thank you!
As ever, thanks need to go to my wonderful betas - infinityuphigh, interjection, patchsassy and velveteenkitten - for all their hard work, kindness and patience. Thank you so, so much.
Cover by carolstime
ooo
SURVIVAL - CHAPTER 10
ooo
Sherlock is barely a meter from the doors, taking his first drag on a sorely-needed cigarette, when the Lucerne branch of Bachmann’s explodes behind him. The blast of superheated air shoves him forward and down towards the pavement; Sherlock throws his hands against the ground first in an attempt to save his face, hoping that his gloves will somehow hold, only to cry out at the feeling of his skin being shredded by the friction. The action may have prevented the flesh of his jaw and chin being ripped away, but it does little to temper the force of the unavoidable impact and his head strikes hard against tarmac. He hears, as though from a great distance, brake pads protesting sudden abuse. The road. He is in the road.
Panic seizes him. Not so much due to his location (the shop is set back on Shwanenplatz, with far less traffic than the main road a few extra, life-saving meters away), but because of the sudden sluggish quality of his thoughts. Each one takes so many more seconds than usual and a frightening amount of effort - he hit his head, yes, but this cannot be due to concussion alone. Sherlock knows concussion well, has thought through and around the foggy, slow sensations many times, and this is not it. Concussion does not freeze his thoughts part-way to completion like this.
His fingers are cold. He briefly entertains the thought that they should be, now his gloves are gone, but the torn skin should be burning pain along his nerves. Instead, they are already freezing at their tips.
Shock, Sherlock realises with a jolt. He is going into shock. Interesting. There were times, of course, during his seven percent days, but he has never suffered such a reaction to simple violence before. All he can assume is that the heat and debris have done more damage to him than he is currently able to discern.
The sound of the initial blast echoes in Sherlock’s head and he cringes against the ground, raising torn and bloody hands to shield his skull and cervical vertebrae. They are precious little protection. He desperately wants his coat, his wonderful Belstaff, and finds himself unable to recall where it went. He knows it is in London, but cannot remember where; the idea that he has somehow damaged his memory sends his heart-rate soaring for a moment, worsening his panic and causing him to hyperventilate, until he remembers that he was never privy to where it went after Molly carefully bagged it. An evidence locker, perhaps, or to Lestrade once it became clear that its presence in 221B was hurting John. A skip.
Thoughts of the coat inevitably creep closer to thoughts of the last time he was on the ground like this, the last time he was bleeding on the floor with a concussion and jumbled thoughts, and he throws up the mental blocks. Sherlock cannot afford to be distracted from the present. Not with a semi-destroyed, still-burning building less than fifteen meters from his feet and his health becoming more compromised by the moment.
The screams have finally started, the brain’s instinctive “bubble-wrap” reaction wearing off as people slowly accept what they are seeing. One woman is laughing hysterically, uncontrollably, somewhere to Sherlock’s left; her reaction triggers his own crazed giggles, hauling them from his throat in spite of his attempts to suppress them. It is not at all the same as standing beside John, giggling companionably at a crime scene in London. Except that it is, even if it is frenzied rather than warm, because what is the bombing of a shop full of civilians if not a crime? Not that he would be required to assist with this one, when the answer (suicide bomb, mark carried a backpack so probably aiming for Sherlock himself - unaware of the latter, the authorities will put it down to terrorism) is so simple and clear.
He opens his eyes. Black. Tarmac. No, his head is turned to face the source of the laughter - at this angle it cannot be only the road. Blindne- Sleeve. It is the sleeve of his jacket. His hands are still above his head, going numb as less blood reaches them. Bad for shock, that.
He lowers them, settling his arms out at thirty-degree angles to his sides and wriggling his fingers as best he can. He has to improve his circulation. It is rather less than healthy at the best of times, never mind when he is dazed, bloody and in shock in the middle of a Swiss road.
(Swiss road. Swiss road, Swiss roll, jam - John - dessert - desert-Afghanistan-John - breakfast - John - kitchen - John - 221B, JohnJohnJohn, need John, need doctor need John - )
He can see the laughing woman (mid-twenties, single, jeweller, day off). Her arm is missing. No, not missing. Removed from her person but not missing because he can see it lying three meters above her head, taken off by a piece of fast-moving debris. Glass from one of the large windows, most likely; the angle was very unlucky. She requires assistance within the next eighty-eight seconds if she is going to live. Shock and blood loss - she needs a doctor.
She needs John. Sherlock needs John. John is a soldier and a doctor and brilliant. John would know exactly what to do or say to stop the infernal racket everyone is making. John would be able to tell Sherlock whether he has damaged anything aside from his hands, and would be able to force Sherlock’s body to accept his mind’s attempts to get it under control.
The shouts begin as a handful of bystanders regain their self-control. They ask, inanely, whether everyone is alright, the question posed in German and then translated through language after language after language - when Sherlock dares to hope that they have finished broadcasting their stupidity, they begin again from the start. Yet no one comes forward to help. The wreckage behind Sherlock is obviously unstable, judging by the smell of smoke and intermittent crashes coming from it, and no one dares to risk coming any closer. If a gas main is damaged, or if a second bomb is waiting… Sherlock can understand the caution being shown, but that does not stop him wanting to throttle the idiots calling on him to “hang in there,” and telling him, “it’ll be okay.”
Eighty-nine seconds. The woman is going to die.
Sherlock wants to tell her. She is calling out for help between barks of uncontrollable laughter and the odd half-screamed sob, yelling in German (Baden-Württemberg region, most likely Stuttgart - she is terrified and letting her accent slip) for someone to save her. Her remaining hand is clamped hard over the stump of her left arm, trying and failing to stem the heavy blood-loss. It is as painful as it is pointless, Sherlock is sure; he should tell her. If he tells her not to worry or struggle, that she will be dead within the next seven minutes no matter how hard she fights it or how much medical attention she may receive, then she can let go of the wound. It will be faster, and far less agonising. A ‘kinder’ end. And Sherlock might not particularly care for her or the racket she is making, but he can still be kind.
Wait. Kind. There is something about kindness, something John told him to consider when Sherlock intends to be kind. It was after the incident with Molly and Jim, he is sure of that much - he can see John, standing across from him a week after their first encounter with Moriarty (their first chance to really talk about everything, due to the chaos of the case and the resulting backlash), wearing a painfully bright, cadmium orange jumper (sent by Harry) and looking both frustrated and sympathetic as he realised that Sherlock had genuinely been trying to help. Still, he had insisted that Sherlock plan out an apology for Molly before he allowed a trip to Bart’s.
What was it he said, though? A strict instruction, John slipping slightly into the military tone employed to make Sherlock eat or sleep or cease playing the violin between the hours of one and five in the morning. He can hear it in his head, but the words seem foreign. Frustration swells. He needs to remember, quickly, so that he can tell her and she can let go of her arm. Do not be ‘kind’ when… When what? John always appeared so pleasantly surprised when Sherlock showed unnecessary compassion to strangers or acquaintances, so it has to be important. He closes his eyes, trying to use the vivid mental image of John in that hideous jumper to sink into the memory of the accompanying lecture. The older man only wore the damn thing twice before trying not to look too relieved when Sherlock ‘accidentally’ caught one of the arms with some foul bile during an experiment, so it should be far easier to reference than it is proving to be today.
Shock, blood loss and concussion; not a helpful combination.
The temptation to disregard whatever promise he gave John soon becomes enormous; it is not as though he will ever find out, and the jeweller’s cries have become incoherent squeals between laughter and sobs as she works herself into an even worse panic. She is giving Sherlock a headache. It would not be the first time he has broken a promise to John, and it almost certainly would not be the last either, although it is rare for him to do so deliberately.
John will never know, and ignorance is bliss.
Ah. “Ignorance is bliss.” That was it. When someone is happier not knowing, it is not always a kindness to force the truth upon them.
The woman does not want to die - that much is obvious. She may be in agony, but she is happier clinging to the hope that she will be, by some miracle, saved. Informing her that she will not be would not be a kindness, and would probably only cause her to become more obnoxiously loud.
Sherlock keeps quiet, simply watching as the bruises begin to form on her face and neck. He studies her wounds and calculates trajectories and blood-loss, taking as much data from her as he can. There is no sense in wasting it, after all.
Little things keep distracting him as a result of his own injuries, proving that he must be worse off than he can feel. He has been injured as a result of experiments and cases, and has repeatedly indulged in legal and illegal highs, but losing his ability to concentrate on useful or important data is a rare thing. For example, there is a pistachio macaroon four inches from the jeweller’s hip, which Sherlock finds himself almost mesmerised by until the emergency services finally make their grand entrance (Lestrade would have had men here in half the time) and the right knee of a paramedic crushes it.
His medical and technical German are both excellent, so it confuses him when he finds that he cannot make sense of what is being said. A woman (freshly-trained, single, former youth worker) comes to hunker down at Sherlock’s side, half blocking his view of the jeweller; she asks him five questions, repeating each one, but Sherlock cannot decipher a single word. After more than a minute of dreadful confusion, Sherlock realises with a jolt that he has been trying to translate her words using Russian.
“Robert,” he tells her, grabbing her sleeve as she begins turning towards a colleague to ask whether he speaks any foreign languages. “I’m Robert Clarke. My hands and head, my hands and head are hurt, but I can’t really feel anything - I’m in shock, you need to treat me for shock,” he instructs.
His German is still somewhat wobbly, and he thinks he may have used the Spanish for “hands,” but the paramedic offers a smile and a nod, ignoring his patronising words. “We are very good at what we do,” she replies, speaking slowly for him. Her tone is warm, and full of confidence (faked). “You just keep still and try not to worry.”
A ridiculous statement, in such circumstances. He cannot help but be concerned, especially when she is being so noticeably and excessively careful of his upper back. He has proven that he can move his extremities without trouble, and the concern she is showing with regards to a possible spinal injury is separate, in any case. There is something wrong with his back; something Sherlock is currently unable to feel. The thought makes him embarrassingly uneasy.
When they load him onto a stretcher with no more than a cursory check of his front (not that he is concerned about that - his back was to the shop when it exploded, his hands broke his fall, there were no unexplained or unaccounted for pains as he landed, and he is experiencing no trouble breathing), he allows himself to feel just a little afraid.
ooo
Sherlock wakes in a private room, his memories hazy and disjointed. He knows that he lost consciousness at least once in the ambulance, and thrice in A&E. At one point he was being readied for surgery, he is certain, however he has no recollection of waking up again between then and now.
He ignores the phantom cry of his name. It is a figment of a confused mind trying to find the familiar; John is not here, and will not be coming here, no matter what his half-drugged brain is telling him based on prior experience, and he needs to accept that quickly. Or, at the very least, distract himself until the stronger and more addling medications wear off a little.
He turns his attention to his location instead. The average idiot would assume that he is waking in the Kantonsspital, a couple of hours after a successful surgery. Sherlock knows better. He is on his side, facing the window, but the sound of the torrential rain just beyond the glass would have made it obvious that he is no longer in Lucerne even if he had been turned towards the door; the forecast there had been clear skies for the next three days. Aside from that rather obvious clue, the décor is simple, clean and reassuringly professional, but not overly cheerful as most hospitals are. Combined with the steady, smart footfalls and other ambient noises, Sherlock is tentatively confident that he has been kept sedated after surgery and quickly transferred to a military hospital. Mycroft’s doing, naturally, so British military and reasonably close to London - Sandhurst, most likely.
A voice echoing in the corridor (smart, clipped, respectful, and speaking English) confirms Sherlock’s inferences.
The owner is also speaking to his brother.
Sherlock allows himself one heavy sigh, feeling the bandages securing a thick layer of gauze to his back tighten as he does so (slight pain - Mycroft has already begun insisting that Sherlock be weaned off the heavier painkillers). He is in no mood to suffer his brother’s company. They may have established a brittle peace between them, particularly after Dublin, but the majority of their conversations continue to end with stinging barbs and vitriol. Sherlock is frustrated and confused and still rather thoroughly drugged, and the last thing he needs is to humiliate himself in front of his older brother in such an impaired state. He wants to speak to a doctor, to be told what exactly has happened to him, when he will be able to move around, and what can be done to hasten his recovery; he does not want to spend the next hour being lectured for his evident mistakes.
It would help if he were able to determine just what those mistakes are - at least then he would have the advantage of being able to come up with an appropriate defence. Unfortunately, he has no idea. Going back through his actions, step-by-step, he cannot find one instance of carelessness or failure to follow proper procedures. There is nothing he would now choose to do differently, even with the benefit of hindsight.
When Mycroft walks in, striding across the small room to stand directly in the centre of Sherlock’s field of vision, the concern and lack of recrimination written into his face make it obvious that he has already come to the same conclusion. It is a relief to know that he did not miss anything, that he was not responsible for the explosion, and Sherlock allows himself another sigh as he relaxes his tensed and dully aching muscles. The deaths do not bother him, per se (death is a fact of existence; lamenting it is pointless), but the thought of having so much metaphorical blood on his hands was a distinctly uncomfortable one. People die, yes, and aside from a handful of important exceptions Sherlock is not at all troubled by that, but he is still not particularly comfortable with the idea of directly causing innocent deaths. Killing assassins and the odd serial killer is one thing; effectively murdering jewellers, tourists and shopkeepers is something else entirely.
“It was a set-up,” Mycroft informs him, voice pitched low. “The work of the Colonel you identified as an agent, it seems. As far as we can tell, the Lucerne office was expecting one of our operatives in the near future but had no idea who would be assigned; they never would have suspected you without help. The Colonel arrived to ‘bring them back into the fold,’ as it were, four nights before the bombing. We believe he brought information and relevant surveillance from various other offices with him.”
“Coimbra. Barcelona had passed the word along,” he mutters, irritated with himself for having disregarded a possibility out of sheer hope, “which is how they knew to follow me that first day. Then they managed to get a photograph out before your raid.”
“Precisely.” There is no apology there, and Sherlock finds that he is unwilling to ask for one when they are both clearly at fault.
“He didn’t see me slip outside, then.”
Mycroft’s lips twitch, almost to a smile. “Not until he had pressed the detonator, and the two seconds he had weren’t enough for him to do anything about it, obviously.”
Sherlock offers a tight smile of his own, before asking, “My injuries?”
“Mostly minor, thankfully,” the older man tells him, moving to finally take a seat. “You avoided any primary blast injuries thanks to your little smoking habit, but you suffered secondary and tertiary damage, as you should already know. I’ve been assured that none of them are serious. Shallow lacerations and deep bruises, that’s all. Three of the deepest cuts had shrapnel embedded and may scar slightly.”
“Of course. Neurotrauma?”
“Nothing serious or permanent. You were in and out of consciousness for a while, and apparently seemed confused… You were suffering both circulatory and mental shock though; some minor confusion and memory issues were to be expected. The concussion was only grade one or two, depending on which system you would like me to reference, and you were properly monitored.”
Sherlock hums, largely unconcerned. “And my hands will be fine, I can see that much. What about my back, Mycroft? Or am I trussed up like this due to lack of an available training dummy?”
“Don’t tempt me,” is the retort, although it is half-hearted at best. “You suffered a rather serious second-degree burn across your shoulder blades and upper back. It was deep - required a skin graft.”
“What sort?” Sherlock questions, eager at the thought of first-hand data with its many and varied advantages.
“Allogeneric. There will be scarring around the edges,” he points out, entirely unnecessarily. Mycroft is far less fussy than the Brussels team though, which is a relief - had the elder Holmes discarded his usual detached demeanour, Sherlock may have had to request another stretch of unconsciousness in order to recover.
“Hmm. The shock prevented me feeling the pain of it,” he mutters, uncomfortable with the knowledge that his ‘transport’ had hidden such a thing from him.
“A piece of burning debris landed on you,” Mycroft explains. “It wasn’t particularly large, but it burned through your coat and jumper.”
“Irrelevant,” he huffs, abruptly glad to have been without the Belstaff after all. “I expect I’ll need new ones anyway, now that the Clarke identity has been compromised.”
“We’ll need to organise a new persona for you, yes. Do you have any preferences?” the older man inquires, and it is such a small thing, but Sherlock is incredibly grateful for the opportunity to choose.
“Erik Sigerson,” he answers, after some consideration. “Everything is already in place - all the necessary papers can be found at number two Berry Way, Rickmansworth.”
If Mycroft is surprised that Sherlock has managed to hide not only an entire third identity from him but also a property, he does not allow it to show. “I’ll have someone pick them up, along with new clothes and essentials. I assume nothing sensitive was left in your hotel room - they’ll have found it by now.”
“Nothing,” he confirms, allowing some of his irritation to seep into his tone. “I don’t even leave the keyrings in the suitcase, after my ‘abduction.’ And I see my bag was rescued.” He nods towards the corner cupboard, where the dark strap of his shoulder-bag is just visible, trapped in the door.
Mycroft dismisses the implied thanks with a flick of his wrist. “Then they have nothing of use. One, ah, one last thing, Sherlock,” he says, and it sounds like a hesitant promise. The elder Holmes’ discomfort is obvious, and Sherlock can feel his stomach clench. “With regards to your little collection. Do you need me to have someone procure a keyri-“
“No, thank you, no,” he interrupts, almost babbling and feeling as awkward as Mycroft looks. “I have one.”
“Right. Good, that’s good.” Mycroft is stumbling over his words as well (understandable - they don’t do this).
There is no long moment of staring in opposite directions - Mycroft stands and leaves without even a cursory farewell, and does not return. When Sherlock is finally discharged three hellishly boring weeks later (Mycroft arranging for him to be kept ‘safe,’ yet again), it is Whykes who arrives with his new identity. It is Whykes who drives him to a generous flat in central Cardiff; Whykes who cooks pancakes and makes tea at all hours of the day and night; Whykes who assists him with what remains of his injuries and dyeing his hair and eyebrows a more strawberry shade of blonde.
With the young soldier present, his longing for John’s company eases just enough for him to sleep properly for the first time in almost two months. The twenty-five-year-old may not be the most heartening or mentally stimulating company, but he is company nonetheless and the familiarity is very much appreciated. By the end of the third day, when the younger man is preparing to leave on another assignment, Sherlock has fallen effortlessly into the routines and habits they kept in Brussels. It is almost as though the interim months never occurred.
He wishes he could be ignorant and naïve enough to believe that the same will hold true when he returns to 221B.
ooo
As always, thank you so much for reading, and I really hope you enjoyed the chapter. If you do have the time and inclination, I would love to hear what you thought; no flames please, but con-crit is always welcome. Thank you!
Oh, and just a reminder that chapter 11 will be posted in 2 weeks rather than the former schedule of one chapter per week, so it should come out on the 1st/2nd of July. Again, I’m really not doing it to drag things out - I just want to do my best to make sure that such a long gap doesn’t happen again, plus I’m trying not to put too much pressure on my ever-amazing betas. I’m sorry, and I hope you’ll be willing to keep reading despite this.
Continue to Chapter 11...