Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1127454.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Sherlock_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Sherlock_Holmes/John_Watson, Mycroft_Holmes/Greg_Lestrade
  Character:
      Sherlock_Holmes, John_Watson, Greg_Lestrade, Sally_Donovan, Anderson_
      (Sherlock), Mycroft_Holmes
  Additional Tags:
      Past_Rape/Non-con, Post-Traumatic_Stress_Disorder_-_PTSD, Flashbacks,
      Repressed_Memories, Hapnophobia, Protective_John, Hurt/Comfort, Angst
      with_a_Happy_Ending, Comforting_John, Johnlock_-_Freeform, Romance,
      Alternate_Universe_-_Canon_Divergence, mystrade
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-01-09 Updated: 2014-01-12 Chapters: 5/? Words: 19120
****** One Small Touch ******
by phoenixreal
Summary
     Slight AU.
     Sherlock is hapnophobic (afraid of touch), and finds himself allowing
     John inside that barrier. Then, on a case, when a desperate killer is
     discovered on scene, he grabs Sherlock, and triggers a devastating
     flashback to something Sherlock can't really remember. John seeks to
     do some investigating and finds a blog post by a dying man..
     Undergoing editing! Will return with new updates soon!
***** Water at the Floodgates *****
Chapter Summary
     Sherlock is attacked on a scene and a flashback is triggered, but he
     can't remember why. John finds a blog online written by one of
     Sherlock's old Uni classmates that reveals something disturbing.
It started without him even realizing it. Honestly, he never intended for
things to turn out the way they did. A flamate, that was it. A flatmate that
would keep an eye on him in lieu of his confounding and interfering elder
brother. He could handle that. Besides, he wasn't allowed to go to Lestrade's
crime scenes if he slipped into old habits, and it was far better to be on a
crime scene than it was to have a few hours of bliss. But his brother was
insistent. And so, Sherlock found John. And he was pleased that the ex-military
doctor was interested in his cases and The Work as much as he was. And before
long, the inevitable happened.
John touched him. Nothing big. Just a brushing glance as he handed him a
teacup, but it wasn't the touch itself that shocked Sherlock to his core. No, a
small touch wasn't what did it. It was his reaction to that small touch.
Because Sherlock was severely hapnophobic. So much so that it was difficult to
bring himself to touch anyone without gloves on. And he tended to flinch away
when others tried to touch him, and if someone tried to grab him, he tended to
lash out. He knew it was extremely irrational for a man with such a rational
mind. But somewhere, buried in his mind palace, there was a reason for it. He
chose to instead live with it rather than discover the reason.
"Sherlock?" John's voice.
He blinked and looked up. "Yes, John?"
"You've been staring at the teacup for almost half an hour. Your tea is
probably cold by now."
Sherlock blinked and stared at the cup and then back up to John. He let his
eyes drift to the clock. He blinked. He hadn't lost time like that in a while,
he thought to himself, and downed the cold tea quickly. If he didn't drink it,
John would be unhappy. And Sherlock didn't want John to be unhappy.
"Is something wrong? Not sick are you?" John asked, taking the empty cup and
saucer from the unusually quiet detective.
"Ah, no, m'fine," he mumbled and got to his feet and escaped to his bedroom in
a blur, leaving John staring after him. Sherlock needed to think about this.
"So, Sherlock's acting weird," John said, over a pint at the pub.
"John, when you gonna get it through that brain, Sherlock's always weird,"
Lestrade said, words slightly slurring. Greg was having issues with his wife
again. Third time he'd caught her cheating, and he was at a loss for what to
do.
"No, like really weird, for Sherlock. He's quiet."
Lestrade perked a brow. "Now that is weird."
"I don't know what happened. I handed him some tea a few days ago and he stared
at it like it was some strange object for a long time, then ran off to his
room. Haven't seen him much since, and when he does come out he sprawls over
the sofa and stares at the ceiling. He hasn't had a case, either, so I figured
by now he'd be shooting the walls or at least complaining of boredom," John
said, sipping his drink slowly. He didn't come to get drunk, just to make sure
Greg got home okay.
"If…oh, did you touch him when ya gave it to 'im?" Greg said, leaning forward
and looking at John with drunk intensity.
John blinked. "Um, maybe?"
"There ya go."
John's brow wrinkled. "I don't understand, Greg…"
"He's…he's hap…hap…no…oh fuck it. Scared of bein' touched ya know. Don't let
anyone touch him. One of tha reasons Anderson hates him is Phillip decided to
grab him by the shoulders on one of th' first scenes he came on and Sher'k
broked his nose! Freaked the fuck out and I had to make him leave 'fore he
punched someone else. Fer a skinny bastard he hits hard, y'know," he said
nodding and rubbing his chin, having obviously been on the receiving end at one
time or another.
John thought. "Hapnophobic?"
Greg lit up. "That's it! Of course'n ya'd know, doc and all."
"But…he wasn't showing a phobic reaction, Greg. He didn't panic."
Greg grinned. "Yeah, tha', m'friend, means sumptin. Trus me."
"Greg, you are too drunk. Let's get a cab and send you home, mate," John said
fondly. He figured if he was slurring enough that John was having trouble
understanding him, it must be time to send him home.
Once he was situated in the cab, John opted to walk home and think. It was
muggy. He had never really thought much about Sherlock and his touching or
being touched by others. So he decided that best way to start was to simply do
as Sherlock did. Observe.
John didn't have to wait long. The next day, around eight, he was awoken by an
excitable Sherlock telling him to get dressed, Lestrade had a case. He groaned
and rolled from bed to shower and change, rushing to catch the lanky detective
before he jumped in the cab he'd magically hailed. John had no idea how in the
world he did it. It seemed like the moment he needed a cab, poof, and one came
to Sherlock. He could stand out front of 221B for an hour and never get one,
Sherlock, less than a minute. He shook his head and listened as Sherlock
rattled off the address and smirked.
"Good one?" John asked.
"Murder/suicide by the appearance, but Lestrade thinks it's staged, so we're
looking at a seven, maybe eight," he said with that smirk he got when he was on
an exciting case.
Sherlock was out and heading toward the tape before John could finish paying
the cabbie. He followed shortly thereafter, finding Sherlock already going over
the room, his pocket magnifier out and studious. Suddenly he stood and backed
away from the bodies and glanced around. He'd taken off his coat and laid it on
a chair as he came in, it was early fall, and while a little crisp outside, it
was warm inside the building. The heat was on, it seemed.
"What is it, Sherlock?" asked Lestrade, standing and planting hands on his
hips. John could see the pain wrinkling the forehead. He had to have a nasty
hangover after the night before, he thought.
"Wait…wait…" he muttered, looking around. "But, no, that means that the
killer…" he muttered and his eyes landed on a slatted closet door.
It was one of those things that happened so quickly that no one realized what
had happened until everything was over. The door to the closet burst outward
with a bang, startling everyone, and Sherlock was closest to it, tried to duck
the flying door, obviously kicked from the other side, snapping the wood that
held it. His duck wasn't entirely successful since it grazed the back of his
head, and then there was a hand buried in his dark curls, yanking his head back
up from the crouched position he'd been in, and the man had a glittering blade
at the detective's throat.
He was a plain man, wearing a white t-shirt and a black jeans. He had a common
face with dark hair and deep set eyes. His nose was average, and his lips were
nothing special. But the knife was dripping blood already, and was digging in
close to the artery in Sherlock's neck. His eyes had gone wide, and his hands
were trying to pry the hand off his head.
"Settle down, spaz," he growled at Sherlock who ceased his struggle and became
very still.
There were enough officers in the room to take the man on, but it was John who
had his own gun trained on the spot between the man's eyes.
"Let him go," John growled low.
Sherlock's eyes though weren't present, and his body was going limp under the
man's hand. At first, John thought it was a ploy on Sherlock's part, but then
the guy let go of his hair to get a better grip on his slumping shoulders, and
Sherlock's body shook violently. John took the opportunity and shot the man in
the shoulder of the arm that held the knife. He screamed, dropping Sherlock,
who had gone completely limp, and stayed on the ground where he dropped. The
knife wielder had dropped the knife and was rugby tackled by a couple officers.
John dropped beside Sherlock and shook him. He heard the intake of breath from
behind him, Anderson, he thought to himself.
"Sherlock, you okay?" he asked.
He opened his eyes, and John knew the signs of a serious panic when he saw one.
He smiled at him. "Hey, just you and me, Sherlock, he's gone. Shot the bastard.
What he gets, you know," he said, reaching out and running hands over the dark
curls. "You got hit with the door, your head okay?"
He felt around and only felt a nice lump forming on the back of his skull.
"You're hard headed, so you're fine. Want to get up?"
Sherlock shook his head, eyes not leaving John's for a second. "Okay, then, let
me sit down here, then," he said, moving from his crouch to a sitting position,
hands still running through his hair.
"What's going on, John?" Greg asked from behind him.
He shook his head. "Not entirely sure, but it looks like he's in some kind of
flashback, it started when that guy grabbed him by the hair, I saw his body
change. Not that I'm unfamiliar with them."
"Flashback?" Anderson asked. "Like from PTSD?"
John nodded. "Yeah, exactly. His eyes aren't seeing here, and he's barely
hearing me. His heart rate and breath are accelerated, and pupil response isn't
normal. He's somewhat in the present. Give him a minute."
John grabbed one of his hands and found it gripped by the bony hand tighter
than he expected possible for the thinner man. "Shh, Sherlock, can you hear me
yet?"
Sherlock swallowed and nodded. "J-John?" he asked.
"Yes, are you here? I'd like to take you home, do you want to go?" he asked
gently, squeezing his hand back.
He blinked, his eyes finally unlocking and seeing John. "Oh…" he said softly,
and pulled himself to a sitting position, scrubbing his face. "I thought…oh…I
thought I deleted that…oh, not…should have gone away…"
John saw that his hands were shaking as he dropped them between his knees.
"Yeah, home, good," he said, still dazed looking.
John nodded and stood, helping him up. Greg, Sally and Anderson watched as John
almost manhandled him to his feet, holding him under his arm, and steadying
him. He led him out and the magical cab summoning once again succeeded.
Sherlock was quiet all the way to the flat, then got out and went in
mechanically, to sit on the sofa, dropping his head into his hands. John fixed
tea, because everyone knows tea fixes everything, and sat beside Sherlock.
"Want to talk about it? It helps, you know. Experience here," John said,
sipping his tea.
Sherlock looked at him and frowned. "What do you mean, John?" he asked.
John sighed. "Sherlock, I know a flashback when I see one. Remember?"
Sherlock nodded, rubbing his hands together and looking off across the room. "I
don't remember a lot. When the door burst I knew it was the killer, so I was
ready, but then when I had to duck, and he grabbed my hair, I just…something
felt weird. I was…wasn't there, but I was there. It was him, but it wasn't. I
couldn't tell, I just felt completely helpless, and alone and overwhelmed and I
didn't know what else to do, and so…scared. John, I'm never scared like that. I
mean, I did deck Anderson for grabbing me once, but it was a heightened
response. This…this was different. I couldn't move."
"Sounds like a flashback, Sherlock. You're going to need to get through
whatever caused it."
Sherlock shook his head. "I think I deleted the event…"
"You know, Sherlock, sometimes it's hard to delete something that's too big.
Maybe that's what happened. Do you know when the event happened?"
He swallowed. "I think…at Uni…"
"Well, for now, you should rest," John said, laying a hand on his leg and
patting him.
"I don't understand," he said softly, staring at John's hand.
John arched a blond brow. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, it doesn't bother me, when it's you, John…" he said, frowning at
John's hand now. "I've never…not even Mycroft…he knows better…." He said
softly. "I remember being hugged before Uni, and then after Uni…no
more…couldn't stand to be touched by anyone."
"You rest, Sherlock. I'll see what I can figure out," John said, and despite
what he thought, he didn't argue, simply got up and went to bed. After a while,
he check on him to find him sound asleep. It wasn't even noon yet, he thought.
He picked up the phone.
Mycroft, have a question if you have he texted.
A few minutes later, the phone rang in his hand. He jumped and answered.
"Yes, John?" came the impeccable voice on the other side.
"I was wondering if you knew what happened at Uni with Sherlock. He's started
having flashbacks and doesn't remember clearly enough to know what is causing
them," John said, no reason to beat around the bush.
There was a long pause. "I wish I did, John. But that was the time he first got
into drugs, and came out changed. I'm not really sure what could have happened
to cause something like flashbacks. I'll investigate on my end, however."
The call clicked off, and John was left confused and wondering how he could
help Sherlock. Something was buried in his psyche and it was working its way to
the surface. Whatever it was, Sherlock didn't want it to come out, but John
knew that ignoring something that major did nothing but make it worse. He
sighed and grabbed his laptop to look up information on Sherlock's class at
Uni. Unfortunately, the official records were useless. So he started searching
names of students Sherlock's year, and came across a blog by one of them
written recently. A man named Joseph VanDremal. He was a CEO of some company,
vastly rich and successful, and the blog was written as his apology to the
world, it said, because he was dying of incurable brain cancer. Interested, he
started to go backward through the entries.
Cheating husband, talks about reasons, what drove him, etc. Bad father, ignored
his kids and deserved to have them taken from him. Blah, he thought, then he
noticed an entry called "So Sorry, and Unforgivable."
He settled back and pulled it up.
So Sorry and Unforgivable – 12 June 2013
I started this to clear my conscious. Too little too late, mostly. But at least
by doing this I can have some sense of having admitted the horrible things I've
done in my life and seek some sort of absolution. I know many who commented on
my previous entries have supported me, and very few have put me down, though I
don't blame those who did. This, however, I doubt will receive any support or
well wishes. And it deserves none. Because what I did, what we did, was
unforgivable, least of all by the person who was the victim of our actions. The
others…they'll never admit it, and I cannot name them. I can't even name the
victim. I will reveal my part, but I won't reveal names, and after all this
time, there is little to be done by the authorities. It still doesn't change
the fact that we committed an act that should send us all to hell. Twice.
I digress. It goes back to Uni days. I was twenty, my best mates were the same
age. And as young men who are bored and have too much money, we wandered the
campus looking for unsuspecting students younger than us. That's when we found
him. I swear, we thought he was a girl at first. Longish dark hair that curled
down his neck, and big doe eyes, I think they were blue, I'm not sure anymore.
It doesn't matter. But they were innocent. So bright, and so full of wonder at
everything in the world. We followed him, of course, just to see, and found him
to be exceptionally bright. He was either in class or holed up in his dorm or
locked up with one of the professors doing some strange experiments. One
memorable one happened when he blew up half the chemistry lab. We were so sure
our quarry would be expelled, but no, he simply helped fix the mess, and went
on his merry way.
Simply began, we talked to him. He was obviously starved for attention. He was
quick and abrasive and told absolutely nothing but the truth, and would tell
you truths about yourself you really didn't want to admit. I had to admit, I
was totally smitten. Here I thought I was straight as a rule, but not with this
boy around. When the somewhat leader of our group noticed, he grinned. He dared
me to ask him on a date. I was aghast, saying that that was ridiculous I was
straight. He told me not to worry, just pretend he was a girl, that I had an
imagination.
So I agreed. I guess part of me was too enamored with him to noticed what the
others said as I walked toward where he was sitting, long lanky legs crossed,
reading a senior physics book. I can still picture him. The image is clear in
my mind as he looked up and grinned and said hi to me. I asked if he wanted to
go out for ice cream, just the two of us. He looked so confused and then his
eyes cleared and he asked if I meant like a date or like friends. I smiled
shyly and said like a date. He blushed, and my heart raced. He nodded, and I
said to meet me at the shoppe at three.
I headed back to class and told the others. Again, I should have listened to
what they said as I floated away. I should have listened to the planning.
Because my simple ice cream date was not on their mind at all. So I ended up
playing my part perfectly.
The date was nice. We talked, he told me about an annoying older brother he had
that was always on his case, and his parents were dreadfully dull and boring,
but he cared for them because they put up with him. I don't think I've ever in
my entire life had a better time, looking back. Sitting across a dingy ice
cream shoppe table with a boy that had lit a fire in my heart like no one
before or since ever could. I remember reaching over and running a hand through
those soft, wild curls of dark hair and grinning. I smiled shyly and asked if
he'd like to see the flat I rented with my friends. Again he blushed and nodded
and I was ecstatic. I'd taken more than one to my bed, but this…this was
different. He was so pristine, and I just wanted to see those eyes opened in
ecstasy and wanted to be the reason for it. Call it hormones, what you will,
but from the looks I was getting, I didn't doubt that he was interested. So we
left, walking hand in hand, talking as we went to the three bedroom flat I
shared with four other guys. I had my own room, since I paid most of the rent.
I guided my new love in gently, and set about snogging him senseless while he
straddled my lap in my favorite chair. I couldn't get his clothes off fast
enough, and he seemed to comply. I couldn't believe it! Everything was working,
and I just wanted this angelic creature for my own. Soon we were naked, and he
was in my lap and the world was exploding in bliss around us. Until the door
slammed open to my room. I gripped the boy on my lap hard and looked up as the
four of my mates were standing there while I was mid-coitus with the boy I'd
dreamed of for weeks.
'Jake' reached out an snatched his head roughly back and grinned at me. And
thanked me for all my hard work, and he looked at me startled and looked about
ready to cry, it seemed. My mouth wouldn't work as he fought off the oldest of
my group, Jake, who was my friend, my mentor. He drug him off my lap, cuffing
him on the back of his head as he did, and I could tell what was happening but
I couldn't move, I was frozen, and I couldn't stand to even call someone, to
help him, nothing, and in the end, they told me to finish what I started, and
so help me, I did. I did, because in some way, I thought maybe, that angelic
boy would see how sorry I was if I made it up to him, made him feel good after
what they'd done to him. But he wouldn't look at me, weeping into the bed
sheets as I cupped his face.
I don't remember what happened after that. I passed out, and I woke up and he
was gone, my sheets stained with blood and I ran and threw up in the bathroom
until I heaved so much that I pulled my stomach muscles and burst a blood
vessel in one eye. But it wasn't the worst. No, that wasn't the worst.
The worst was seeing him at school. My friends, well, those I thought had been
my friends, would laugh and yell, calling him a good whore and a slut, and all
sorts of things. And I never did. No, I would stare, and if he turned my
direction, his eyes were empty. The spark, the wonder, everything I'd fallen in
love with was simply gone. He never spoke to any of us, never acknowledged what
they said, and maybe that was the worst. If he'd been angry, punched me,
anything…maybe I could have explained. But he didn't. And so here I am, years
later, telling strangers the day I became lower than dirt and deserving of all
the terrible things that happened in my life.
I know, dying gives perspective right? Well, I know a little about my angelic
boy today. And he's still out there, but I can't help but feel responsible for
what he became in some ways. Not long afterward, I remember seeing him, sitting
staring up at the sky, laying out under a tree, and I dared to walk closer, and
found he wasn't really present, eyes red rimmed, pupils blown wide, and where
he laid, I saw the telltale track marks in his arm where his sleeve was rolled
up on one side. And again, I was lurching to the loo and retching everything
I'd eaten. Because I knew, I knew it was our fault. My fault. My angel. And in
the end, my angel saves me. It is because of him I write this silly blog. And
maybe one day he'll come across it. Maybe he won't. He doesn't have to forgive
me. I don't need it because there is no forgiveness for this.
My angelic boy. The only boy I've ever loved, and perhaps the only person I've
ever really loved in my whole life, loved from the core of my being and beyond.
And I utterly destroyed him. That is my greatest sin, and for this, I will die
unforgiven of it.
John held his breath. He scrolled and found that the man had succumbed to his
illness two months previously. He had clues, but no answers. It could be
Sherlock, the age and description were right, but what if it wasn't? He sighed
and stared at his hand. This had all started with a simple touch. That was all,
just a simple touch. Could John heal with that same touch?
He had to try.
***** A Brother's Revenge *****
Chapter Summary
     John and Mycroft decide to deal with those that believe themselves
     beyond punishment for their actions.
Chapter Notes
     Okay guys, since everyone encouraged me to continue, I am. Here's the
     question, though. I've rated it T (or M on AO3) because it isn't
     graphic. If you read me, you know I'm usually quite graphic about the
     sex and violence. My question is if those that are reading would like
     me to expound on the memories as they surface. Sherlock is still
     "photographic" here, so he remembers in detail everything that
     happened. This would initiate a change in rating, of course. I had
     some other plot planned as well, interference with John's attempt to
     heal, and surfacing of BAMF John (because I love BAMF John going all
     kicking ass for Sherlock) to fix things. So would you rather just be
     the memories and working through the healing or some other plot mixed
     in too? Let me know. Gods know I have enough ideas. I mean, in like
     four months I've written over 300k for my stories. Like three novels
     worth. Oi. Anyway, do let me know via review/PM/Comment/etc.
     No Sherlock in this chapter, sorry, next chapter, I wanted this to
     happen first. BAMF Mycroft and John here. Not sure if I'm happy and
     may change things, not sure yet. I might expand the first chapter
     depending on how things go.
John wasn't sure how to proceed, and the person he could ask about it was dead.
So, he would call in Mycroft. If anyone could give him the names of the people
that Joseph VanDremal ran with, he certainly could. But this was going to be a
weird conversation. He checked on Sherlock to find him still deeply asleep. The
panic attack had drained the thinner man of every ounce of energy it seemed.
Not that Sherlock really had a lot to start with. So he picked up his mobile.
"Yes, John?" came the smooth reply, as usual devoid of emotion.
"Have you found anything out, Mycroft?" he asked.
There was a long pause. "No, but you have."
Someitmes he hated the Holmes boys. "Maybe, can I send you a link to a blog I
found by a man named Joseph VanDremal before he died?"
"Yes, I wasn't occupied at the moment. VanDremal…" Mycroft mused as he waited.
"That sounds familiar. He was a couple years older than Sherlock at Uni I
believe. I remember Sherlock mentioning him at one time. Oh, here it is. What
am I looking for?"
"Go down to a post called So Sorry and Unforgivable, June 2013. And you might
want to sit if you aren't. I might be wrong. Call me when you're done if you
think there's anything to it," John said, clicking off to wait. He really
didn't want to interrupt the man's revelations as he read the blog. No, that
reaction was something for Mycroft to come to alone.
It wasn't long until the phone buzzed again. And he heard the sound in
Mycroft's voice. "I could tell you the day, John," he said softly. "He called
me. I'll never forget. It was the first and only time I heard him cry. He said
he'd met someone and something happened and he was giving up on love entirely,
that it was foolish and led to hurt. I…I thought he'd had a bad relationship,
but I didn't think…" John could tell that Mycroft's carefully held control was
wavering. "If I'd went to see him…maybe…I'll text you anything I find out about
the others involved. I have to fix this. I have to fix Sherlock now since I
didn't fix him then."
John smiled to himself. "Mycroft, he's not a thing, you don't just 'fix' him.
But text me when you find out. I want to talk to these other four and figure
out what's happening, don't tell them I'm with Sherlock, just…I play the part
of a blogger working out a dying man's blog."
It didn't take long. Mycroft's network was wide, and finding out who had leased
a house at Uni with Joseph VanDremal was rather easy. Terrance Weathers, Clint
Verstain, Leslie Connors, and Jason Ackerby. And so it was that John was
standing before the doorway of a very posh country club meeting Jason Ackerby
and Clint Verstain to talk about their dead pal Joseph VanDremal.
"So, have you read Mr. VanDremal's blog?" John asked, pulling a netbook from
his bag and loading it up. "He picked up blogging when he found out he was
terminal. Seemed he felt the need to apologize to the world for things he'd
done in his lifetime."
Clint shook his head. "We weren't aware of it," he said, smiling at the man
beside him. Secret lovers, John's mind supplied. Dammit, he couldn't even do
something on his own without Sherlock's deductions slamming into him.
He slid over the blog. The two scanned it and then they both paled as they came
to the entry detailing the assault.
"Why…why would he publish that? I mean, that…" Jason stammered, running a
nervous hand through his blond hair. His blue eyes were wide.
Clint wasn't much better, his own hazel eyes wide, and his long mouse brown
hair coming loose from the hair tie behind his head. He was biting his lip.
"I…I thought…I mean…he said he was in on it…I didn't know he really liked him."
John tried to keep the color out of his face and his voice even. "I take it you
are referring to the assault he indicates you participated in?"
They looked up at him. Clint was the first to catch on. "That's why you're
here, isn't it?"
John allowed a smile to grace his features. "Of course. Why else?"
Clint and Jason exchanged looks. "It was Terrance's idea," Clint said softly.
"I remember the day he sent Joey to go ask him out."
"What have you got planned, Terry?" Clint asked, sipping his soda.
"Easy, Clint. When Casanova there takes the freak back to his bedroom, we have
ourselves a little fun with him," Terry answered, grinning.
Leslie giggled madly. "Oh, I like that idea, Terry. Like with the Addison boy?"
Terry grinned wider. "Exactly like with the Addison boy. Leave him bloody and
crying and he'll remember us for the rest of his pathetic life."
"Wait, the Addison boy? Charlie Addison? The boy that jumped off the science
building last year?" Jason asked, looking up at Terry.
Terry grinned. "I guarantee I was the last thing on his mind before he hit the
ground."
Joey came back, grinning. He really should have listened as he wandered off to
class.
"Meet me at the flat about four, that'll give them time for their ice cream,
and Joey to get him worked up and thinking he actually likes being with him.
It's all the sweeter when you make 'em think you really like them."
John rubbed the bridge of his nose. "So, you're telling me that he'd done it
before and drove another kid to suicide? And then drove Sherlock into drugs."
The look that came over both men was priceless as John looked up. "Oh, I guess
I forgot that part. My name's John Watson. And Sherlock Holmes is my best mate.
And you should definitely be afraid because if I don't miss my guess, I have
someone following me…" John said looking behind him at the familiar footsteps
punctuated with the clink of an umbrella. "Mycroft Holmes, this is Clint and
Jason."
Mycroft stood, looking down on the two men. "I see that, John. I heard
everything of course," he said, gesturing to a CCTV camera set on the corner.
"Installed a few microphones after the last time I lost track of my brother."
"B-brother?" Clint said, looking at the immaculately dressed man. "But
you…you're with…"
"Too right, I am with the government. And you see, a few years ago, I was
unable to deduce how badly my little brother was suffering when he called me
about a broken heart. Not until I found him nearly dead by an overdose sometime
later. And I couldn't understand how my brilliant, genius even, brother could
do something so self-destructive. He had so many prospects. Certainly he was
ill equipped to deal with social situations, but he tried so hard. Then…he gave
up until John, here came along. And to find out the reason why all this
happened was because you and your group of friends decided that playing a game
with him was a great idea," Mycroft said, not bothering to sit, instead
preferring to tower over the men he was definitely intimidating.
Two suited men seemed to appear from nowhere. "Take them back," Mycroft said,
spinning on his heel and walking away.
The two men were manhandled away, yelling about rights and such. Mycroft
stopped and stared. "Rights? You have none as of the moment you decided to
participate in the rape of my little brother and scar him for life. No, you
will disappear if I so choose. No one will be the wiser."
"But you can't, the prime minister…" Clint stuttered. He was a solicitor after
all.
Mycroft tipped a head to the side and grinned. "Yes, well, what he never knows,
as they say."
John gathered his netbook and watched as the men were escorted away to their
unknown fate. John felt slightly ill at the thought for a brief moment, then
screwed up his courage. No, Mycroft was right. These men, what they did, they
never paid. And Mycroft would make sure they did. And so would John. He headed
to hail a cab, and go to the next appointment he had across town. He hadn't
bothered telling Mycroft where he was going. He didn't need to, after all.
"Dr. Watson?" came the secretary's voice. "Mr. Connors can see you now."
He entered the room and found a very antsy man standing at the window. "I
wondered, you know, when you would come find me."
John sat down. "Oh?"
Leslie stared out the window still. "Joey called me. Last year, when he found
out he was terminal. He told me what he was going to do. I didn't stop him. I
didn't want to. And when you called, I knew. I knew something had happened, and
you'd come across Joey's confession, put together the pieces, and I cleared my
schedule to see you, Dr. Watson."
"So you know who I am."
"Dr. John Watson. Blogger for the famous Sherlock Holmes. I can't say I'm
surprised with what he does now, he was far too intelligent in school. For what
it's worth…I am sorry for what we did. Like Joey said, though, there is no
forgiveness, not for any of us…" he said with a sigh. "I'm ashamed to say, life
went on, and I tucked away that dark period of my past. Sherlock, Charlie,
Daniel, Marcia. Too many lives that we ruined. But Terry, oh Terry. So
convincing, he was. My fault, for falling in with him, you know. Did everything
my best mate suggested, never a second thought. Something deeply wrong with
that, isn't there?" he said, sitting heavily and staring at John.
He crossed arms over his thin chest, brushing a hand through ginger hair. "I
think the worst was having no remorse for what we did. Joey out of all of us
felt the worst, but you know, he didn't do anything. He didn't report it,
didn't say anything to anyone. And even participated. But he wasn't the same
after that, so at his core, maybe it changed him. He did love the boy, and I
truly thing he was heartbroken after what Terry and the rest of us did. In the
end, Terry couldn't resist. So whatever words you have for me, Doctor, I
deserve. I deserve worse than you can mete out to me."
"Sir! Sir! You can't go in there!" came the secretary's voice.
He looked mildly surprised. John snorted. "I take it you didn't count on
Sherlock's older brother."
"H-he…he had, has, a brother?" Leslie asked as the door swung open to reveal
the impeccably dressed Mycroft, umbrella slightly raised as he opened the door,
two suited men behind him. The secretary moved away seeing the look on her
boss's face.
"Mr. Connors," Mycroft said, looking around the office. "John, you beat me here
once again, I'm continually impressed with the amount my brother is rubbing off
on you."
"Yes, quite," John said. "Are you planning on making him disappear too?"
Leslie's eyes bugged. "What? I don't…"
"You see, Mr. Connors, I'm rather protective of my little brother. I should
have been more protective sooner, I suppose. I choose to make up for my past
mistakes, however. I'd like to chat with Mr. Connors, I believe you have one
more appointment, John, don't you?" Mycroft asked, sitting down in a seat.
"Ring leaders do take the most time, Mycroft," John said, standing and leaving.
Some hours later he found himself sitting outside another posh country club. He
straightened his jacket and went in and said he was there for Terrance
Weathers. This, by far, would be the most public declaration. He looked at his
phone.
DI Lestrade will be meeting you. I have signed confessions from all of the
other three. Mr. VanDremel's blog serves as his own confession. I will be there
as well. Please wait. Ten minutes. –MH
John got out of the cab and stood near the doorway, because there was no way he
was going to get into this posh club without the DI at his side. Before long,
his car pulled up and he got out with an annoyed looking Sally Donovan. He
groaned internally. He'd hoped that he could have left her out of this. But it
was better with this kind of high profile thing to be witnessed by a couple
members of the Yard. Greg looked tired.
"So, John, care to tell me why we're here to make an arrest on someone we don't
know on charges we are unaware of."
John shifted uncomfortably. "I think it best we wait for Mycroft. He's taking
the lead on this one…" he said, sighing.
"Who's Mycroft?" Sally said, frowning.
Greg eyed John. "Why is Mycroft involved? Though that explains the roundabout
nature of this. Is this to do with Sherlock?"
John nodded. "I think you should wait and watch the fireworks. Mycroft's flat
pissed. You know how he gets about Sherlock. How many times has he kidnapped
you in one of his nondescript black cars?"
Sally looked between the two men and saw the grimace. "Okay, who's this Mycroft
and who is to do with the freak?"
"If by 'freak', you refer to my little brother, Sherlock, Sergeant Donovan…" a
cool voice came from behind them. "Now, Greg, I have asked you here for a
rather public display, and I'm terribly sorry for not informing you earlier. It
took me longer to…ah…get confessions than I thought."
John shook his head. "Mycroft, you took them in less than three hours ago? The
hell did you do to them?"
Mycroft twirled his umbrella thoughtfully. "I'm sure, John, you do not want to
know. Mr. Connors was decidedly forthcoming once I convinced him to cooperate.
We have Mr. Weathers on no less than six rape charges now, not to mention the
two of his victims that committed suicide. Needless to say, this is purely for
the public view. I wish to crush him, his reputation, and his entire family for
his deeds."
Lestrade goggled. "Mycroft…I…wow. Remind me not to be on your bad side."
"Greg, believe me, people do not stay on my bad side long. They tend to
disappear with alarming frequency," he said, leading them to the door. He waved
and two black suited men went in front of him. Sally looked so very confused
but Greg shook his head as if to say I'll tell you later.
John hung back a step and shook his head. "I wonder why, Mycroft." He looked at
Sally who was watching with wide eyes. John grinned. "Hold on for the ride.
This should be good."
Mycroft stopped at the doorway. There was a hushed discussion, and then one of
the men stood up very straight. "Of course, Mr. Holmes!"
The suited man waved the others in before him with his umbrella and glanced
around, motioning his two men to other parts of the rooms. "Hate to have him
run on me, I do not run, wet work is not my style," Mycroft said, mostly under
his breath. "I might make an exception for this."
He led the way, John walking even with him, not the least intimidated by the
man that frequently kidnapped him just to "chat" about Sherlock. Lestrade and
Donovan walked behind them, the latter completely stolen of any wit. Mycroft
made a beeline for a table filled with business men. Everyone stared as he
approached.
"Well, can I help you lot?" asked the man at the head. He was fat, disgustingly
so, tall, with prematurely balding black hair and a hooked nose. His eyes were
quite rat-like. "I don't think we agreed to let the rabble in today."
"Might I introduce my friends first?" Mycroft said with a pleasant but
dangerous tone to his voice. "This is Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade from
the Yard, and Sergeant Sally Donovan. And this, my friends, is Dr. John
Watson."
The fat man shook his head. "And I'm Terry Weathers, you didn't say who you
are?"
Mycroft held up a hand, a ring glittering in the light. "Wait, you're…holy
shit. What are you doing here? Why are you people at my table?"
"In the pursuit of Her Majesty's best interest I often do things that most
people never hear about, risk lives, make deals, you know the sort of things
never spoken of. In return, now and then, Her Majesty deems it appropriate to
indulge me in something that I desire help with. This rarely happens. I have
little I need, unless it is intervention for my troublesome, stubborn and
incredibly self-destructive brother. And I always had a wonder in my brain,
what had turned the sweet boy who had no other desire than to sit and play with
a chemistry set at the age of four and recited Shakespeare before he was six,
and played violin well enough to be a professional by eight into someone hell
bent on destroying himself? Went to Uni, came back so changed. I knew,
somewhat. Bullied and pushed around, but then so was I. Genius is rarely
appreciated by peers. He, however, lacked my certain… charisma. No one
understands him like I can. So imagine my surprise when I discover him nearly
dead after an overdose on a nasty mixture of cocaine, heroin and a few other
things," he said thoughtfully.
Weathers frowned at him. "The fuck do I care about your idiot brother?"
Mycroft fixed him with a glare and John visibly flinched, hand shifting to
under his jacket where his gun was tucked neatly in the back of his belt. "It
would be best if you kept quiet. I rarely carry a gun, but Dr. Watson here, I'm
afraid has his military issue tucked in the waist of his pants. And if he
shoots you, I really do not care. Because it will have never happened."
"What? You can't do that, too many witnesses, blowhard. You haven't even said
who you are," he scoffed.
"Oh, I've made more people than this change their minds about what they've
witnessed, and made bigger men than you disappear. Normally I wouldn't concern
myself with you, but after some interesting discussions with Clint Verstain,
Leslie Connors, and Jason Ackerby I've decided to come here in person," he
said.
He froze for a fraction. "They're a bunch of fucking liars."
"But you haven't heard what they had to say?" Mycroft said slowly, tapping his
umbrella on the table. Around them, almost unnoticed, people had been leaving,
or rather, they had been escorted out by nondescript men in black suits. Sally
was watching with rapt attention but didn't dare say a word. So far, all she
could discern is this guy was the freak's brother and they were here because of
him. And now everyone was being taken away except the man they were here for
and some very prominent political figures that sat at the table with him. She
knew him, even. And this Mycroft wasn't the least bit intimidated by this guy.
Soon, few were left but these very prominent individuals. It was obvious
Mycroft wanted witnesses.
A man walked up and handed a folder to Mycroft and quickly disappeared. "Oh
they are liars; let us find out what you say they are lying about. I think
Charlie Addison would disagree. You and Leslie Connors raped him, left him in
the middle of the locker room, and then spread rumors that he was sleeping with
the entire Rugby team. He threw himself off the Science building six months
later. Daniel Truman. This one you all participated in, including the now
deceased Joseph VanDremel. Ended up slitting his wrists in his bathroom seven
months later when the taunting from his classmates got too much after your
father's solicitors discredited him after he was admitted to the A&E after the
assault. And let's not forget Marcia Stalvert; that one was Mr. Connors, you
and Mr. Ackerby. She ended up moving to France because of the constant bullying
after you revealed your revel as consensual when it was anything but. And of
course, the twins that you, Mr. Connors, Mr. Ackerby and Mr. Verstain raped
after a party in your final year. The ended up relocating to America suddenly."
He closed the folder with a snap and stared at the table. "If you have
evidence, arrest me, if you can. And you said six, that was only five. You're
not as good as you think you are," Weathers said haughtily.
"You see, I don't honestly care about all those others. That's not what brought
me here. If you can figure it out by process of elimination…unless you've
forgotten how many young men and women that you've ruined?" Mycroft said
blinking thoughtfully.
The man looked confused, and then his eyes went wide. "Wait, no, really? The
freaky bastard had a brother, fuck if I knew that! Bloody hell…well if that
isn't the fucking worst. Revenge, huh?"
"I would choose your words carefully, Mr. Weathers," Mycroft said.
To John's amazement, even with the obvious threat in front of him, he broke out
laughing leading John to the conclusion the man was a little more than a small
amount mentally unstable. "Of all the fucking people to finally bring me down
it had to be Joey's curly headed slut. He mooned over that boy for weeks before
I told him to go get 'im. Even said he was straight. Obviously not, since he
was hot under the collar for a guy. First fuckin' date too, Joey worked fast.
The one I figured would never breathe a word to anyone about what we did to
him. He was such a little bitch too. I thought he was going to start crying
when we took him from Joey, like anyone would ever actually give a shit about
him for real."
Mycroft tossed a paper at him. "Joey, apparently, felt some kind of remorse in
the end before cancer killed him. He was by far the luckiest of you."
Weathers took a moment and read it over. "Ha, I didn't think the brat would
tell. He fuckin' quit talking afterward. It was even better than Charlie, he'd
run a cry when he saw me, you know, Mr. Holmes. Nah, your dear brother simply
dove into the drugs and ignored everyone, no matter what we said to him or how
many times I tried to get a rise out of him, like he was a automaton or
something, until he was strung out on drugs all the time. Ironic, since I was
the one that sent the supplier his direction. Figured he had the addictive
personality, so thought I'd help out a little. Especially after that shine left
his eyes. Ironic that it would be the one that didn't talk that got my ass in
the end, isn't it? And you, Dr. Watson? You the prissy little bitch's boyfriend
now? I doubt it. But he's ruined, trust me. Completely fucking wrecked. He
wouldn't even look at anyone like that afterward. But fuck is he a screamer…"
John had enough. He blinked twice and then he was straddling the chest of the
obese man rapidly pummeling his face. Mycroft put a hand up and stopped Greg
and Sally from intervening. They looked at each other and Sally frowned. Greg
gave her a sharp shake of her head, saying to not go against whatever Mycroft
said.
"Sick fucking bastard! You fucking gang raped him and pushed him into drugs and
almost killed him and you sit there and laugh? And still make fun of him? He's
damaged because of you, he doesn't even feel anything anymore, and doesn't
sleep and he fucking can't even be touched by another human being, and I
wondered why and it is because of you, you fucking bastard!" John was screaming
by the end and got up suddenly only to stumble backward panting, some level of
his brain knowing that any more punching and he really would kill him.
Everyone had scattered, and Mycroft came forward and put a hand on John's
shoulder. "I'll take it from here, John. I'll have Greg book him, put the
charges on record, and I'll keep Sherlock's name out of it. The fallout is
going to be massive once the story breaks, all five of them are prominent
members of 'polite' society. Once the names hit the paper, I'm counting on you
to deal with Sherlock. I can't let him fall back into old habits, and I will
move him somewhere safe and secure if you cannot handle him, John."
"You know he'll fight you on that, Mycroft."
"I won't give him a choice, and he'll hate me, just like the last time. But I
will protect him now even if I couldn't do it before. All five will have their
names ruined, and I suppose their fate is yet to be determined. I wouldn't
expect trials, however, John. But I will keep you informed, one thing they will
learn is that no one hurts my little brother like this and gets away with it
forever," he said as two black suited men lifted the bleeding man to his feet.
John assessed the injuries. Split lip, busted nose, possible broken jaw, both
eyes black, large bruise on right cheekbone, and a purple blotch on the left
side of the jaw. He'd live. But John was satisfied. He turned to the man and
glared.
"I have one question, Weathers, why?" John said softly.
Weathers grinned through the bloody mess of his face. "Because I could. Did I
need any other reason?"
***** The Dam Bursts *****
Chapter Summary
     The news breaks, and Mycroft may not be able to keep Sherlock out of
     the papers after all. Sherlock remembers. John comforts.
Chapter Notes
     Okay, rating up to M/E!
     If you aren't interested in the graphic scene, skip the section
     marked Memory.
John drug himself back to the flat exhausted. He expected long explanations and
was debating whether the truth or a convenient lie would be good. Sherlock
would surely know he'd been fighting, his knuckles were bruised and bloody, and
he didn't smell like the surgery, so he'd know he hadn't been to work. It was
well past five in the evening and he came laden with Thai food. He was about to
reach the door when his phone buzzed. He frowned and saw it was from Mycroft.
News broke early. Evening news obtained exclusive. Don't leave him. Working on
damage control, may be too late to keep Sherlock out of it.-MH
Understood. –JW
He had to hope Sherlock wasn't watching telly. But there was no guarantee.
Gratefully, he was met by the tones of a violin when he opened the door. He
exhaled and went up the stairs and laid out dinner. Sherlock was quiet again,
still so strange. Finally he put the violin down and came to the table.
"Thai?" he asked.
"Yup, knackered after my day," he said, dishing food out for the detective and
hoping he'd eat what he gave him.
"Hm," was the only response, and John had to double check. Those eyes were not
roaming him in keen observation. Had he seen the news after all? Nothing else
seemed amiss and the violin was playing moderately happy music when he entered.
Sherlock picked at his food, eating maybe a third of it, and then simply
wandered to his room and shut the door softly. John stared and sighed deeply.
The next morning would be entirely different, he knew. Sherlock always read the
papers.
John managed to get the paper first and exhaled noiseily. Mrs. Hudson frowned
and looked at the paper, not really knowing what John had an issue with.
Search for the Sixth Victim
Authorities have confirmed today that they have taken four prominent men of
London into custody in regards to a decade old case that they didn't know
existed until yesterday. These men, in addition with one who has passed due to
terminal cancer, formed the group that was dubbed the "Cambridge Quintet" last
night on local news stations.
Terrance Weathers, prominent politician and advocate for GMO availability, was
named as the leader of the group of five young men who were at their time
twenty years of age. Also arrested were Clint Verstain, Leslie Connors, and
Jason Ackerby. Verstain is a well known CEO of Trester Industries. Connors is a
corporate attorney for many corporations. Ackerby is the chairman of the
Business Partnership for Revitalization. The fifth member, Joseph VanDremel,
passed two months ago due to terminal pancreatic cancer. He was the CEO of his
family's corporation at the time of his death.
These five men were brought to light for their crimes through an unlikely
source, a blog post made by VanDremel in his final days as remorse for one of
his crimes set in. The post (listed below) can be read still. The post refers
to the brutal sexual assault of a younger male student at Cambridge during
their time there. The student is not named, and neither are the other
aggressors, however, it did not take authorities long to put together who they
were. This particular victim is the one that broke the case, yet he is the only
one that we are left to wonder the identity of.
The first to be arrested, Verstain and Ackerby, were more than forthcoming with
information about their days as members of the group. A total of six victims
were revealed over their time at Cambridge with various members participating
at given attacks. Connors corroborated the story the others gave, and when
Weathers was arrested at his own country club yesterday afternoon, he confirmed
for authorities his part in the crimes. Of the group, Weathers shows no remorse
for his deeds, and instead wears them as some sort of badge of honor.
Charles Addison, III was the first victim, and six months after committed
suicide by leaping to his death on the Cambridge campus. The second victim,
Daniel Truman also committed suicide by cutting his wrists seven months after
the assault. Marcia Stalvert fled the country with her family after being
assaulted by the group. A pair of twins, Jason and Julie Vesters, were
assaulted at a party during their final year. Within the year, their family
moved to the United States. The sixth, and final, victim remains at present
unnamed, but we were diligently working to uncover and interview the individual
who blew this entire case open.
From what we could uncover, the suicides and relocations were the result of the
group continuing the verbal abuse of the victims and spreading rumors
indicating that the events were consensual and desired by the victims. Daniel
Truman had filed charges, only to drop them after intense battles with
solicitors that showed Daniel as a willing participant. Of the charges, one
thing stands out stark. One victim was a minor at the time of the assault,
according to Weathers, he was fifteen at his first year in Cambridge.
Thus far, the charges as they stand are as listed:
Terrance Weathers: Aggravated Sexual Assault, five counts. Aggravated sexual
assault of a minor, one count. All victims were assaulted by Weathers. There is
mention of drug use, however, the case is too old to consider those charges.
Clint Verstain: Aggrevated Sexual Assault, three counts, Daniel Truman, Jason
Vesters, Julie Vesters. Aggravated sexual assault of a minor, one count.
Leslie Connors: Aggravated Sexual Assault, four counts, Daniel Truman, Marcia
Stalvert, Jason Vesters, Julie Vesters. Aggravated sexual assault of a minor,
one count.
Jason Ackerby: Aggravated Sexual Assault, four counts, Daniel Truman, Marcia
Stalvert, Jason Vesters, Julie Vesters. Aggravated sexual assault of a minor,
one count.
The now deceased Joseph VanDremal is accused of participating in the assault of
Daniel Truman as well as the sixth victim.
Verstain, Connors, and Ackerby have already pleaded guilty to all charges, and
have waived a trial. Their sentences will be determined by a judge in the next
week, with consideration taken for full confession and testimony against
Weathers.
However, Terrance Weathers is refusing to enter a plea at all until he is given
a trial. The evidence is damning, and with the testimony of the rest of the
Cambridge Quintet, there is little doubt of conviction. The lynch pin to his
sentencing, however, may come in the form of testimony of the victims, which is
why a hunt for the final victim that brought the case to light has been
initiated. Without corroboration of the confession of Joseph VanDremal, he may
be allowed a lighter sentence after the trial proceeds. Without the testimony
of a victim, there is no physical evidence for any crimes, as it has been more
than ten years since they took place. The testimony of the other members of the
group will ensure a conviction, however, considering the money available to
Weathers, it is a possibility that he will never see the inside of a cell.
John's mouth had run dry before the middle of the article. Sherlock had been a
minor? Of course he had, John thought. He wasn't even sixteen when he started
at Cambridge. And this had happened in his first year, according to Mycroft.
He'd been fifteen. John's stomach dropped, the whole situation becoming many
times worse in his mind.
"John!" came Sherlock's voice. "Do you have the paper?"
"Um, yeah, Sherlock, just a minute," he called up the stairs.
Mrs. Hudson fixed him with a look. "What is it dear?"
John pointed to the paper she had in her hand, identical to his own. "The front
page, the sixth victim, was Sherlock. He doesn't remember, he's filed it away."
He turned and headed up the stairs to find his flatmate sprawled on the couch
as usual. He tipped his head up when John came in. "Paper?"
John cleared his throat. "Sherlock, before you read this…"
He didn't finish before Sherlock had snatched the paper from his hands and
opened it. For a long moment his expression was unreadable, a blank mask, the
only motion, his eyes scanning across the page, lingering on the picture of the
five men together at the top. It was from their days at Cambridge, leaning back
against a wall, taken from a memory book. Further down, their current pictures
were each shown separately. If John wasn't so used to Sherlock, he would have
missed the slight shake of his hands, and the more rapid than normal blinking
of his eyes. But he knew Sherlock very well. And he recognized the coming
storm. All the work Sherlock had done to keep this information behind a dam was
about to be undone. The floodgates had been opened, letting a flashback and
tiny feelings of remembrance. Now, this would break the carefully crafted dam
completely. And John had to hold on tightly, or his dearest friend would end up
drowning.
Sherlock slowly sat down, pulling his laptop to him, mask still in place and
John swallowed, realizing that he was going to VanDremal's blog. Anger burned
in John's gut at the thought. The pompous arse, even at the end, had only felt
sorry for himself, and how what he'd done had ruined his life, and his soul.
Not what he'd done to Sherlock. He saw Sherlock's eyes scan the page quickly.
The laptop slammed shut and he sat there for a long moment. He looked over to
John.
"Mycroft?" he asked quietly, holding the paper.
"He couldn't make them quite disappear, so he opted for ruining them. But as
you saw, Weathers has decided to play against him," John said, slowly moving
forward.
Sherlock nodded slowly, and swallowed several times almost compulsively.
"Sherlock?" John asked, finally. "I know you said you didn't remember. It's
coming back, isn't it?"
He nodded slowly. "I tried so hard to get rid of it…but…"
John sat down beside him, pulling him into him and holding his head to the
hollow of his shoulder. "Tell me, and I'll listen, and then if you have to tell
someone else, it will be easier."
John reached in a pocket then and activated a microrecorder in his pocket.
"Sherlock? Mycroft gave me a recorder. I don't know if it will work, but maybe
you won't have to repeat this." He nodded into his chest and took a breath.
-Memory-
He'd started Cambridge at fifteen. He was looking forward to leaving behind the
petty childhood differences of boarding schools and get into a world of older
students that were far more intelligent than the dullards at the school's he'd
been to. At first, he liked it. The older students thought he was "cute" and
would talk to him because he was two to three years younger than most the
students at the school. Of course, Sherlock was brutally honest, and wouldn't
have known tact if it was staring him in the face. He ended up scaring away
most his potential friends because of his acerbic personality and intelligence.
The truth was that most were jealous and more than a little intimidated by the
young man.
So when the group of boys from last year had asked him to hang out with them,
he had been excited. Especially since the shy one named Joey seemed to steal
passing glances at him when he could. It was quite obvious to Sherlock that the
boy was interested in a more than friendship way. He refrained, for once, of
stating his observations, instead practicing what Mycroft called Socially
Acceptable Levels. He was trying very hard, so when they went on a date at the
ice cream shoppe, he did his best to act like normal people did on a date. It
was his first real social experiment in this type of thing. Of course, he had
researched, and he knew that being invited back to someone's place was usually
a precursor to sexual relations. But he felt he was ready to experiment with
those things, provided Joey was there. Joey had been kind, and hadn't called
him names at all. He liked that about him.
To say the kissing was amazing was an understatement. The older boy's mouth
devoured him, and he let him, melting into the sensations that were completely
new, and he hadn't even really noticed when they were both naked and he was
sitting, straddling his lap, still snogging furiously. He couldn't imagine what
he was feeling, and he leaned back, his arousal brushing against Joey's own
underneath him.
"Sherl, you sure? I know you haven't done this before," Joey asked, breathless.
"I'm okay with just snogging and a bit o'frotting if you don't want to go all
the way."
Sherlock smiled and nodded. "As long as it's you, I want to do this."
Joey grinned and reached into the seat of the chair and pulled a clear bottle
out and coated his fingers with a gel that smelled like spearmint. He pulled
Sherlock in, kissing him soundly as one hand snaked under him, pressing slicked
fingers into him gently. He gasped into his mouth but moaned as he added the
second, scissoring the boy writhing on his lap. Before long, he pulled away,
and slicked himself. Sherlock stared down and let Joey guide him over him and
then slowly sunk down. It burned and stretched a bit at first, but he found
himself getting used to it as he sunk to his lap, pausing, panting, and then
being kissed completely while Joey grabbed his flagging erection to bring it
back to life.
"Oh, God, Sherlock, this is…I've never felt anything like this…so much better
than any girl I've been with," he breathed into Sherlock's ear. "You're
beautiful, like an angel, stay forever?"
Sherlock leaned back suddenly gasping as he moved and something sent sparks
through his brain. "Oh, gods, yes, forever, Joey," he moaned and then there was
a loud bang that startled both of them. Sherlock looked behind and the other
four of the group were standing there in the open doorway.
Joey gasped, gripping Sherlock's hips harder now. "The hell? Get the hell out!"
he yelled.
Weathers gave a leering grin. "Why would we do that, Joes? That would ruin our
plan, remember? You did a great job, getting him here, and all lubed up
already…wonderful. You work faster than I expected, Joes."
Sherlock's eyes widened and he looked at Joey, his heart sinking. "What?" he
whispered. Joey shook his head. "No, Sherl, I didn't…"
Terry grabbed him by the hair then, yanking him roughly off Joey's lap and
pulling him to the floor. He started to struggle, fighting him off, until he
leg go and cuffed him in the back of the head hard enough to send him
sprawling. Darkness danced at the edges of his vision as his hair was grabbed
painfully again and yanked him to stand again, tossing him into Joey's bed. The
world was still spinning when he felt someone's hands on his hips again, his
addled mind couldn't connect the pieces, until he looked to the side to see
Joey sitting in the chair, eyes wide and mouth agape.
"No, no, let me go, please…" he cried as without warning he was roughly taken
by Weathers, who was significantly larger than Joey had been. He cried out, his
hands crossed in front of him, and dropped his head into his arms as he was
rammed into ruthlessly, Weathers continuing with a monologue of disgusting
words behind him, but he couldn't hear them. Something stung and pulled inside,
and he knew he must have torn somewhere because he felt something leaking down
his legs then.
The only indication he had that anything changed was the burning sting as Terry
finishes and another took his place, leaving him breathless again, and unable
to move. Again, there was the burning sting, and he heard a groan from Jason,
he thought. Then there was murmured discussion and he was snatched upward,
sitting on someone's lap, he thought it was Leslie. He lifted him, and guided
himself inside, groaning about how he was tight and pulled him up until he was
blinking up at Jason and Clint who were grinning at him. Yes, he was sitting on
Leslie. His eyes were fuzzy and his brain was obviously slow. Concussed, no
doubt, either from the blow Terry landed or his skull bouncing off the hard
floor. He yelped as Leslie pulled his legs apart roughly, and Clint was
crawling up to him.
"Shh, now, let's just fill you all up, there little Sherly," Clint whispered
and Sherlock realized what he was going to do. He started to struggle but Jason
moved forward and grabbed his arms and pulled them painfully aside.
If he'd thought it was painful before, he couldn't imagine anything more
painful than this. Clint slammed forward into him, stretching everything much
further than it was designed to stretch, he was quite certain. His eyes rolled
up and he slumped backward onto Leslie's chest, breaths heaving, tears flowing
easily down his face. He lost track of what happened then. The world dissolved
into pain and hazy words around him. Eventually he felt the softness against
his back again and he was looking up into Joey's eyes, and he was whispering
something to him, about how sorry he was, but he wanted to make it better…
But nothing would make this better. He turned his head away and wept quietly
until he was done. The door opened and closed, and Joey seemed to have fallen
asleep on top of him. He scrambled away, pushing him and trying not to wake
him. He held onto his stomach barely, and grabbed his clothes, not bothering to
put on his shoes, and ran from the house. He hurt everywhere, and he knew he
needed some kind of help but how. He decided on an A&E, because he was still
bleeding, and needed stitches, and no matter what, he couldn't fix that
himself. He would use a fake name and slip away once they'd done everything he
couldn't do himself.
What he didn't expect was his reactions. He went in, giving the name Jared
White, saying he was eighteen. It didn't work; however, they knew he was
underage. When the nurse went to guide him, he flinched away violently into the
wall. He refused to give any more personal details, and they could see that he
needed help, so he was led to a room. He answered questions about the assault,
as detached and clinically as he could. But then the doctor went to do the exam
and he panicked. It took a powerful sedative to even get him to the point they
could get him back to the exam table. Finally, the exam was done, and he was
stitched and given instructions and prescriptions. The doctor said to wait
there, that there was someone that needed to talk to him from the police. As
soon as she was gone, he got to his feet and was gone.
-End Memory-
John reached over and clicked off the recorder.
"Since then…I didn't know why…but touching anyone without gloves was enough to
make me want to retch. And unexpected touches from others, got violent results.
As Anderson and Lestrade have both found the hard way. At least Lestrade
forgave me."
Then he blinked at John, eyes widened as if he realized what had just happened.
"John?" he choked suddenly. "I think…I think I might…need you for a while…"
John smiled, tugging him in tighter, feeling the telltale wetness on his shirt.
"That's fine, Sherlock. I'm here."
It took almost three hours before John finally sat with a cried, screamed, and
yelled out Sherlock in his lap. His fists here curled under his chin, and his
face was buried in John's stomach. If he hadn't been present for the outpouring
of emotion, he wouldn't have believed Sherlock Holmes capable of something so
intense. But here he was, tear and snot soaked shirt to prove it. He ran a hand
over his dark curls fondly. No wonder the bloke was married to his work. He
couldn't trust anyone else not to rip his heart out again.
***** Under the Watershed *****
Chapter Summary
     Mycroft is frustrated. Sherlock goes on a case, and John finds
     himself holding onto Sherlock's life with his hands, much more
     literally than he'd like.
Mycroft was unhappy. John had let him know what happened after Sherlock got the
news this morning, and the subsequent breakdown that followed. All he could do
was thank all the holy things he definitely did not believe in that John Watson
was there with him for it. Danger Night would be an understatement after this.
In this situation, Mycroft found himself not only understanding his brother,
but wondering if he would have chosen the same routes of escape if he had been
in the situation. Mycroft's own uni days hadn't been spectacular. He had been
younger than most as well, but Mycroft quickly acclimated to the world and
manipulated those around him with ease that his brother never had. Where
Mycroft could see the ebb and flow of society around him, Sherlock had a vast
blind spot. He'd always struggled with emotions, even as a child, but then, so
had Mycroft. He simply hid it much better than his little brother.
"Sir, we have an issue," came Anthea's voice from the doorway. As usual, she
was pecking away at her phone and not looking at him. "You may want to turn on
the telly. News."
Mycroft groaned inwardly. There was only one thing he was working on today, and
that was the prosecution of the slimy, crooked bastard Terry Weathers. He was
so far locked up in lawyers and cameras that he couldn't even begin to get to
him. Even his less than reputable means were blocked. He was locked in a
private cell, with his own private guard in addition to the police that were
there. At this point, he'd settle for the man dying an incredibly painful
death. That was going to have to wait though, it seemed. He sighed deeply and
clicked on the telly.
"…revelation of the mysterious sixth individual. Of course, he question
becomes, can Terrance Weathers be trusted? Could he be naming someone simply to
stir the issues of London today? The question hangs in the air. We were unable
to take cameras into the holding area where Mr. Weathers is being held, and
recording devices were not permitted either. However, Anita Catamar was able to
spend ten minutes with the incarcerated politician and obtain the information
that has everyone on edge. The identity of the sixth victim in the case. When
we return, we'll talk to Anita about her short interview with Mr. Weathers."
The telly went to commercial and Mycroft felt his face blooming with heat. He
glared at Anthea. "How? He was to have no visitors."
She shook her head. "Unclear, sir, but we are getting to the information now.
However, it is looking more and more like it wouldn't matter."
"What?" he said, turning sharply around.
"It is online already. It seems more than one blog and minor news site put the
pieces together, looking through Cambridge records for the few students that
would have been fifteen in the years that Terrance Weathers attended. It seems
your brother was the only underage student during his time there…" she said,
looking up.
Mycroft groaned. That had been his fault entirely, forgetting that there had
been no other "exceptional" students like himself and his brother during
Sherlock's years. He settled his head into his hands as the telly blared into
life again.
"And we're back with Anita. Anita?"
"Thank you, Mala. I must say that I have never left an interview with an
incarcerated subject as shaken as I did this one. In some ways, I am glad I was
unable to take recording devices, because Mr. Weathers is obviously intent on
complete humiliation and degradation of all his victims, but most especially
the final victim who he blames for his capture. Mr. Weathers is a man of wealth
and influence, and he seems intent on using that influence to make those who
are trying to charge him for his crimes work."
"So, he admits freely to his crimes, Anita? There is no doubt the charges are
legitament?"
"No doubt, whatsoever, Mala. He boldly and proudly admits to the rapes of all
six individuals, and feels that the fact two committed suicide, three fled the
country, and one turned to drugs to be some sort of monument to what he's done.
He claims the moment he set eyes on them, their lives were his to control and
manipulate as he saw fit. He claimed to be able to provide me with graphic
details should he have time to recount his encounters with each victim."
"And the sixth victim, the underage one?"
"As I said, he has a special vendetta against him, even though from what I
gathered, the victim himself has not come forward. Joseph VanDremal's blog was
indeed what led to the investigation, however, the victim described there is
the sixth victim. Mr. Weathers therefore places blame on him instead of
himself. He truly has no remorse for attempting to destroy six lives, and
freely admits that he had expected all six to kill themselves, saying that the
ultimate control over someone is the control to make them end their own life.
It seems a strange sort of murder by proxy."
"What drew his attention to the sixth victim, Anita? What drew him to target a
so much younger boy?"
"That is perhaps a result of who the individual is. To go to Cambridge at
fifteen is remarkable, only a few students have done so, all with genius level
intellect. He is no different, and has done amazing and incredible things since
then despite his past. Perhaps it is the successful nature of this victim that
Mr. Weathers dislikes the most. Despite his attempts to destroy him, he
persevered. Unlike the other victims, he turned to drug use, which Mr. Weathers
informed me he initiated as well. My sources today say that he is clear of that
part of his life, and has moved past that. However, the question that remains
is how will this situation affect him in his daily life? As a reporter, I want
to reveal the facts, but as a person, the one thing I do not want to reveal is
this person's identity. However, as I discovered last night once I finished
with Mr. Weathers, it did not matter. I sat at home wrestling with a moral
dilemma about whether to hold the information or release it, only to have it
brought to my attention, online speculation had already been picked up by other
news agencies and it was quickly becoming a well-known secret."
"Online speculation, Anita?"
"Yes, Mala. It seems that this victim was the only student in his age at
Cambridge during Mr. Weathers time there. Searching public records took only a
little time to reveal his identity."
Mala was getting quite excited it seemed. Curiosity was outweighing morality,
it seemed. "Well, then, who is this sixth victim?"
"Surprisingly, none other than London's only consulting detective, Sherlock
Holmes."
Mycroft clicked off the telly with a deep sigh. He picked up his phone.
John. Sherlock's identity as the sixth victim was revealed this morning on the
national news. I suggest you both stay in, and if you need to leave the flat,
I'll send a car.-MH
A few minutes later there was a terse, Understood. In response. Mycroft
couldn't blame John. He said he was going to keep Sherlock out of it, and he
instead was being drug right into the middle of it.
-Baker Street-
John stared at the phone and then went to the newsfeed. He groaned as the
headlines changed to reflect what had been said on national news. Already, he
could see his email count escalating dramatically from the website's server. He
opened a few and then wanted to throw his phone. It was an eclectic mixture of
pity, sympathy and ire/blame. He sighed deeply and let his head fall back onto
the seat. They'd set about to tear down the culprits, and instead, the main
culprit had set out to tear down Sherlock in return.
He searched for and found a transcript of the news piece that had been on and
was deeply afraid for his friend. Terry Weathers was proud of what he'd done,
and completely expected his victims to kill themselves. His phone buzzed in his
hand.
I saw the news. How's he doing?-Greg
Ask me in about an hour, he doesn't know yet.-JW
John put his phone down and went to knock on Sherlock's door. After the
emotional breakdown the morning before, he'd passed out on John for a couple
hours then played his violin for several hours. John managed to put tea into
him, but nothing else. He'd retreated to his room and solitude early in the
evening, and had remained there since. His phone and laptop were both sitting
on the dining table, so he knew that he had no access to the information that
broke. He hesitated until he heard Sherlock's voice.
"John, if you insist on standing there all day, stop thinking so loudly."
John smiled despite the situation. He opened the door to see his flatmate
sprawled across his bed, one arm flung over his eyes, the other laying over his
head. He uncovered his eyes tentatively, and he realized that they were still
puffy and red. He wished if he'd been upset again that he'd come to him. He
hated to think of Sherlock crying himself to sleep alone. He honestly didn't
want to see Sherlock alone ever again. He swallowed the thought.
"You're staring, John. I suppose there is more undesirable news for my
situation."
"Um, yeah. Mycroft couldn't control every angle, and the information got out.
Your…your name was released today. Though it looks like some conspiracy
theorists had it figured last night after hacking into Cambridge's files. I
guess you were the only fifteen year old during Weathers years."
Sherlock sighed deeply. "I was wondering how long it would take them to figure
that out. Honestly surprised it took that long."
John moved forward and sat down beside him, putting a hand on his shoulder,
still amazed that he could actually touch him when no one else could. "Hey, you
know it doesn't matter?"
"I know, John, but it is the looks and the pity that I am not looking forward
to seeing. I am not going to fall apart. Again. I have you now. I don't need
drugs and I most certainly am not inclined to end my own life over a decade's
old event," he said, rubbing a hand over his face. His eyes betrayed his lack
of real rest with the dark circles under them.
"You seem to have recovered from the memories returning," John said, brushing
his hair from his forehead gently.
"They were never gone, John, simply filed away. I was…taken off guard. That was
something I had sealed tightly, and like you noticed, it was something far too
big to delete. Something like that is…life altering. And now I have to move
forward again," he sat as he spoke. "I'm going to shower and dress, and then
we'll see what the day brings."
John watched him and sighed deeply. The next weeks would be hard, no doubt. He
sighed and returned to the front and saw another text had come in from Greg, a
new crime scene. As much as he wanted to keep him in, John knew the best thing
for Sherlock was his Work. So he texted him back, saying they'd be there in
half an hour. He then texted Mycroft letting him know where they were going and
why. He got no response as he expected. Mycroft had to understand that staying
in the flat would drive Sherlock completely insane.
"Sherlock! Case!" he called. He heard the distinct sound of the shower turning
off as the detective hurried through his dressing. Together they headed out,
Sherlock practically running down the steps. Of course, he was in a hurry. He
was going to be nuts before long if he didn't get out.
Fifteen minutes later the cab pulled up in front of a nice house. It was taped
off and Sally Donovan stood out from, deflecting interested neighbors. For
once, Sherlock hesitated, and John saw why. As soon as he stepped out of the
cab, the few people on the scene turned and stared. John reached out and
squeezed his hand, getting him to look at him. He smiled and nodded. With that
he strode with his usual confidence, or at least anyone who didn't know him
would assume it was confidence, John saw the hesitance in each step and the way
he faltered. Sherlock's physical tells were so much more subtle than anyone
else he knew but they were there, if you observed.
He ducked under the tape and he tuned out the barrage of questions that
suddenly started when he got nearer that had nothing to do with the current
crime scene. He saw Sherlock's body language close off immediately, and he
slipped through the tape and into the house with a sigh.
"If this happens everywhere I go, I'm never leaving the flat," he said once
inside.
"We can't have that," Greg said, looking over toward them. "You'll drive John
insane and shoot holes in the wall. Come on, this is your favorite, locked room
murder."
Despite his situation, Sherlock's eyes lit up. He followed Greg into a bedroom
just off the main entry, and John felt a hand on his arm. He turned to see
Anderson standing behind him with a strange look on his face.
"Yes?" John asked, arching his brows.
"So it's true, yeah? Sally told me about you and that brother of Sherlock's
going to that Weathers' place. But it's true?" he asked.
John sighed. "Yes, Anderson, very true. And it's the reason you got slugged
when you met him, you do know he punched Greg for the same reason? But yes, and
I'm sure more painful details will be coming out if this Weathers guy has
anything to say about it. He wants to see his victims destroyed, and Sherlock's
the only one not dead or in a foreign country."
Anderson looked thoughtful for a moment. "I…I mean…that's a lot to deal with."
"Especially since he's had the memory locked away since it happened. So please,
don't treat him differently right now. It's the worst part for him," John said,
turning to go into the room where he was examining the carpet below the window
with his magnifier.
Greg stood to the side, arms crossed, watching him work. He looked up as John
entered and wondered for a millionth time why the two weren't involved. It was
obvious they were obsessed with each other, but then, Greg supposed that
knowing what had happened in Sherlock's past explained his hesitancy to get
involved with others. It explained the touching issues as well as the closed
off nature of Sherlock's emotions. He couldn't imagine what he had to be going
through, everyone in the world knowing his darkest secret. He didn't mention
it, giving Sherlock some much needed normalcy in what had to be a confusing
mess.
About twenty minutes later, he was standing outside the house, having solved
the case (it was the maid), and wanting to get back home and work on some
experiments with some volatile chemicals or animal parts. Or maybe he'd go to
the morgue and see what bodies where there he could look into… He turned to say
something as John came out the door but saw John's eyes widen and push him
hard. The air resounded with a loud cracking sound and Sherlock swore he felt
something explode in his upper arm, followed by another crack and another
explosion of pain ripped through his thigh. There was a strange metallic tang
to the air, and he looked to see a man in a black leather motocycle outfit with
a full helmet on mounting a motorbike and riding off, shots being fired after
him.
It took forever for the ground to meet him. When it did, time, which had slowed
to a near crawl, caught up to him and he was blinking up at John, who was
pressing hard into a spot in his leg that was shooting blinding pain throughout
him. He heard Greg's voice and felt the world slipping around him. He heard
John telling Greg and someone else not to touch him…that he couldn't deal with
a panic attack right now. He wanted to tell John thanks for that. But the words
were caught in his throat.
John was panicking. Severely. As soon as he saw the man he knew, he wasn't sure
how, but he did. And the man shot, thankfully he had pushed Sherlock enough
that the bullet aimed for his chest buried in his upper arm, then if the
bastard didn't shoot for the femoral artery instead. Unfortunately for John,
that shot hit the mark, and he was desperately trying to keep him from bleeding
out. What little color was in Sherlock's face was draining away. The paramedics
were there.
"I need a sedative, now!" he screamed before they even got out of the van.
"What for? We can't sedate someone whose been shot like that!" the first
yelled.
"Unless you want a full on panic attack when you load him, he needs a sedative,
now, severe hapnophobia, even in this state it will put him in distress and
cause the bleeding to worsen, so get a goddamned sedative now!" he announced,
fingers precariously placed around the edges of the artery. He'd tied his belt
around Sherlock's thigh as a tourniquet to stem the flow, then went in after
the bullet to pinch the artery closed by hand to make sure. The wound in his
shoulder was bleeding but not as bad.
The medics argued no more, simply handing him a syringe. "Sherlock!" he yelled
at his friend, who turned hazy eyes on him. "Sherlock, listen, you're going to
take a nap, but I'll be there when you wake up."
He sighed. "John, you fix it?" he slurred thickly. "Okay, nap."
John pulled the lid off with his teeth and used his free hand to inject the
sedative into the muscle. A few moments later, Sherlock's lids fluttered and
his body relaxed. "Okay, come on, I've got the artery pinched, femoral's been
severed. We have to go now, but I'm not letting go, so work around me," John
announced.
It took some doing but finally they were in the truck, and John's fingers had
been replaced with a clamp, and he took a moment to take a shaky breath. He was
covered in blood. Before long, they were wheeling him away with strict
instructions from John not to let him wake if they were still working on him.
He stood dumbly in the waiting room where he'd been shoved. He turned to see
Greg, Sally, and Anderson standing behind him. He looked down at himself and
grimaced.
"If it isn't too much to ask, Greg, can you go to Baker Street and ask Mrs.
Hudson to pull a set of clothes for me?" he asked.
"Yeah, John, but first, how is he?"
John shook his head. "The leg wound is the one I'm worried about, tore through
the femoral artery. High risk of infection, I had my hands in the wound
pinching the artery by hand until they could clamp it, no telling how much
contamination got into it. The arm isn't as bad, but still. If I hadn't pushed
him, he'd be dead. That shot would have hit him right in the heart. Did they
catch the guy?"
"We did," came a voice from behind him. He turned to see Mycroft, impeccable as
ever, leaning on his umbrella. "He was hired anonymously, but we are sure that
it was Weathers that put a hit on Sherlock."
John nodded, and watched as Greg left the room. Mycroft sighed, patting him on
the back. "John, I can't thank you enough. You've saved my dear brother more
times than you know."
Sally stared at Mycroft for a long while before speaking. "So you're really his
brother? You don't act like him at all…" she said finally.
Mycroft arched a brow and scanned him and Anderson. "Hrm. You've been sleeping
together for several months now, and your wife is none the wiser. But I'd
suggest going easy on the perfumes when you rendezvous, because he stinks of
your perfume, dear. And if you had any more disdain of my brother it would be
palpable in the air. A shame, really. He does enjoy your company even if you
don't see how much," he said, getting hard looks from both Anderson and
Donovan.
"Yes, you see, my dear brother and I are very much the same, here," he said,
tapping his head. "The difference is that I didn't suffer a life altering event
at fifteen that completely ruined my ability to understand emotions and
connections to others. Sherlock was never very good at societal norms to begin
with. No wonder he walked into the convenient trap of people pretending to care
about him, starved as he was for that kind of attention. A shame I didn't
notice, and never will I forgive myself."
Mycroft sighed and sunk down into a seat. "All I really want is the little boy
that played Beethoven's fifth for me when I was sad after a fight with Father.
He was seven at the time, and he knew that I was upset, and that it was my
favorite piece. He learned it just for me, and I don't think he's ever played
it since…then." If anyone noticed the dampness on Mycroft Holmes's face, no one
mentioned it.
***** The Key Found Inside *****
Chapter Summary
     Sherlock hates hospitals and thinks back over where he's been. He
     finds John by his side and thinks of his locked up heart. Lestrade
     makes a visit before taking Mycroft out for a much needed pint
     (beginning Mystrade).
Sherlock hated hospitals. More than anything else, they reminded him of the
weakness and frailty of the human body that he had to endure. He often referred
to it as nothing more than a transport for his mental faculties, and that was
the reason he ate little and slept less. He could endure pain to a greater
degree than most people. And he could shut down the needs of his body if he
wanted to do so. And most of the time, he did just that. Desires were secondary
when they were desires of the body. He had denied them all for more than a
decade. Desires for foods, drinks, sleep, movement, sex, all of those things
had nothing to do with his mental capacity. Some delighted in the excess of
sweets, alcohols, sloth, exercise, and carnal activities, but when the
shuttering need for any of those things surfaced, he simply closed down that
and supplanted it with an activity to stimulate his mind instead.
That was why the drugs became so attractive. They did sate a physical need, of
a sort, but mostly they granted something to mental capabilities. The
stimulants allowed his mind to expand and clarify, the depressants allowed him
to slow his mind down when it became too rapid. And most of all, the drugs made
it easier to slip away from the memories. He didn't even remember when touch
began to trigger anxiety. Perhaps it was immediately, perhaps months after the
incident. It was only a short while until Terry and the others were gone, but
before they left, they had left an indecent brand on Sherlock's life and peers.
Before, he was that weird kid that liked to show off. Now, his world included
whispered conversations about his sexual proclivities. He set those things
aside and never deemed to respond to any of them. To do so would acknowledge
that something had happened. And he couldn't do that, because if he did, he had
to remember. And more than anything he did not want to remember. That was the
first purpose of the drugs. And they worked so well, he felt like he was
drowning in them, and he was perfectly happy to do so.
Still, by the end, he graduated with a dual degree in chemistry and physics, a
perfect grade point average and top of the class. The whispered conversations
continued, but had died to speculation, and rumors. He spent most his time
avoiding others, and when he was forced to interact would insult and berate
people to keep them away. And it worked, most the time. But it would be
inevitable, he'd make someone angry enough to reach out and try to grab him or
push him, and then he'd lash out violently, his senses on fire, anxiety
shooting through the roof and wanting nothing more but to get away from that
person. It was perfectly illogical. He researched the reactions, discussed them
with professors, and determined it was a phobia. And the treatment was
systematic desensitization, but there was no guarantee that it would work if
the root of the problem wasn't dealt with, that is, whatever triggered such an
extreme phobia.
Then there was the overdose. He'd been out of uni no more than two weeks, in a
new small flat that Mycroft found for him, working on his experiments and doing
nothing of real import. It had been a complete accident. He hadn't overdosed on
purpose. He normally mixed his own solution of cocaine and heroine. A cocktail
that he preferred that put his mind exactly where he wanted it. But his
supplier claimed that he had some premixed with the saline for injection. He
was dubious about it, he didn't like his stuff cut with anything else, but he'd
gone to the same man for almost three years now, and he'd never steered him
wrong. The solution he used was 7%. The one he got was a 10% solution, and what
he didn't know is that it was laced with ketamine. When he added the liquid
heroine, and shot the solution, the effect was immediate. He knew something was
wrong and grabbed his phone, managing to call Mycroft before he lost
consciousness.
He woke to the bloody hospital. It had been three weeks, and they'd kept him
sedated through the detoxing. His body still craved a bit, full detox took six
to eight weeks, but the worst part would be over. He blinked and saw Mycroft
sitting beside the bed, reading the newspaper. Sherlock sighed and Mycroft
glared at him.
"I didn't try to kill myself. It was an accident," he said immediately, voice
hoarse and rough from disuse.
"I should hope it was an accident. One that will not be repeated."
He spent a long time in a rehabilitation clinic after that. It was exceedingly
tedious, dull and boring, and by the end, he'd probably alienated three
quarters of the staff, and slugged the other quarter at some point in response.
He'd had no less than eight panic attacks over the phobia before he left the
place. It seemed the therapists and nurses didn't understand that he didn't
want to be touched. They all seemed to think there was some special exception
for them personally, that somehow they were the one that could get through to
the toughest patient in the place. They were all incredibly wrong.
It wasn't long after Mycroft picked him up and deposited him in a new flat that
he found himself bored to tears. He knew Mycroft was watching him, and the
desire for drugs was strong. He knew it wasn't possible. He still missed the
feeling, though. The clarity that didn't come from anywhere else. Finally, he
got annoyed at a murder case that was in the paper. The answer was so glaringly
obvious even from the junky pictures in the paper. So, he found the person's
name in charge of the case, a Detective Inspector Lestrade, and headed to New
Scotland Yard to request a meeting. He ended up sitting an hour in the
receiving area until Mycroft walked in and sat beside him.
"Why are you here, Sherlock?" he'd asked softly.
Sherlock handed him the paper. "Look at this! Bunch of bloody idiots! Can't
solve the case, and I've done it in less than ten minutes just from the papers.
I came down to explain it to the idiots, but the bloody idiot won't see me. Too
busy, he said. Some I intend to sit in this spot until I pass out from lack of
food, water, or sleep, or he will come talk to me." He said the last loud
enough to be heard by the receptionist who glared at him.
Mycroft stared at his little brother. And what he found made his heart leap.
There was fire in his eyes. The sparkle, the life that had been missing for so
long, it was alive in there. And he realized what was missing. Sherlock had a
reason, a purpose, something he could do. Mycroft nodded and went to the
receptionist slowly. After a few moments, a silvery haired man came down from
the elevator, and shot a confused look at the receptionist. Mycroft smiled and
waved him to where Sherlock was sitting.
"Tell him, brother. I've exerted a bit of influence for you."
Sherlock just stared for a long time. Never in his time as the British
government as he called him had Mycroft used his influence to get something for
Sherlock.
So Sherlock handed the paper to Lestrade and began to unravel the entire case
without seeing a stitch of official evidence, bodies or crime scenes. Mycroft
watched with a soft smile that was hidden behind a perfect mask of
indifference. Could this be the answer? Sherlock was animated, talking a mile a
minute, spinning out flawless observations and deductions, and then stopping
when the DI needed clarification and further explanation of a point, making
sure to drop a snide remark on the obvious lack of intelligence in his
division. Finally he was done and bid the man good bye.
Mycroft stopped him from leaving, watching as Sherlock left. They had had a
long conversation about his brother, the drug use, and an idea that had formed
in his brain. An exchange. In return for remaining clean, Sherlock would be
called in on cases that Yarders were in need of help with. Simple, really, the
Yard got solved cases, and Sherlock had a reason to stay away from self-
destruction at the hands of chemicals.
It was a week later Sherlock ended up nearly breaking Lestrade's jaw in his
office when he'd reached out and yanking him back from the doorway to keep him
from leaving yet. At first Lestrade was angry and then he saw. And he
understood. The door was at his back, and he was pressed against it tightly,
and Greg knew panic like that. He rubbed his jaw and moved around and talked
him down off the attack, and when it was done he apologized, which Sherlock
rarely did, but he liked Lestrade, and explained that he couldn't be touched
like that, one of the reasons he refused to shake hands with others as well.
It was on a his first scene with Anderson when the forensics man decided that
Sherlock really needed to move from his position immediately and had planted
both hands on his biceps to bodily move him. Sherlock had frozen and flung
around, hitting him right in the nose, sending blood flying and Sherlock
falling backward to the floor, eyes wide and panicked. Lestrade had seen
Anderson move to do it, and he was too late to stop it. It really was an
automatic reaction, he realized. There had been no thought between the touch
and the reaction, it simply happened. Anderson was yelling and threatening, and
Sherlock was staring up with wide eyes as Anderson stood over him and Lestrade
knew this would end badly if he didn't act quickly.
He shoved Anderson back and out of the way and dropped to his hands and knees
in front of Sherlock, catching his eyes and talking him down like he had the
last time. It was harder this time because Anderson's yelling had set off
something else, and his eyes were not seeing him. When he was somewhere near
normal, he led him out of the room, without touching him, of course, and put
him in a cab home, promising he could come back after he'd settled back down,
and he'd gotten Anderson out of the scene.
Sherlock avoided Anderson at all costs, mostly because when he tried to
explain, the man with the bandaged nose told him to piss off and leave him
alone. He usually apologized for these incidents, because they were out of his
control, and that was really the only thing that made him apologize. He felt he
should be in complete control of his body, and in those moments he was farther
from it than he wanted to be. And to be honest, the whole thing scared him a
bit. To be that out of control, it just sent him to a place in his mind palace
that he'd locked. There were locks around that door, and there were fingernail
scratches on the wood. Unlike the rest of his mind palace, this door was rough,
old and weathered. Scratches, dents, and strange streaks of red decorated it,
and it was locked with so many locks that Sherlock didn't think he had all
those keys at all. The only thing he knew of locked tighter than that room was
his own heart.
Sealed in someplace deep, was that part of himself that he didn't want anyone
to see or affect. Heartless, they called him that. They claimed he had no
feelings, that he was a machine, and felt nothing for the victims of the crimes
he solved. He didn't understand. Why couldn't they see what he did? How could
he solve cases if he let sentiment get in the way? Sentiment clouds judgment in
far too many ways. Desire to see the good in people led people to ignore the
obvious. So Sherlock did what others could not, or would not, do. He
disconnected himself and looked at things objectively to such an extreme level
that he was considered heartless.
The truth was he had a heart, one that yearned to be unlocked from the confines
he had forced on it. A heart sat there, beating, wanting to be touched in a way
that only one other had before, and that had ended so badly. But the heart
didn't care how much it hurt, really. The heart wanted to be touched, caressed,
loved…but it could not escape. To this lock, there was no key. Sherlock made
sure of that.
At least, he thought he'd made sure of that. Leave it to fate to provide him
with the one person that could forge the key to unlock the shuttered part of
his self that he never wanted to release. And that person sat beside him now,
arms crossed on the side of a hospital bed, surrounded by the sound of
machines, and the smell of antiseptic. Soft sleeping sounds escaped his lips as
his head rested on his crossed arms, face turned toward the head of Sherlock's
bed. He smiled, reaching out tentatively with his right hand and brushed it
over the short, blonde hair.
"Sherlock!" he exclaimed, snapping to a sitting positon.
"How long was I out?" he asked.
John smiled. "Not that long. I had them keep your sedated until they were done.
Took your brother stepping in, though to get them to do it. Claimed it was a
risk, and I explained it was better than them not being able to treat you at
all."
Shelock nodded. "Can we go home? Can't you take care of me there? I can't let
them change the dressigns, you know that. I wish I could just let them, I
really do, John."
"Hey, don't worry. I've already been cleared to take care of everything from
here out, but you'll have to stay tonight, just to make sure the patch up holds
on the femoral artery. And after the blood transfusions. I'm glad your brother
keeps a stock on hand…the hospital was low on your blood type. You had more
blood than I'd have liked, but it doesn't matter. You'll have a painful
recover, the bullet in your leg nicked the bone, and that's going to hurt like
a bitch," John said with a sigh. "And you can't have narcotics, so we'll have
to deal with the less effective medicines."
"That's okay John, as long as you're there, it's okay. I'll do fine. I know
you're the best at what you do."
John blinked, surprised at the sudden compliment. He smiled, leaning over and
brushing the hair from his forehead. "You had me scared. Good lord, Sherlock, I
was covered in your blood when I went in the waiting room. I swear, my pants
and shirt went right in the biohazard disposal. And my pants too! You can't
imagine how scared I was that you'd lost too much. We do have to watch out for
infection. My hands weren't really sterile when I went in and pinched the
artery closed while we waited for the medics to get there."
"It felt weird, when you did that," Sherlock said thoughtfully. "It hurt, but
it was more numb than anything, but it felt strange to have someone's fingers…"
He stopped, wide eyed. John knew exactly what happened. He reached out and
squeezed his hand.
"Hey, let's not talk about the terrible day we've had. It is dinner, and
they're going to bring you some really terrible hospital food, and you are
going to eat it, else I will not take you home tomorrow. Understand?" John
said, arching a brow.
The look of pained surprise faded, replaced by a petulant pout. "I ate
yesterday!"
"Sherlock…you are going to eat when they bring you food. And if I'm not happy,
you will stay here tomorrow night as well," John insisted as the door popped
open and a nurse came in with the aforementioned tray of food. She sat it down
with a grin and reached out to pat Sherlock's shoulder as she spoke.
"Here, Mr. Holmes, there…hey!" she exclaimed as John snatched her hand in
midair. She glared at him. "Excuse me, I can have you escorted out, Mr.?"
"Dr. Watson. Sherlock is hapnophobic. You do realize that means you aren't to
touch him, I know it is in his chart," he said, letting her go.
She glanced at his hand laying protectively on him. "Obviously a mistake,
because you're touch him, doctor."
"And I'm the only one who can. Hence the reason his chart states all medical
procedures from now until discharge are done by me and only me. Otherwise, he'd
have to be sedated every time they needed vitals or blood," John explained,
squeezing Shelock's hand tightly again. His breathing was quickly approaching
hyperventilation just from the thought of the nurse patting him like that.
"Sherlock? Come on. Me and you, remember," John murmured softly, brushing his
hand over his soft curls. "Remember…you have to eat or I'll make you stay
another night instead of taking you home. The food's here, as bad as I
predicted, but you need to eat. After you slow your breathing down. Breathe,
in…now out. In… now out."
Finally, Sherlock's breath slowed and he opened his eyes and glared at the
tray. "But John," he whined. "I told you I ate yesterday! I don't need to eat
today."
The nurse frowned and looked at John, who gave a long suffering sigh.
"Sherlock, you need to eat every day. Not just every three or four days."
"I drink tea, with milk and sugar even. That counts."
"Sherlock. Now. Eat. Or I will make you stay," he said sternly.
Sherlock glared at him and grumbled under his breath but at his tray slowly. It
was truly not worth the effort, but if it was all he could get, he would eat,
just to make sure John stayed happy. Because more than anything, he wanted John
to be happy. And if eating disgusting hospital food would do it, then that is
what Sherlock would do.
He smiled at the doctor, who was fretting over the machines, checking to make
sure the IV was set right and the antibiotics were feeding properly. Then he
fluffed the pillows behind him and sat back down.
"John, you should go get some sleep while you can," he said softly.
"Sherlock, you've had several major shocks in a row. And currently, I'm the
only person that doesn't trigger massive amounts of anxiety in you. I can't
leave. You know how hosptials are, vitals, blood, all that mess, all night
long. No, I'll stay, then tomorrow after lunch, I'll get you settled back at
Baker Street. Mycroft has already sent all the supplies I needed over as well
as stocked the pantry and fridge with enough food to feed a small regimental
army," he said smiling. "I can't have you pulling out any stitches, so don't
argue about me staying. A full blown panic attack could cause a lot of damage
that they spent a good part of today fixing. I won't have it."
"Yes, Dr. Watson," Sherlock said with a grin. "Or, in this case, you sound more
like Captain Watson."
John arched a brow. "Yes, well, whatever gets it through your thick skull that
you need to listen to me, that's what I'll bloody well do, Sherlock Holmes."
"Giving everyone trouble already, eh, Sherlock?" came Lestrade's voice from the
door.
Sherlock smiled at him and shook his head. "John exaggerates."
"Sherlock, I don't think so this time. You gave us all quite a scare. If John
hadn't been there…there wasn't any of us that could have done what he did. I
mean, I knew you'd been in a war zone, but to see you work like that, I was
amazed," Greg said, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorway.
"Yeah, well, you learn how to patch up things with boot laces and tinfoil when
you're out in the field. Luckily, boot laces weren't required this time. Though
I did have to tie off an artery in the field one time with one of mine before,"
John said softly.
"Amazing, is what that is," Greg said with a soft sigh. "Anyway, I'm going for
a pint, I know you aren't leaving, John, but Mycroft is in need of some
relaxation, and after nearly an hour I've convinced him to go with me."
Sherlock grinned. "Good luck, Greg. Mycroft could use someone else to harp on
besides me," he said finally. "And maybe you have his key."
Greg shook his head and headed out of the room, and John frowned at Sherlock.
"What was that about?"
Sherlock sighed. "Keys, John. Mycroft and I…there are some things that we have
no keys for, you know. Things that are locked up tight, away from everything
else, and then one day, out of nowhere, someone shows up with a key that should
not even exist. But there it is. Shining and glittering and golden. And well,
neither of us know what to do. Maybe Lestrade has that key for Mycroft. No one
else has ever come close to getting him to go to an actual pub before." He
paused for a long moment. "Sentiment, is it worth it?"
"Of course, Sherlock," John answered without thinking. "Most beautiful and
terrifying and ugly and amazing things in the world are wrapped up in
sentiment."
Sherlock nodded. "They certainly are. I…might have found my key…"
John wasn't sure he heard the last part correctly. "Might have found your key?"
he asked softly, tightening his grip on the frigid hand he was holding.
"My key, John. Weren't you listening? I can't see any other explanation for why
you can touch me and no one else can. I think…you might be my key."
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