Here lies the Masterlist for my Sherlock x Reader fic, Trust. By the way, strikethrough means the part is written, I just have yet to post it. I’ll try to keep this updated as I post. Much love xx.
Hello! Much requested fluff, here for you to read. You’re welcome.
Per Sherlock’s request, John makes a quick phone call to Mycroft after Sherlock heads back inside the hospital. And as Sherlock assumed, Mycroft assured John that everything was secure. So, per Sherlock’s other request, John told Mycroft to check it again.
Not that John needed Sherlock’s order to do so. The second John heard Mycroft’s voice, all the anger came flooding back, so the hostility in John’s voice is all his own. And when he abruptly ends the call after telling Mycroft to not be a twat about it, John sighs heavily.
John stays on the balcony a moment longer, staring down at the note in his hand. Those three little letters that completely destroyed everything almost three years ago now have come back to haunt them. And this time, you’re in the middle of it. You are the last person John would’ve assumed existed before he met you, and now you are the last person he wants to be in the middle of this mess. First it was Moriarty ruining Sherlock’s life, and now John is worried Moriarty might try to ruin yours. Even if he is dead – which they’re positive he has to be.
But John can’t focus on that right now, so he neatly folds the note and tucks it away in the back of his wallet for safe keeping before he heads back inside.
~~~
Mary has kept you busy by reading aloud some of the cards that have been sent to you while you sip on your water to soothe your dry throat. Most of the cards are from strangers – well, strangers only because you have no clue who they are, but they’re big Sherlock Holmes fans, so you sort of know them. They’re all sweet, the cards from the fans. They seem genuinely worried about you, which is odd. You’re not sure that you believe them, but that’s okay.
Lestrade sent a card and a teddy bear which now sits tucked under your arm. Molly sent flowers and a card with a promise to come visit you as soon as she can. Mrs. Hudson sent a card as well, but Mary already told you she is planning to visit you tomorrow.
This outpouring of love and care is not something you’re used to at all, which is probably why you make more than one face as Mary reads you some of the cards.
She’s in the middle of showing you one when Sherlock bursts back through the door, stopping in his tracks when he sees you holding a teddy bear and looking at a card. He swears, he stops breathing in that moment.
You turn your head to look at him, smiling softly. His cheeks and nose are a little red, which tells you he’s been outside. The thought does worry you a little because that means he had to take John outside to talk to him, but you try not to think about it. The worry goes away pretty easily when you get caught up in admiring his face. Which sounds strange, but you can’t help it. Yes, he was in your dreams, but those were different. Seeing him here in reality is so much better, especially when he has rosy cheeks.
Mary sees the moment of staring – she hears it, too, because the both of you are silent, breathing stopped, staring – and stands from the chair, setting the card down with the others. “I’m gonna go have a word with John. Is he still outside?”
Sherlock nods.
“Okay,” Mary smiles. “I’ll be right back.”
She pats Sherlock on the shoulder as she passes him, giving him an almost pointed look that makes him furrow his eyebrows. He isn’t sure what to make of that.
You busy yourself with looking at the teddy bear Lestrade got you. The awkward tension in the room is damn near suffocating.
Sherlock swings his coat off his shoulders and hangs it on the back of the chair, taking a quick glance at your vitals to see that everything is still okay. He looks to you, but you’re still incredibly focused on the bear, and he frowns. He doesn’t want this to be awkward. That’s the last thing he wanted you waking up to do to the two of you, but now it is awkward, and he has no idea how to get out of it.
“How are you feeling?”
You shrug half-heartedly. “Mostly okay.”
“Mostly?”
You give him a look, almost smiling. “Well, I did get shot in the stomach.”
“Right,” he nods sheepishly. “You’re not in any pain?”
“Not at the moment,” you shake your head. “I imagine I’m still on a bit of adrenaline from waking up. I still feel like I’m dreaming.”
Sherlock’s eyebrows furrow again. “Why?”
“I don’t know,” you reply slowly. It is the truth. “Do you ever feel like you’re not supposed to be here?”
Sherlock’s expression evens. He understands now.
“I mean I was in a coma. And the bullet wound…it should’ve killed me. I lost so much blood, but…” You sigh. “And this shoulder,” you chuckle. “I don’t know how I didn’t do more damage to it than I did.”
He stays quiet. And you really don’t want to talk about it – or at all – anymore.
“Will you play for me?”
Sherlock blinks, tilting his head. “Play for you?”
“Yes, play for me,” you reply, hating how strange he’s acting. “You know ‘Auld Lang Syne,’ right?”
Sherlock nods his head, picking up his violin and bow, and begins playing your request.
In just a few seconds, you’ve closed your eyes, holding the teddy bear against your chest like a lifeline.
It’s strange, Sherlock notes. What a near death experience can do to someone. In you, he’s seeing you’re reverting back to your childish ways. Wanting to hold a teddy bear while someone plays you to sleep. Though he knows when you were younger you most likely didn’t have a bear to hold or a mother to read a book to you, he knows that these are part of your nature. To want to be held or to hold something. To want to fall asleep with someone watching over you, someone you know will protect you even after you’ve shut your eyes.
Sherlock knows these are things you were not granted as a child, so he makes a silent vow to give them to you now, as an adult, for as long as you ask him to.
You don’t actually fall asleep, though. Once he finishes the song, he sees your breathing has evened out, but you’re not sleeping.
You open your eyes to give him a small smile. “I heard you tell me a story.”
Slowly, his violin comes down from his chin. “Hm?”
“About the east wind,” you tell him, hoping you didn’t dream that, too, but you see recognition on his face, so you’re relieved. “I heard all of it.”
Sherlock’s body freezes as he remembers what all he told you. The one, specific thing he told you because he thought he’d never get the chance again. He expects you to bring it up and confront him, but you don’t.
All you say is, “Thank you.”
He nods.
“You can sit,” you chuckle. “You don’t have to stand all the time.”
He does sit, mostly because you told him to and because he isn’t sure what to do in this moment. This is the day he was longing for – for you to wake up – but now that it’s here, he couldn’t feel any less prepared.
“So, tell me,” you murmur. “Any good cases while I was napping?”
He shakes his head. “None of interest.”
“So there have been some?”
He shakes his head again. “None that excited me.”
“Ah,” you nod, hugging the bear tighter. “They told me you’ve sat there the entire time.”
“I have.”
“Have you slept any?”
He’s quiet.
“Sherlock!” You scold. “You need to sleep, too.”
“I’m alright.”
“You better sleep tonight,” you mutter, then you reel yourself back in. “Are you staying again?”
“If you want me to.”
“I want you to,” you blurt. “If you don’t mind.”
He tries his hardest not to smile. “Alright.”
~~~
“We need to go home tonight.”
“What?”
“Sherlock is in there right now with her,” Mary explains. “The two of them stared at each other like lovesick teenagers.”
John blinks.
“Listen, I know you don’t like the idea of them together, but it’s something you’re going to have to get over,” Mary sighs. “We need to give them some space.”
“Well after that comment, space is the last thing I want to give them,” John clears his throat. “He’s not good for her.”
“He’s been sitting by her bed for the past week,” Mary reminds your older brother. “He played her song until she woke up, and he’s playing another song now, and you’re telling me he’s not good for her?”
“He’s not the dating type, he’s just going to hurt her.”
Mary raises her eyebrows. “Have we been watching the same person?”
John gives her a look.
“I know you want to be the protective brother right now, but you’re going to have to let them do whatever it is they’re doing.”
He scrunches up his nose at Mary’s wording, causing her to sigh.
“You know what I mean. He’s not the dating type, well, from what I’ve seen, she isn’t either. And she’s strong. I think if she knew he was going to break her heart, she would’ve walked away a long time ago.”
John hates that Mary has a point.
“Now, we’re going to go visit for a bit, and then we’re going to leave and give them space, so they can figure out whatever it is they need to figure out. Okay?”
John still looks like he doesn’t like any of this one bit, but still, he nods.
The pair venture back into the hospital room, finding Sherlock practically passed out in the hospital chair, his fingers laced with yours as you’re sleeping soundly. Mary glances at the machines and sees your pain medication must be kicking back in, causing you to sleep. And as for Sherlock, well, the man hasn’t slept in God knows how long, so Mary is just grateful he’s finally asleep.
The teddy bear from Lestrade is still tucked under your arm, your head turned to the side toward Sherlock. You must’ve fell asleep while looking toward him.
John stares at the scene, clenching his jaw. He knows Sherlock well. And he knows Sherlock is not the type of man he wanted you to fall for. But seeing this, the two of you sleeping, holding hands, Sherlock’s violin leaned against the bed – something about it all makes some of John’s worries wash away.
He’s still going to be protective because it’s in his nature and he isn’t sure if he’ll ever not be protective of you, but he doesn’t feel as bad about heading home for the night.
So, with a small, knowing smile, he allows Mary to take his hand and guide him out of the room, shutting the lights off as they go.
~~~
You wake sometime later, the sky now dark. You quickly glance toward the clock, seeing that it’s almost midnight. It’s almost a new year.
You move your hand, realizing Sherlock still has a minor death grip on your fingers, making your chest flutter. You squeeze his hand, looking to his face to see he’s sleeping peacefully. And snoring.
Faintly, but it’s there, and it makes you snicker.
He, of course, hears you trying to muffle your laughter, so he cracks his eyes open, giving you a curious look. “What?”
You shake your head. “Nothing, I just…I guess I have an obvious type.”
That gets Sherlock to sit up a little, but still being sure to keep your hand in his. “I’m sorry?”
“Men who save me from death’s grip,” you say quietly, pausing as you offer a soft smile. “And then who snore in the chair by my bedside.”
He furrows his eyebrows. “I don’t snore.”
“Oh, you do.”
“I don’t.”
“Well, how would you know?” You counter, raising an eyebrow.
“How would you? Is there any proof?”
“Are you seriously that cross about snoring in your sleep? It’s normal.”
“It’s annoying.”
“Then it suits you.”
Sherlock levels his gaze, almost glaring at you, but the shit-eating grin that you’re giving him leaves him defenseless, his look dissolving into a smile. He’s missed that. It’s only been a week, but he’s missed your relentless teasing and pushing of his buttons. At the time it really annoyed him so much that he wasn’t aware he would ever miss it, but he sees now that he has.
Minutes pass, the both of you staring out the window and watching, waiting for the clock to strike midnight.
And once it does, you half expect Sherlock to pick up his violin and begin playing a celebratory song before the two of you go back to sleep, but he doesn’t. Instead, he does what you were most hoping for, but least expecting.
He kneels next to your bedside, cradling your face in his hands as he presses a kiss to your lips, his thumb stroking your cheek. It’s tender, slow, everything you needed.
He pulls away, watching your dazed eyes as they open, and a smile crosses your lips.
“Happy New Year,” you whisper.
He smiles, then, leaning his forehead against yours. “Happy New Year, my love.”
If you’d like to really get into the emotions of this chapter, or if you’re just curious of what kind of soundtrack I would possibly have when writing this insane story, then I’ll tell you I listened to “Hold On” by Chord Overstreet a lot. But I listened to “The Night We Met” by Lord Huron when Sherlock begins talking (I’ll put a thing in there to say when to start the song, if you want).
I know I’m evil, but if it makes you feel any better, I cried while writing this, too.
You thought about death probably more than the average person should.
Ever since you were a kid, death was all around you. It wasn’t something your mother waited to explain to you when you were ready or older or when a family member passed and it was inevitable, it was something you were told about and told to just accept. She told you your father was dead, or might as well be – so you accepted it. Her parents were dead – so you accepted it. When friends of hers would die – you accepted it. When one of your friends in school died in a tragic car accident – you had to accept it. And when you shot your mother, taking her life – you had to accept it.
The funny thing about it, though, is that death is a lot easier to accept when it isn’t your own. You had come to terms with possibly dying when being stuck in the factory with Gidon because you were sure Sherlock and John wouldn’t be able to get there in time – and you had accepted that.
But when you saw their faces in the back of the ambulance, both terrified and concerned and confused all at the same time, your mind changed. You had accepted your death when you thought it would occur with them nowhere in sight, when you weren’t able to see how it was hurting them, because it was easier to convince yourself that they would be relieved. But seeing their faces made it all change.
You didn’t want to die anymore.
~~~
“A medically induced coma— What the hell is she in a medically induced coma for?”
Sherlock watches the doctor calmly try to explain to John that the drugs found in your system were unlike any they’d seen in a long while, and that the amount administered was enough that you could’ve overdosed. Surprisingly, you hadn’t, and Sherlock is chalking it up to your stubbornness – which is why he presumes you were able to stand and fight Gidon after having been shot in the abdomen.
John regains his senses after the explanation and the doctor’s assurance that by this time tomorrow, if all is looking well (which he’s sure it will be), you will be waking up and continuing on your speedy recovery.
John nearly scoffs. There is nothing speedy about recovery. He still feels like he is recovering every day from the war, and it’s been years now since he was shot. Recovery isn’t speedy. It’s shitty.
You lost a lot of blood. Enough that the helicopter took you back to the hospital, because the fifteen-minute drive was too long and they weren’t sure if you would make it that long. Surgery lasted a few hours, from removing the bullet, resetting your shoulder, and repairing the areas that internal bleeding had caused damage. Sherlock was a worried mess the entire time, pacing back and forth in the waiting room so much that even the nurses were worried for him.
You did well, though. They got the bleeding under control and your vitals stabilized, except now you’re in a coma. It’s Christmas, and you’re spending it in the hospital, in a bloody coma.
“Did they say when she’ll be able to wake up?”
“Hopefully tomorrow,” John explains. “But at the latest, New Years.”
Mary reaches out, grabbing his hand. “You need to sleep.”
“I can’t sleep.”
“Come on, John, Sherlock will be here all night, you know he will. You need to go home and sleep. We can come back first thing in the morning after you’ve had a shower.”
It takes a few more moments of coaxing, but eventually John leaves, telling Sherlock he’ll see him in the morning. Sherlock merely waves, not really focused on anything but you right now.
And Gidon. Gidon has been taken into custody, even though Sherlock wanted to kill him. Lestrade had to physically restrain Sherlock from kicking Gidon’s face in.
Sherlock told Lestrade he better lock Gidon up tight because…someone might kill him during the night. That someone is Sherlock.
His phone begins buzzing in his pocket, causing him to join reality again. But it’s his brother.
“What do you want?”
“How is she doing?” Mycroft asks, because even though his brother is angry with him, he still knows him better than anyone else, and he knows he needs someone to talk to right now.
“She’s in a coma,” Sherlock pauses. “Medically induced. Because of you, might I add.”
“Yes, because you haven’t stressed it enough,” Mycroft sighs. “When will she wake?”
“Tomorrow,” Sherlock says quietly. “Or New Year’s.” He doesn’t want Mycroft anywhere near you, but he also knows there isn’t much he can do to stop him.
“Alright.”
“Don’t come,” Sherlock orders.
“I am coming to check on her, Sherlock,” Mycroft counters. “I will text you when I arrive, so if it is absolutely too much for you, you can leave, so you won’t have to see my face.”
“I’m not leaving you alone with her.”
“Very well. I will text you all the same.”
“Goodbye, Mycroft.”
Sherlock doesn’t wait for his brother to answer before he ends the call, sighing frustratedly. Mycroft is who got you in this mess, and now he thinks he should come visit you. As if he has the right.
Sherlock leans back in the chair he’s been sitting in for an hour now. He got bored with pacing, so he decided to sit and think, but this chair is nothing like his back at Baker Street – comfortable and broke in. But he’s not leaving you here.
“Hey.”
He looks up, finding a woman – a nurse, early thirties, a new mother – leaning against the doorway, a soft smile on her lips. “Hello.”
“I’m Natalie,” she offers, fitting one of her hands in the front pocket of her scrubs. “You’re Sherlock Holmes?”
He nods.
“You’re here to see…”
“Y/N,” he answers for her. “Y/N L/N.”
“I figured,” Natalie nods. “Are you two married?”
“No…”
“Wrong answer.”
Sherlock furrows his eyebrows. “I’m sorry?”
“Look,” Natalie sighs, walking further into the room and lowering her voice. “Visiting hours are long over. The only reason you’re still here is because I’ve told them you’re not causing any trouble. Now, only one immediate family member can stay overnight with a patient. Since her brother left, that leaves the option of a spouse.” She pauses, raising her eyebrows. “So. Are you married?”
Sherlock hears what she’s saying and knows that at this point it doesn’t matter about telling the truth. “Yes.”
“Right answer,” she smiles brightly. “Now, come here. The chair in her room isn’t the best, but it’s better than these. And you’ll have some privacy.”
Sherlock feels himself smiling, suddenly grateful for Natalie’s generosity. He lets the nurse lead him into your room where you lay peacefully, not moving. He averts his eyes, still not used to seeing you in this state. Your shoulder is fine, sling holding your arm up while it heals. There’s a large bruise covering your cheek, vaguely resembling a handprint, and Sherlock has to take a deep breath to calm himself down after seeing it.
“Here’s a pillow,” Natalie tosses it to him. “I’ll come back with a blanket and check her vitals, and I’ll try to leave you alone for the rest of the night. Something tells me you’d notice if something was wrong.”
“Thank you,” he says, actually meaning it for once.
True to her word, Natalie returns with a blanket a few moments later. She hands it to Sherlock before she begins checking your vitals.
“Everything looks good,” she murmurs. “Have a good night, Mr. Holmes. I’ll be back on my rounds but try to get some sleep. You look exhausted.”
Sherlock makes a face at her as she leaves, feeling suddenly like a child being told it’s their bedtime.
He tries to sleep, he really does. He props the pillow in the corner of the chair and pulls the blanket up to his chin. He tries looking out the window at the lights of the city, but his eyes always find their way back to you. You, sleeping soundly, completely unbothered by the outside world. Completely unaware of the worried man sleeping at your bedside.
Or so Sherlock thinks.
This is when I would start “The Night We Met” by Lord Huron.
You’ve heard of people in comas having out of body experiences or being able to hear their family members talking to them, but you didn’t think it was real. Until you heard Sherlock start talking.
You had heard him talk minutes before to a nurse, Natalie, you remember seeing her when you first came in, only briefly. You heard the rustle of the chair next to your bed, no doubt Sherlock settling down. You wish you could move, open your eyes and let him know you’re okay, but you can’t move. All your brain is allowing you to do is listen.
“My brother used to tell me a story,” Sherlock began, moving his eyes from you to look back out at the city. “When we were kids, he told a lot of stories, a lot of frankly rubbish stories, but he was a rubbish big brother. He told me a story about the east wind.
“I don’t know why I’ve thought of it just now or why I’m talking to you about it when you’re clearly comatose, but I haven’t slept in three days, so I assume I’m verging on delirium.”
You want to smile. To laugh at his blunt humor. Then to scold him and tell him to go to sleep. Despite the arguments you had before…before everything happened, you wish you could move, could scoot over on your hospital bed, so he could join you, so he could hold you, so you could tell him it doesn’t matter that he’s scared because you’re scared too, but that you can both be scared together and you can get through this together. Not apart. Together.
“My brother used to tell me the east wind takes us all in the end. It was this terrifying force that lays waste to all in its path, seeks out the unworthy and plucks them from the Earth. That was generally me.
“But as we grew older, he warned me about the east wind. It was my…addiction. It was my destructive side. He warned me not to let the east wind take me, but also not to let the east wind become me.
“I know you aren’t really here right now, and I’ve never been a man to gamble, but I hope you somehow hear these words.
“Do not let the east wind take you.”
If you had any control over your body right now, you know you would be crying. The break in his voice when he says those last words, like he doesn’t want it to be true and he doesn’t want to even entertain the possibility of you not waking up.
“After all, I need my companion,” he chuckles darkly, his voice thick, and you wonder this time if Sherlock Holmes is actually crying again. “I can’t let the east wind take you. I’m not sure what I’d do with myself if it did.”
You wait.
“I know it hasn’t been long since I’ve met you, but your presence at Baker Street is something I have found myself growing used to. If you were to no longer be there, I don’t know what it would feel like. I can only imagine that this must be how John felt when I was gone.
“I admit that was wrong of me to do, to fake my own suicide. If this is the east wind teaching me a lesson, I can assure you, it has been learned.
“I have never felt this feeling before of fear that I can’t protect someone, and I’m not sure what exactly to call it. I’m afraid even my mind palace has limited information on the subject.
“I know I have limited information on you, seeing as I’ve only known you for under a year, and I can be more self-centered more days than most, but one thing I believe is that there is a right day to die. We can feel it, when it comes. And if you never wake up…”
He stops himself, and I hear him take in a shuddering breath.
“If you never wake up, then I want to leave you with these words. I think I might love you, Y/N, and I’m not sure what I should do with this revelation other than tell you right now because I am afraid I might never have another chance to say these words.
“It is true that I have taken a liking toward you from the moment we met, and you have managed to confuse this brain of mine on more than one occasion.
“But it won’t confuse me if you do go with the east wind. I understand if it is your time. And I…I am grateful for the time I did have with you. Though I have always despised the east wind, I understand if you would rather go with it than me.”
There’s another moment of silence, followed by some rustling, and you think he’s rolled over and finally gone to sleep, but that isn’t the case.
You’re caught off guard by a gentle kiss being placed on your forehead, his hand smoothing over your cheek one last time.
His touch leaves you, making you wish nothing more than to let your body move, to wrap your arms around him and make him stay.
There’s more rustling, and after some time, you hear him begin to snore.
I don’t normally post a chapter when I don’t have the next written in advance, but I’m struggling to write it. I know what will happen because I do have it plotted out, but any and all feedback on this chapter is greatly appreciated. Comments from you guys really help me in the writing process, so feel free to ramble! I enjoy it :)
I don’t mean to sound too demanding, but even if you just want to tell me why you love this story/why you started reading it in the first place or how you found it, that would help a lot. I love you guys, as always xx.
The doctor pulls you off of the medication keeping you in the coma around two in the afternoon on the day after Christmas day. He tells John that you should wake up within the hour.
But once the hour passes and you’re still sleeping, John is ready to raise hell.
Sherlock stays put in the chair by your bed, his hands steepled at his chin as he watches you, waiting impatiently for you to wake. He doesn’t necessarily want to know if you heard him last night, but he wouldn’t mind if you did.
He just wants you to wake up. To be okay.
While Mary tries to calm John down outside the door, Sherlock scoots closer to your bedside. His hand shakes as he rests it on top of yours, curling to wrap around it. It’s been far too long since he’s held your hand.
“The east wind,” he murmurs, hoping it’ll spark some memory, something. “Remember. Don’t let the east wind take you, too.”
Sherlock’s eyes widen when he feels your fingers twitching in his own, eventually squeezing his hand – weakly, but still something.
He waits for you to open your eyes, to crack a smile at him and joke about, “Is the great Sherlock Holmes feeling sentiment?” But nothing of the sort occurs.
This isn’t a movie. This isn’t a fairytale where you wake up when you feel your love’s touch. Or when you hear your love’s voice. You don’t hear him at all. You felt his hand at least, but your consciousness is gone as quick as it came in that one moment.
Sherlock stares at your face for a few minutes, his eyebrows furrowing as he watches you, waiting still for some sort of expression – anything – to cross your face, but nothing ever does. He stands abruptly after realizing it’s a lost cause, his hand slipping from yours.
He glances at your vitals. Everything still appears to be normal.
But you haven’t woken up.
~~~
Forty-eight hours later
Sherlock sits in the chair beside your bed for the fourth day in a row. He hasn’t said a word in the last twenty-four hours. He’s even begun to worry the hospital staff.
Mary tries and fails to get Sherlock to leave the room. John still can’t bring himself to walk inside and see you lying there, motionless on the bed. He only has once, two days ago when the doctor said you should’ve been waking up. But since then, John hasn’t been back inside your room. He’s restricted himself to the waiting room just across the hall, where he spends the day with his head in his hands.
Mycroft has yet to make an appearance. Sherlock isn’t sure if it’s the guilt stopping his older brother, or the threat Sherlock made a few days ago. Whatever the reason may be, Sherlock is glad his brother has yet to stop by. And he hopes he never does.
But Sherlock knows better than to start hoping because as soon as he does, there is a knock on the door.
His head turns to see who it is, hoping it’s a nurse or even Mary, but instead it is the exact person Sherlock Holmes was hoping would never show their face
“What do you want, Mycroft?”
Leave it to Sherlock’s older brother to get the first word – first sentence out of Sherlock in twenty-four hours. If Mary had known Mycroft could do that, she would’ve phoned him herself.
“Ah, I see the hostility is still there, brother mine.”
Sherlock glares. “Leave or I will show you out myself.”
Mycroft stays by the door, not able to see you lying in bed asleep. And maybe that’s why he is so arrogant. “Well, I’d like you to show me out all the same. I need to have a word with you.” He pauses. “Outside.”
Sherlock clenches his jaw. He hasn’t left this chair, not even to eat or shower. He’s been too afraid to leave your side, and now his brother is demanding he do just that? Ridiculous.
“It’s about the case.”
“What case?”
“Her case,” Mycroft finally steps into the room, casting a brief glance at you before he steels himself. “It’s about Gidon.”
“What is it?”
“I’d prefer not to say here,” Mycroft says slowly, raising his eyebrows. “She might be listening.”
“She’s in a bloody coma—”
“Sherlock. Outside.”
Snatching his coat off the back of the chair, Sherlock practically storms out the door. Your room is thankfully on the second floor, giving Sherlock enough steps to stomp some of his anger out on as he shoves his way outside.
Mycroft follows behind, loosely. He knows his brother and he knows that he is wound up tight at the moment.
Sherlock pulls his collar up around his neck, stuffing his hands in his pockets.
Entirely without anticipation, a cigarette comes into Sherlock’s peripheral view, held up by none other than his older brother.
“Just the one.”
“Why?”
“Happy New Year.”
Sherlock thinks it over for a moment before he shakes his head, stepping away from the cigarette. “No.”
Mycroft, pleased but surprised, asks, “Can I ask why?”
“I promised her.”
And then, it all clicks into place. The incredibly clean streak Sherlock Holmes has been on for the past few months is all because of a promise he made to you.
Sentiment. It runs deep.
“Well. I wish she was awake so I could thank her,” Mycroft comments, tucking the cigarette away.
Sherlock spins around, glaring at his older brother. “You wish she was awake? You’re the one who got her into this position in the first place.”
“If I remember correctly, she was already in this position when I began corresponding with her some time ago.”
“Are you seriously arguing semantics with me right now? Of all times?”
“I’m trying to get you to listen to me.”
“What do you think I’ve been doing for the past two minutes?”
“You’ve been prancing around like a child, Sherlock, and I need you, just this once, to act like an adult.”
“And I need you to tell me what it is you have to say before I check you into hospital.”
Mycroft hears the underlying threat, but he chuckles darkly. “Is that sentiment talking?”
“No. It’s me,” Sherlock replies seriously.
“Hard to tell the difference with you these days.”
Sherlock gives his older brother a look, one that says he has one last chance to say what he needs to say before this is going to end badly.
“Gidon is dead, Sherlock.”
Sherlock pauses. “What did you just say?”
“Gidon was found dead in his cell this morning. Don’t worry, we know it wasn’t you. Security cameras have footage of him taking a cyanide pill at some hour last night. The guard found him this morning.”
“Why are you just telling me this now?”
“Because I wasn’t informed until an hour ago,” Mycroft pauses, digging in his coat. “I’ve been in meetings all day, but this was brought to my attention.”
Sherlock takes the folded piece of paper from his brother, giving him a strange look. “What is this?”
“A note that Gidon left behind underneath his pillow.”
Sherlock unfolds the paper, his expression leveling when he sees the three letters written in black ink. Small, tiny letters. Small enough that anyone doing an initial search would miss them. But they are loud and clear to Sherlock’s eyes. He hasn’t seen them in years.
I O U
“Moriarty is dead.”
“I would hope so,” Mycroft breathes. “But it appears he might not be.”
“So, what? Was Gidon an-an accomplice?”
“That’s what we have been trying to figure out.”
Sherlock waves the paper frantically, scoffing at his idiot brother. “You’ve had an hour, what on earth have you been doing?”
Mycroft stares at his brother. “Sherlock, I’m only bringing this to your attention because I know you’d be angry with me if I didn’t.”
“I’m still angry with you, so what does it matter?”
“Sherlock, listen to me.”
“Why?”
Mycroft ignores the question. “I have put maximum surveillance on this entire building with extra security on its way.” He pauses. “If you want her so closely under your protection—”
“She is under my protection. She always has been.”
“Well, you can’t do it alone,” Mycroft says. “If she is under your protection then she is under mine as well. But listen to me when I say you do not know everything about her.”
“I don’t need to know everything about her.”
“Sherlock, you’re not listening to me.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
“You need to not blame yourself for this.”
“I blame you for this. All of this.”
“No,” Mycroft sighs. “You’re blaming yourself.” He knows his brother well and he knows that’s exactly what he’s been doing every hour that he’s been sitting by your bed. “You do not know the ins and outs of her past, and I will not tell because it is not my place to. But she will need your protection more than she’ll want it. And she might take a while longer to wake.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, what’s the matter with you?” Sherlock cries. “You end it there? She might take a while longer? I’m not blind, Mycroft, she hasn’t moved in four days.”
“And she may take a while longer to come around. After all that she has been through.”
“What are you going on about now?”
“Someone with as much psychological damage as herself may take longer to join the conscious world because her mind needs to heal,” Mycroft replies simply. “After all that she’s been through, I can’t say that I blame her myself for wanting to stay asleep for a while longer.”
“You’re making it incredibly hard for me to not punch you, brother dear.”
“Then I see nothing has changed,” Mycroft smiles, already used to his brother’s usual threats. “I’ll be off.”
“Took you long enough,” Sherlock mutters, not giving his older brother a single second glance as he goes back inside the hospital.
Within minutes Sherlock is back by your bed, the chair now facing the window and overlooking the London sky.
If my predictions are correct, the next chapter will be the last. I know. I’m sad, too. Real sad. But this is fluffy!
It’s the wedding day.
You think you might explode from excitement, but Mary’s excitement is making her want to puke. You spend the entire morning coaching her to take deep breaths while she has her hair and makeup done so she doesn’t throw up in the middle of it.
Her nausea does raise a bit of a red flag to you, but you ignore it. You remember many times being so nervous you wanted to throw up, so this is probably normal. You’ve never been married, so how are you supposed to know what a bride-to-be is feeling on her wedding day?
“Is that man of yours still acting strange?” Mary asks.
You shrug, accepting her change in subject. Maybe this will make her feel better, to focus on something else – even if it is you and Sherlock. “He – He’s always strange.”
“I know, but you’ve been saying he was acting especially peculiar.”
“He was,” you shrug. “I don’t know. He – It’s a weird thing to notice, really, but he’s been playing with my fingers a lot – not in a dirty way, so stop snickering – I mean, we were just having tea last night and he was holding my hand, but massaging my fingers almost. It was nice, though, maybe I’m just not used to affection in that way. I don’t know.”
“I think you’re not used to affection,” Mary concludes. “But that’s not a bad thing. It sounds sweet of him.”
“It is sweet, and so is he.” You find yourself smiling before you can help it. “Stop it, you’re making me blush.” You lean over and swat her arm, which only causes more laughter to bubble out of her.
“Sorry, sorry, I can’t help it! You’re so easy to get going. One mention of Sherlock and you’re all heart-eyes and dreamy sighs.”
You gasp. “I am not!”
Mary turns her head to give you a tired look. “Don’t make me ask Sherlock for proof.”
“Shut it, you,” you glare at her. “I haven’t seen him all morning and I need you to stop making me think about what he’s going to look like in that suit.”
“You haven’t seen him in it yet?”
“No!” You cry. “He wouldn’t let me! The bastard.”
Mary smiles knowingly, but doesn’t say another word.
~~~
Weddings are strange.
Almost as strange as the way Sherlock has been fidgeting this entire time, but that’s no matter. You’re trying not to focus on the way he looks because apparently, he looks ravishing in this suit.
But you’re at a wedding. You told him to behave himself, so you need to do the same.
The ceremony is shorter than you thought it would be, but wonderful nonetheless. The reception afterwards is really what everyone can’t wait to get to. Mary told you that when you were still in the planning stages, and it couldn’t be any truer.
Pictures, so many pictures.
Immediately after the ceremony, everyone exits the church for pictures. Just some of John and Mary first, and then gradually everyone else. Sherlock and you with the bride and groom, Molly and Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, everyone else joins in. Then some of you and Sherlock alone, where you finally get to wrap yourself around his arm, comfort washing over you at the feeling.
But that’s not the same for Sherlock because he immediately tenses.
“Love…” You pull back, releasing your grip on his arm and settling for holding his hand. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
There he goes being short with you again.
Feeling a bit dejected, you nod, letting go of his hand. You hold onto your small bouquet with both hands, gripping the stems as hard as you possibly can to keep yourself grounded. You look everywhere except Sherlock, not noticing the look on his face when he realizes the way he’s made you feel.
He sighs. This is going to be a long day.
~~~
From pictures, John and Mary – along with you and Sherlock – stand outside the entrance to the reception hall to meet everyone as they go in. Thankfully since this is John and Mary’s wedding, you don’t do much of meeting people. Sherlock insists on standing next to John, and you stand behind Mary in the shade, wanting a small moment of peace to yourself albeit while smiling briefly to family and friends.
David, Mary’s ex-boyfriend and good friend (apparently), is next in line and he looks more nervous than Mary was earlier.
But you recognize him quickly enough, and you realize he has good reason to be terrified.
“So, what exactly are my duties as usher?”
You shake your head from the kitchen, listening to the two of them.
“Let’s talk about Mary first.”
Your eyes widen.
“Sorry, what?”
“Oh, I think you know what. You went out with her for two years.”
“Goodness, Sherlock,” you mutter under your breath, stirring around the sugar in your tea. He knows no boundaries. He’s going to scare the poor guy half to death.
After David scurries away, John gives Sherlock a rather pointed look before turning to look at you. All you can do is shrug.
Eventually, though, the line ends, allowing the four of you to venture inside. John and Mary go first, Sherlock waiting by the door. You don’t give him a second glance as you breeze past him, in search of some much-needed champagne.
Mingling has never been your strong suit, and it seems impossibly harder when Sherlock isn’t by your side.
You see Lestrade sitting at a table by himself with a beer, though, and you decide to go and bother him. It’s been a while since you’ve seen him around.
“Y/N,” Lestrade smiles as you sit down, clearly glad for some company. “How are you doing?”
“Wonderful,” you reply, well aware of how sarcastic it sounds, especially when you take a long sip of champagne immediately after. “How are you?”
“Oh, I’m alright,” he nods, sipping his beer. “Where’s Sherlock?”
You look around, finding him easily because he’s so tall. “Over there.”
Lestrade nods slowly, probably expecting you to say something about why Sherlock isn’t with you, but you can’t be bothered. You finish the rest of your champagne and stand to your feet, the heels killing you already.
John spots you when you stand and waves you over, causing you to curse under your breath. All you want is to get buzzed and kick these heels off and ignore Sherlock.
“Are you alright?” Is the first question out of your brother’s mouth, making you groan.
“Yes, I’m alright. My feet are killing me.”
“Take the shoes off, dear,” Mary nudges your arm. “Go put them in your room.”
“I might.”
The conversation dies there, John and Mary sharing a knowing look.
Then something catches John’s attention, and he’s almost beaming. “Oh, God. Wow. He came.”
“Is that who I think it is?” You murmur to Mary.
She nods. Only one Major was invited to the wedding, so you’re assuming this has to be Major James Sholto. John’s old commanding officer.
Just the way John acts confirms the assumption for you. His posture changes, his demeanor, too. He transforms instantly back into a soldier. Just like that. It’s astounding to watch.
Sherlock moves in next to you, his arm brushing yours. Mary decides to take a sip of her wine, her body convulsing.
“Gah, I chose this wine and it’s bloody awful.”
“Give me that,” you giggle, yanking the glass from her hands. “Stop drinking it if it’s so revolting.”
“So that’s Major Sholto.”
“Yes, Sherlock,” you nearly roll your eyes. “I’m going to get these shoes off and you,” you point a finger at Mary, “don’t drink anymore wine.”
She swats your finger away as you turn to leave, letting yourself glance at Sherlock only once as you do.
Mary catches the look and grins from ear to ear.
“Stop smiling.”
“It’s my wedding day!”
Sherlock groans as he turns away, losing sight of you completely now. He pulls out his phone and dials a number.
“Yes. What? Sherlock.”
“Why are you out of breath?”
“Filing.”
“Either I’ve caught you in a compromising position or you’ve been working out again. Favor the latter.” Sherlock grimaces at the thought of the former.
“What do you want?”
“I need your answer Mycroft, as a matter of urgency.”
“Answer?”
“Even at the eleventh hour it’s not too late, you know,” the younger Holmes trails away.
“Oh, Lord.”
“Cars can be ordered. Private jets commandeered.”
“Today. It’s today, isn’t it? No, Sherlock, I will not be coming to the ‘night do’ as you so poetically put it.”
“What a shame. Mary and John will be—”
“Extremely delighted not to have me hanging around.”
Sherlock sighs. “Oh, I don’t know. There should always be a spectre at the feast.”
“So, this is it, then. The big day. I suppose I’ll be seeing a lot more of you from now on.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’ll be just like old times.”
Sherlock’s eyebrows furrow. “No, I don’t understand.”
“Oh, it’s the end of an era, isn’t it? John and Mary. Domestic bliss.”
“No, no, no, I prefer to think of it as the beginning of a new chapter.”
Mycroft stays silent. Knowingly silent.
“What?” Sherlock hisses.
“Nothing!”
“I know that silence,” he snaps. “What?”
“Well, I’d better let you get back to it. You have a big speech or something, don’t you?”
“What.”
“Cakes. Karaoke. Mingling.”
“Mycroft!”
“This is what people do, Sherlock, they get married. I warned you. Don’t get involved.”
“Involved? I’m not involved.”
“No.” Mycroft sounds entirely disbelieving.
“John asked me to be his best man, how could I say no?”
“So, you’re not still thinking of going through with it?”
Sherlock clenches his jaw. He knew he never should’ve told Mycroft. It was only ammunition for him to tease.
“Have a lovely day, and do give the happy couple my best. And good luck to you, in both respects.” Mycroft says, knowing Sherlock isn’t going to answer him.
Sherlock ends the call without saying anything, too fed up with his brother to even see straight and too worried about you to do anything except go looking for you.
~~~
You sigh in relief when you kick your shoes off. You went back to yours and Sherlock’s shared room for the night, hoping for a small moment of peace and quiet.
You settle yourself on the bed, leaning your head back on the pillows.
You must’ve fallen asleep because the next thing you feel is the bed dipping beside you. You nearly jump clear off the bed, Sherlock’s arms shooting out to steady you.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, clearly embarrassed. “What are you doing?”
“Apparently I was napping before you scared me awake,” you chuckle, closing your eyes again. “What are you doing?”
“Checking on you.”
You open your eyes to look at him, smiling a little. “Thank you.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yes,” you breathe, turning on your side. “Are you? And don’t lie to me.”
Sherlock nods. “I’m nervous.”
Your eyebrows furrow. “Is it the speech?”
“Sure.”
“You’re going to do great,” you assure him, rubbing his arm. “I’m excited to hear it.”
“Yes,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “We better get back out there before anyone notices.”
“Before Mary notices, you mean,” you snicker. “But alright. Help me up?”
Sherlock takes your hands in his and helps you off the bed and to your feet. You smooth down your dress once you’re standing.
When you look back up from your dress, you see Sherlock is already gazing at you, his eyes holding a certain fondness in them that you don’t think you’ve ever seen before. It confuses you enough, your head tilting.
“What?”
“Nothing,” he shakes his head, but this is different. He’s not being short with you this time. He’s speechless. “Nothing.”
“Okay,” you chuckle, blushing under his stare. “What’s wrong?”
“You’re beautiful.”
Your face falls, the blush getting worse. It sounds bad, but you don’t remember the last time Sherlock said you were beautiful. It only makes this time hit you that much harder.
“Thank you.”
The corners of his mouth twitches as he steps closer – you didn’t think he could get any closer, but here he is, doing it anyway. He takes your hands again, running his thumbs over the back of your hands.
“I love you.”
Your breath hitches. “Sherlock…”
“I know. Timing—”
You interrupt him by pressing a kiss to his lips, giggling when a blush colors his cheeks just as red as yours.
He blinks. “What—”
“I love you,” you say, grinning like an idiot. “Was that good timing, Sherlock Holmes?”
He smiles then, letting go of your hands to cradle your face as he presses another kiss to your lips. A different one. And you know the meaning of this one now. Love.
Thank you guys again for all of your feedback on the last chapter and about this story in general. It really did help me and I am endlessly grateful for you all xx.
You’re running. Somehow. Something is chasing you. Maybe. You aren’t entirely sure what’s going on, but you’re positive you are running.
Sprinting. The word comes into your brain and the world shifts. You’re sprinting now, like something – or someone is actually chasing you. The trees fly by your head faster than you think they should be (you can’t run that fast), but it doesn’t seem to bother you for the time being.
You come to a full stop. Turning in circles, you gauge your surroundings. You recognize these woods. They’re from a movie or something – something you’ve seen before, but you aren’t sure.
A stick breaks to the left of you, causing your head to sharply turn in that direction. You let out a sigh of relief when you see Sherlock standing there, now frozen with wide eyes staring at you.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” you breathe, turning to walk toward him. “You nearly scared the shit out of me.” A relieved smile crosses your lips as you shake your head at him. “What did I tell you about sneaking up on me?”
Sherlock doesn’t move an inch as you move closer, now standing maybe a few feet away from him. “I don’t understand.”
“What do you mean you don’t understand?” You furrow your eyebrows. “I thought someone was chasing me.”
“That was me.”
“Yeah, what the hell were you chasing me for?”
“You’re the murderer,” he replies simply, now standing straighter, towering over you. “You’re the one who killed her.”
“Who?”
He gives you an even look. “You know.”
You take a deep breath. So, you’re caught. You should’ve known better. Should’ve known someone would go digging around in the file and eventually come for Sherlock Holmes to fill in the gaps, eventually putting you in prison.
“What now?”
Sherlock shakes his head, surprising you. “Now I keep you safe.”
~~~
It’s the sixth day since you were brought to the hospital, and you still haven’t moved.
The security guard Mycroft provided stands outside your hospital room door at all times. John swears there are two of them that rotate, but some hospital staff swear they never see the one guard move a single inch, so no one really knows the truth.
The press has gotten wind that you, Sherlock Holmes’s alleged “girlfriend” (though some are claiming the two of you are married since Sherlock hasn’t left your room, but many others are debunking that theory because well, he’s Sherlock Holmes) are in the hospital, and you have received countless arrangements of flowers and sympathy cards. Everything is scanned before it is allowed into your room, the cards forming a neat pile on the window sill for you to open whenever it is you wake up.
John hopes you’ll wake up today. It’s New Year’s Eve, after all.
Sherlock left briefly yesterday to shower and change his clothes, and he returned with his violin that he has been playing since yesterday evening. John isn’t sure if Sherlock is playing because it soothes him or if he’s playing because he silently hopes that if you hear your song, you’ll wake up. But the doctor imagines it is a bit of both.
At first some of the hospital staff were going to attempt to tell Sherlock he can’t play his violin in here, but then they became too mesmerized by his playing that they don’t mind it. Except when the tune turns solemn, and then the nurses all share a look of despair.
Sherlock Holmes may be a bit of a machine, but right now, in this hospital, he has to be the most human anyone has ever seen him.
~~~
“Are you going to play that at our wedding?”
“Of course,” Sherlock smiles, bringing the violin down from his chin. “What else would I play?”
“Well, I wasn’t sure,” you chuckle, suddenly feeling a swarm of butterflies in your stomach at the confirmation of Sherlock playing something at the wedding. “What are you calling it?”
“Not sure yet,” he sighs seriously, staring at the paper. “What do you think?”
“You’re asking me?”
“That is what I just did, yes.”
“Well, I don’t know,” you shrug. “The answer is inside your mind, though, that I’m sure of.”
~~~
Sherlock picks up his violin for the third time today. He’s run out of songs to play and has now started to compose on a whim, staring out the window at the falling snow as he does.
He tries not to think about the sound of your squeal when it snowed for the first time earlier this month. You apparently had never been granted the pleasure of playing in the snow when you were a child, so you immediately had rushed outside to play in it. He tries not to remember the sound of your laugh when he ran after you and got promptly smacked in the face with a snowball. It was a special laugh, one of yours that he hadn’t heard yet. It wasn’t so much a laugh as it was a mischievous giggle, and he hasn’t heard it since.
Sherlock clenches his jaw and swats the memory away, annoyed that he let his mind wander around again.
~~~
“Sherlock…” You groan, pulling the sheet over your head. “What are you doing?”
“Waking you up,” he replies, followed by the sound of your curtains abruptly opening.
“What for?”
“Because it’s time.”
You pull the sheet down, giving him a strange look. “Time for what?”
“For you to wake up.”
You curl the sheet underneath your chin, staring him down. “That’s awfully ominous.”
“Is it?”
“Yes!” You laugh, your arms stretching out in hysterics. “Yes, Sherlock, it is. What’s the matter with you?”
“Nothing,” he shrugs, then crawling into the bed beside you. “Nothing’s the matter.”
You roll onto your side, looking into his eyes. “Are you lying to me?”
“I would never lie to you.”
“You better not,” you smirk. “Kiss me.”
“Kiss you?”
“Yes, kiss your wife, for God’s sake.”
“My wife,” he smiles, wrapping his arm around your waist to pull you into his chest. “Does it make me an idiot if I enjoy the sound of that?”
“Maybe a little,” you admit. “But I like the sound of it, too.”
Your legs tangle with his as he kisses you slowly, cradling your face, and slowly reminding you of just how much he has grown to love you.
~~~
Sherlock switches to playing the song he wrote for you – over and over and over again, on one big loop. John and Mary share a look when they hear the beginning of the song for the fifth time with no sign of an ending.
Sherlock is facing the window, playing the violin when you open your eyes. You aren’t even sure you’re awake really, but you don’t dare move. You let him play, admiring the way his shoulders move as he sways with the music.
It’s something you’ve missed seeing.
He finishes the song (again), this time turning around as he begins to start it once more, only to freeze when he sees your eyes looking back at him.
You manage a small smile, murmuring, “That was beautiful, Sherlock.”
You jump when he practically throws the violin down, running to the door and yanking it open. You hear him shouting for John a second later, which makes sense, and your brother comes rushing in just a moment later.
“Oh, my god,” John breathes, practically collapsing at your bedside as he hugs you the best he can while you’re in bed. You weakly squeeze his arm, which is as much as you can do for now to let him know you’re okay.
“I’m okay, Johnny,” you whisper, closing your eyes again. You can’t really say the words above a whisper, and even then you’re mostly mouthing them, but he understands.
He pulls back from the hug, tapping your face to get you to open your eyes. You do, giving him a strange look when he smiles.
Mary is next to hug you and kiss your forehead before your doctor comes into the room, saying something about welcome back. You don’t really listen to him much. You stare at Sherlock, trying to wrap your head around everything, trying to remember what happened and what didn’t. The dreams you had while you were in the coma have proved to be vivid enough that you’re questioning if they were real. But one glance to your left hand confirms that they must have been just that: dreams.
You try to hide your disappointment and shock – mostly shock because you’ve never thought about marrying anyone in your life. Not even Tony. And the two of you were pretty serious.
You aren’t even sure why you feel disappointed. Sherlock isn’t the marrying type – you thought you weren’t either, but now you’re questioning that, too. For now, though, all you can do is take it for what you’re assuming it was. Just a dream. Nothing more.
Natalie, your nurse, comes in a moment later to check all of your vitals while your doctor does his rounds. He said everything looked wonderful, though, and that the tests they need to run can wait until tomorrow.
With Natalie and Mary keeping you occupied, Sherlock ushers John outside for a moment to speak with him. As soon as the door closes, Natalie smiles fondly.
“That husband of yours is quite the character,” she remarks. “He plays the violin wonderfully. Does he play it at home, too?”
“He…he does, yes,” you reply slowly, giving Mary a strange look.
“Well,” Natalie breathes. “He has slept right there in that chair for a week and has only left for a shower once. I’m telling you, he is one protective man. I need to get one like him.”
“Yeah…”
“Well, everything looks great. You’re not in any pain, are you?”
You shake your head.
“Good. If you start to feel any discomfort, just press this button right here and I’ll come around. Drink a lot of water and we’ll see about getting you something to eat soon. Okay?”
You nod.
“I’ll be off on my rounds, then. I’m glad to see you’ve woken up. I swear all of us were getting worried for that fella of yours. Thought we were going to have to admit him for worrying so much,” she winks. “You get some rest.”
You nod again, watching her leave. You look back to Mary, blinking slowly. This is real. You are awake now. Okay.
“Sherlock and I… We aren’t married, are we?” You blurt.
Mary shakes her head. “No, not at all. But they had to say you are because Sherlock wasn’t allowed to stay unless he was a family member or your spouse.”
“Oh…okay.”
“You weren’t in a coma for that long,” she teases. “You two didn’t elope while you were asleep.”
You know she’s trying to joke, but you can’t. Not with the dreams you had. The first was strange, of the two of you in the woods. But the others… They were all in Baker Street. Like the two of you had gotten married. Each time the dialogue was different, but the setting was the same. The message was the same.
“What’s wrong?”
You shake your head, staring down at the IV in your hand. “I had a dream. A few dreams, actually.”
“You were dreaming?”
“Yeah, it was different each time, but the same,” you pause. “We were married,” you whisper, turning to look at her. “I’ve never thought about marriage in my life.”
“Maybe you heard Natalie tell him he had to say he was your husband,” Mary offers with a shrug.
“Maybe.”
~~~
“Sherlock, what’s going on? Why did we have to come all the way out here to talk?”
John was a little more than annoyed when Sherlock drug him out of your room, but now he’s even more annoyed because Sherlock drug him all the way outside to the balcony down the hall from your room.
“Because I don’t want Y/N hearing this and I don’t want that guard reporting back to my brother about this, either.”
Now Sherlock just has John worried. “What’s going on?”
“He’s back.”
“Who’s back?”
Sherlock doesn’t reply. He just hands John the folded piece of paper that Mycroft gave him two days ago.
John stares at it. His eyes don’t widen, narrow, or do anything. His jaw clenches, his mind reeling. “There’s no way,” he shakes his head, looking up at Sherlock. “I mean – how can this be possible?”
“It can’t,” Sherlock says, keeping his eyes focused on the London sky, something he’s found himself doing a lot these days. “I watched him die. I watched him put the gun into his mouth and pull the trigger.”
“Alright,” John clears his throat. “Alright, so what are you thinking?”
“Gidon could’ve been an accomplice of Moriarty’s,” Sherlock mutters. “It would make sense. Y/N being thrust into our path just after my return and being targeted by an old cult leader she thought was dead. It would be the perfect way to get revenge on her and on me. Two birds with one stone.”
“Okay, so what if he was?” John shrugs. “Mycroft told me Gidon’s dead. Took a cyanide pill.”
“And he left that note behind,” Sherlock nods to the paper. “Why would he leave a note?”
“It’s what people do,” John says quietly. “They leave a note.”
Sherlock sends him a pointed, but sad, look. Sherlock’s fall will never not be a sore subject between the two men. Even in random moments when it comes to John’s mind almost unwillingly, he can’t help but still feel that same betrayal.
“But why,” Sherlock continues. “Why would he leave a note like that? Why would he leave a note if something wasn’t meant to happen?”
John’s eyes widen then, his eyebrows raising as he holds up the paper. “You’re saying this isn’t over?”
“The game is never over, John.”
“No, shut up,” John hisses. “Don’t start talking like that. What are you saying, Sherlock?”
“I don’t think it’s over,” Sherlock admits. “Something has to be coming.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know,” Sherlock sighs. “I need you to call my brother.”
“What?” John gives him a strange look. “Why can’t you?”
“We’re not speaking at the moment,” Sherlock says, like the fact should be obvious to John. “Tell him to check his security details,” Sherlock pauses, adding, “again,” because he’s sure his brother will assure John that the security has been checked already.
“Okay,” John sighs. “What do you want me to do with this?” He holds up the note.
“Keep it safe,” Sherlock says with a nod. “And I’ll do the same with her.”
It’s Best Man Speech time! Also, I’m a liar. This chapter is not the last. The next one is. Oopsies! ;)
“Pray silence for the best man.”
You squeeze Sherlock’s hand as he stands to his feet, buttoning his jacket and smoothing it down. He really is nervous.
But to be fair, you’re a little nervous, too. He wouldn’t let you hear the speech—He wouldn’t let anyone hear it, actually. This is brand new to everyone. And while that should be exciting, since it’s Sherlock, it’s a little nerve-wracking.
John is beaming, though, grinning from ear to ear – possibly a little buzzed. But he does really love Sherlock, and you know that, even when he doesn’t want to admit it. You know those two have a bond like no other. The Baker Street boys, as Mary calls them.
“Ladies and gentlemen, family and friends. And, um…others.”
Sherlock’s stuttering continues, prompting you reach up and thread your fingers through his. He glances down, smiling a little.
“Telegrams,” you hear your brother mutter, and then Sherlock is back.
“Right, um…” Sherlock picks up the cards. “First things first, telegrams. Well, they’re not actually telegrams, we just call them telegrams, I don’t know why. Wedding tradition. Because we don’t have enough of that already, apparently.”
“Sherlock,” you whisper warningly.
He settles again, nodding. “To Mr. and Mrs. Watson. So sorry I’m unable to be with you on your special day. Good luck, and best wishes, Mike Stamford.”
Ah, Mike. You chuckle.
“To John and Mary. All good wishes for your special day. With love and many big…big squishy cuddles from Stella and Ted.” Sherlock sighs. “Mary, lots of love—Oh.”
John looks up at him. “Yeah?”
“…poppet.”
Mary snickers, leaning forward to catch you stifling your own laughter.
“Oodles of love and heaps of good wishes from Cam. Wish your family could’ve seen this.”
You lean forward at that, giving Mary a look of sympathy as John takes her hand in his, comfortingly.
Sherlock carries on, not missing a beat. “Special day…Very special day…Love…Love…Love…Love…Love. Bit of a theme, you get the general gist. People are basically fond.”
Here we go, you think, wanting to smack Sherlock in the arm, but you decide against it.
“John Watson. My friend, John Watson. John. When John first broached the subject of being best man, I was confused. I confess at first, I didn’t realize he was asking me. When finally, I understood, I expressed to him that I was both flattered and surprised. I explained to him that I had never expected this request, and that I was a little daunted in the face of it. I nonetheless promised that I would do my very best to accomplish a task which was, for me, as demanding and difficult as any I had ever contemplated. Additionally, I thanked him for the trust he placed in me and indicated that I was, in some ways, very closed to being moved by it. It later transpired that I had said none of this out loud.”
The room erupts with laughter, especially coming from John. You laughed loudly, too, because that definitely wasn’t the story you remembered John telling you.
Sherlock begins rummaging in his coat for some cards. “So…done that. Done that. Done that bit. Done that bit.”
He takes a deep breath. And continues.
“I’m afraid John that I can’t congratulate you.”
Your eyebrows furrow. Odd start. Maybe you should’ve forced him to practice the speech in front of you.
“All emotions, and in particular love, stand opposed to the pure cold reason I hold above all things. A wedding is, in my considered opinion, nothing short of a celebration of all that is false and specious and irrational and sentimental in this ailing and morally compromised world. Today we honor the deathwatch beetle that is the doom of our society and in time, one feels certain, our entire species.”
The room stills. You stare down at your hands, a little bit worried for the rest of this, and still regretting the fact that you never took a peek at his speech before today.
“But anyway, let’s talk about John.”
“Please,” you hear John clear his throat, shifting around in his seat.
“If I burden myself with a little helpmate during my adventures, it is not out of sentiment or caprice, it is that he has many fine qualities of his own that he has overlooked in his obsession with me. Indeed, any reputation I have for mental acuity and sharpness comes in truth from the extraordinary contrast John so selflessly provides.”
You tilt your head. That was an insult, wasn’t it?
“It is a fact, I believe, that brides tend to favor exceptionally plain bridesmaids for their big day. There is a certain analogy there, I feel.”
Is he…serious? He absolutely has to be kidding.
“And contrast is, after all, God’s own plan to enhance the beauty of his creation. Or it would be if God were not a ludicrous fantasy designed to provide a career opportunity to the family idiot.”
The room rustles again, and you clasp your hands together, willing yourself to keep listening.
“The point I’m trying to make it that I am the most unpleasant, rude, ignorant, and all-round obnoxious arsehole that anyone could possibly have the misfortune to meet. I am dismissive of the virtuous,” Sherlock pauses to look down at you, nudging your arm so you’ll look at him. “I am unaware of the beautiful.” He smiles only softly, then turning to Mary and John. “And uncomprehending in the face of the happy.”
You smile sadly.
“So, if I didn’t understand that I was being asked to be best man, it is because I never expected to be anybody’s best friend. And certainly not the best friend of the bravest and kindest and wisest human being I have ever had the good fortune of knowing.
“John, I am a ridiculous man. Redeemed only by the warmth and constancy of your friendship and the love from the woman sat to my left.”
Your breath hitches. You weren’t expecting him to mention you at all.
“But as I am, apparently, your best friend, I cannot congratulate you on your choice of companion.” Sherlock pauses, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Actually, now I can. Mary, when I say you deserve this man, it is the highest compliment of which I am capable. John, you have endured war, and injury, and tragic loss. So sorry again about that last one.”
You chuckle softly. He’ll forever be apologizing for the time he was ‘dead.’
“So know this. Today, you sit between the woman you have made your wife and the man and woman you have no doubt saved. In short, the three people who love you move in all this world. And I know I speak for Mary and Y/N as well when I say we will never let you down and we have a lifetime ahead to prove that.”
You reach up and wipe a stray tear away from your cheek, chuckling a little when Sherlock doesn’t seem to notice he’s gotten the rest of the reception hall crying as well.
“Ah, yes. Now on to some funny stories about John…” Sherlock frowns. “What’s wrong? What happened? Why are you all doing that? John? Y/N?”
“Love…” You shake your head, smiling despite your own watery eyes.
“Did I do it wrong?”
“No, you didn’t,” John mutters, pushing his chair back. “Come here.”
The room applauds while the two of them hug, Sherlock still not understanding anything at all as he tries to continue over the noise. John pats his shoulder and says something to make him stop, but you don’t hear.
After John is settled back in his chair, Sherlock continues.
“So, onto some funny stories about John. If you could all just cheer up a bit, that would…be better.” Everyone laughs. “On we go. So, for funny stories, one has to look no further than John’s blog. The record of our time together. Of course, he does tend to romanticize things a big, but then, you know, he’s a romantic.
“We’ve tackled some strange cases. The Hollow Client. The Poisoned Giant. We’ve had some frustrating cases. Touching cases,” Sherlock rolls his eyes. “And of course, I have to mention, The Elephant in the Room. But we want something very particular for this special day. The Bloody Guardsman.”
Ah, you remember. The unsolved one. From wedding planning weeks ago.
“Private Steven Bainbridge had written to us with a concern about someone possibly stalking him. A bloke, no less. Private Bainbridge had just come off guard duty. He’d stood there for hours, plenty of people watching, nothing apparently wrong. He came off duty and within minutes was nearly dead from a wound in his stomach but there was no weapon. Where did it go?
“Ladies and gentlemen, I invite you to consider this: A murderer who can walk through walls. A weapon that can vanish. But in all of this, there is only one element which can be said to be truly remarkable. Would anyone like to make a guess?”
Good lord. You definitely should’ve looked at his speech.
“Come on, come on. There is actually an element of Q&A to all of this.” Sherlock clears his throat. “Scotland Yard, have you got a theory?”
“Don’t pick on Greg,” you mutter.
“Yeah, you. You’re a detective, broadly speaking. Got a theory?”
Lestrade crosses his arms over his chest, deciding to entertain Sherlock. “Er, um…If the uh, if the blade was propelled through the um…grating in the air vent… Maybe a ballista or a catapult, uh, somebody tiny could crawl in there. So yeah, we’re looking for a dwarf.”
“Brilliant.”
“Really?”
“No.”
You shake your head.
“Hello, who was that? Tom.”
Sure enough, Tom stands from his chair, Molly sending a frightened look your way. This is going to end badly, it always does when Sherlock gets in one of these moods.
“Got a theory?”
“He attempted suicide with a blade made of compacted blood and bone. Broke after piercing his abdomen, like a meat…dagger.”
“A meat dagger?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
Tom sits back down, and Sherlock continues, clearly annoyed. “There was one feature and only one feature of interest in the whole of this baffling case and quite frankly, it was the usual. John Watson. Who while I was trying to solve the murder, instead saved a life.
“There are mysteries worth solving and stories worth telling. The best and bravest man I know and on top of that he actually knows how to do that. Except wedding planning and serviettes, he’s rubbish at that.”
Everyone chuckles at the slight joke.
“The case itself remains the most ingenious and brilliantly planned murder or attempted murder I’ve ever had the pleasure to encounter. The most perfect locked-room mystery of which I am aware.
“However, I’m not just here to praise John, I’m also here to embarrass him so let’s move onto some—”
“No, wait. So how was it done?” Greg interrupts.
“How was what done?”
“The stabbing.”
“He never solved it,” you chime.
“Yes,” Sherlock nods. “I never solved that one. It can happen sometimes. It’s very…very disappointing. Embarrassment leads me on to the stag night.”
Oh, dear Lord.
This night was the night you, Mary, and Molly got together and had dinner before having essentially a big sleepover at John and Mary’s. Because John was out with Sherlock all night, apparently doing something along the lines of having a beer at every place they’ve solved a murder.
It’s okay, you found the idea weird, too. But Molly said she calculated everything correctly, so they should be fine. Even if it was odd that Sherlock asked her to calculate anything in the first place.
But anyway, while the three of you were drinking wine and sharing idiot stories of your significant others, John and Sherlock were getting absolutely pissed.
“‘Course, there’s hours of material here, but I’ve cut it down to the really good bits.”
Apparently, they were only out for two hours before returning to Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson said she nearly had a heart attack when she walked out with her trash to find them snoozing on the stairs, drunkenly mumbling to each other.
And then they had a client. Of all things, they had a client that night.
“The Mayfly Man.”
They also got arrested, which Lestrade wasted no time calling you about and starting off with saying, “You’re not gonna believe this shit.” You thought it was going to be much worse than what it was, but at least Lestrade was able to get them bailed out with no problem. And thankfully, it never turned up in the papers.
You still remember after that when Sherlock continued investigating. You were sat in his chair when he had probably six or seven laptops open, talking to all of these women who had encountered the Mayfly Man. John was here as well, helping with the case on his day off.
Apparently, Sherlock had asked a question to the women and immediately every single one of them signed off. You had warned him to let you help, but he didn’t want you to. He didn’t want to come off as too knowing.
“Why? Why would he date all of those women and not return their calls?” Sherlock slams the laptop closed, straightening up and buttoning his blazer.
John snorts. “You’re missing the obvious, mate.”
“Am I?”
“You are,” you nod. “He’s a man.”
Sherlock still doesn’t get it. “So? I’m a man.”
“You’re a different breed,” you chuckle.
“But why would he change his identity?” Sherlock asks the rhetorical question to the wedding guests, not noticing their lack of interest. “He was married. Obvious, really. Our Mayfly Man was trying to escape the suffocating chains of domesticity and instead of endless nights in watching telly or going to barbeques with the awful, dreadful, boring people he couldn’t stand, he used his wits, cleverness and powers of disguise to play the field. He was—” Sherlock stops, suddenly surveying the room and seeing their tired faces. He turns to you and you shake your head, motioning for him to stop the story.
He nods. “On second thoughts, maybe I probably should’ve told you about The Elephant in the Room.
“However, it does help to further illustrate how invaluable John is to me. I can read a crime scene the way he can understand a human being. I used to think that’s what made me special. Quite frankly, I still do. But a word to the wise: Should any of you require the services of either of us, I will solve your murder, but it will take John Watson to save your life. Trust me on that, I should know. He’s saved mine so many times and in so many ways.
“This blog,” Sherlock gestures with his phone, “is the story of two men and their frankly ridiculous adventures. Of murder, mystery, and mayhem. But from now on, there’s a new story. A bigger adventure.”
You watch with a smile as Sherlock glances to the happy couple, and then you watch in surprise as he looks to you.
“Ladies and gentlemen pray charge your glasses and be upstanding.” You stand with your glass in hand. “Today begin the adventures of Mary Elizabeth Watson and John Hamish Watson. The two reasons why every single one of us is—”
Sherlock freezes.
His glass falls from his hands, but no matter about that. You know that look in his eyes. He’s gone. Albeit for a split second, but he’s gone.
It’s almost like he’s gone to his mind palace.
The glass shatters as it hits the floor, the noise startling Sherlock back into the real world. He blinks, looking down at the mess he made and tries to brush past it.
“Oh, sorry, I—” He shakes his head, clearing his throat.
“Another glass, sir?”
“Thank you, yes. Thank you. Now, where were we?”
“Sherlock…” You whisper.
He looks to you briefly before continuing on. “Ah, yes, raising glasses and standing up. Very good, thank you… And down again.”
You sit down quickly, casting a worried glance in John and Mary’s direction. The rest of the guests follow, confusion coating their faces.
“Ladies and gentlemen, people tell you not to milk a good speech. Get off early, leave them laughing. Wise advice I’ll certainly try to bear in mind, but for now…”
“Sherlock!” You hiss as he jumps over the table.
“Part two!” He walks down the middle. “Part two is more action based, I’m gonna walk around, shake things up a bit.
“Who’d go to a wedding? That’s the question? Who would bother to go to any lengths to get themselves to a wedding…? Well, everyone!” Sherlock turns around, clapping his hands. “Weddings are great. Love a wedding.”
Mary leans forward to look at you. “What’s he doing?”
“Something’s wrong,” you whisper back. “I don’t know what.”
“And John’s great, too,” Sherlock points back to the front. “I haven’t said that enough, barely scratched the surface. I could go on all night about the depth and complexity of his jumpers. And he can cook, does a thing – A thing with peas, once. Might not be peas, might not be him, but he’s got a great singing voice – Or somebody does…
“Too many, too many, too many, too many!” Sherlock screams. He stops himself, turning back around. “Sorry, too many jokes about John. Now, uh… Where was I? Ah, yes. Speech! Speech. Let’s talk about…murder.”
“Christ, Sherlock,” you smack your forehead.
“Sorry, did I say murder? I meant to say marriage. But, you know, they’re…quite similar procedures when you think about it, the participants tend to know each other and it’s over when one of them’s dead. In fairness, murder is a lot quicker, though.”
You watch as Sherlock pulls out his phone and begins texting behind his back – something you hate when he does, but now it’s only worrying you further.
“Jeff, the gents.” Sherlock looks at Lestrade.
“It’s Greg!”
“The loos, please.”
“Why?”
“Oh, I don’t know, maybe it’s your turn?” Sherlock nods toward the door as Lestrade’s phone beeps. So, Sherlock was texting him. You wish he’d text you to let you know what the hell is going on right now.
Lestrade looks at his phone and his eyes widen. “Yeah, actually, now that you mention it.” And he disappears through the doors.
“Sherlock,” John calls out. “Any chance of an end date to this speech? We’ve gotta cut the cake.”
“Oh! Ladies and gentlemen, can’t stand it when I finally get the chance to speak for once – Vatican Cameos.”
Your eyes widen. Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.
“What did he just say?”
You scoot over to Sherlock’s seat next to John’ careful of the broken glass. “Vatican Cameos,” you murmur. “It means someone’s going to die.”
“Not you, not you, you,” Sherlock points to John. “It’s always you. John Watson, you keep me right.”
John stands to meet Sherlock. “What do I do?”
“You’ve already done it,” Sherlock whispers, glancing to you. “Don’t solve the murder. Save the life.
“Sorry,” Sherlock inhales sharply, turning back around. “Off-piste a bit, back now, phew! Let’s play a game. Let’s play murder. Imagine someone’s going to get murdered at a wedding. Who exactly would you pick?”
“I think you’re a popular choice at the moment, dear,” you hear Mrs. Hudson say, bringing a small smile to your face.
“If someone could move Mrs. Hudson’s glass just slightly out of reach, that would be lovely. More importantly, who could you only kill at a wedding?”
Your eyes widen. They lock with Sherlock’s. There’s a brief moment where you wonder if it’s you. After all, this morning was the only time you traveled without Sherlock in a long time. But it doesn’t make sense, you don’t fit. He’s here with you now, and no one was close to you when he wasn’t.
Sherlock shakes his head slightly. You’re safe.
“Most people you can kill just any old place,” he continues. “As a mental exercise, I’ve often planned the murder of friends and colleagues. Now, John, I’d poison. Sloppy eater, dead easy. Y/N is a different story. To poison her would ultimately insure my own death sentence. Lestrade’s so easy to kill, it’s a miracle no one’s succumbed to the temptation. I’ve got a pair of keys to my brother’s house, I could easily break in there and asphyxiate him…if the whim arose.
“So, once again, who could you only kill here?”
Sherlock’s eyes lock with yours again and you mouth, “Isolated.”
“Clearly, it’s a rare opportunity, so it’s someone who doesn’t get out much. Someone for whom a planned social encounter known about months in advance is an exception. Has to be a unique opportunity. And since killing someone in public difficult, killing them in private isn’t an option. Someone who lives in an inaccessible or unknown location, then. Someone private, perhaps, obsessed with personal security. Possibly someone under threat.”
When Sherlock looks to Major James Sholto, you sigh, letting your eyes fall closed. You should’ve known from the minute your brain told you it had to be someone who is truly isolated. Major Sholto is the only one true fit to that statement.
“Or, a recluse,” Sherlock speaks, now obviously filling the time as he writes something on a card. “Small, house hold staff. High turnover for additional security. Probably have all signed confidentiality agreements.
“There is another question that remains, however, a rather big one. How would you do it? How do you kill someone in public? There has to be a way. This has been planned.”
Your eyes widen. “The Bloody Guardsman,” you blurt. “The killer that can walk through walls. The weapon that vanishes.”
Sherlock stares off when he hears you, Major Sholto standing and leaving in the meantime. Sherlock nods to you. “Not just planned, planned and rehearsed.”
He slides back up to the front, grabbing a random glass. “Ladies and gentlemen, there will now be a short interlude. To the bride and groom!”
Everyone stands for the toast, but Sherlock whirls around, leaning down to the table. “Major Sholto’s going to be murdered. I don’t know how or by whom but it’s going to happen.” Sherlock abruptly kisses you on the forehead before turning and moving his way through the crowd. “Excuse me, coming through, consulting.”
John gives Mary a kiss before standing, looking to the both of you and saying, “Stay here.”
As soon as he gets around the table, though, you and Mary look at each other and nod. You stand, linking arms and pushing your way through the crowd, careful not to trip on your dresses as you search for where Sherlock and John went.
You round the corner just as your brother is laying into Sherlock for not remembering Major Sholto’s room number.
You roll your eyes and say, “207,” as you and Mary push between them.
The four of you bound up the stairs and to the left, Major Sholto’s door right at the end of the hall. Sherlock immediately begins banging on the door, trying the handle.
“Major Sholto!” Sherlock yells, hitting the door with an open hand.
The Major speaks from behind the door. “If someone’s about to make an attempt on my life, it won’t be the first time. I’m ready.”
“Major,” John steps forward. “Let us in. Or I’ll kick this bloody door down.”
“I really wouldn’t,” he calls out. “I have a gun in my hand and a lifetime of unfortunate reflexes.”
“You’re not safe in there. Whoever’s after you, we know that a locked room doesn’t stop him.”
“Yes, I know. The invisible man with the invisible knife.”
“I don’t know how he does it, so I can’t stop him and that means he’ll do it again.”
“Solve it, then.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You’re the famous Mr. Holmes. Solve the case, on you go. Tell me how he did it, and I’ll open the door.”
Sherlock shakes his head, stepping away.
“Please, this is no time for games. Just let us in, you’re in danger!” John’s voice cracks on a matter of urgency, and the knot is your stomach is twisting dangerously tight.
“So are you, so long as you’re here,” the Major counters. “Please, leave me. Despite my reputation, I really do not approve of collateral damage.”
“Solve it,” Mary blurts.
“Sorry?”
“Solve it and he’ll open the door, like he said.”
“I couldn’t solve it before, how can I solve it now?”
“Because it matters now!” Mary cries.
“What are you talking about? What’s she talking about? Get your wife under control.”
“She’s right,” John replies, deadly serious.
“Oh, you’ve changed!”
You smack Sherlock’s arm harshly, finally succumbing to the urge you’ve had all evening. “Shut up!” Sherlock looks back at you, dejected and holding his shoulder where you hit it. “She’s right. You are not a puzzle solver, you idiot, you never were. You’re a goddamned drama queen. Now, there is a man in there about to die, the game is fucking on, solve it.”
Sherlock’s eyes widen, though you can’t tell if it’s in shock or realization, but then he turns to the door, and you hear he’s solved it. “Major Sholto, no one’s coming to kill you. I’m afraid you’ve already been killed several hours ago.”
“What did you say?”
“Don’t take off your belt.”
“The belt,” you mutter. “Of course.”
“Bainbridge was stabbed hours before we even saw him. But it was through his belt – tight belt, worn high on the waist. Very easy to push a small blade through the fabric and you wouldn’t even feel it.”
“The belt would bind the flesh together when it was tight. And when you took it off…” John trails away.
“Exactly. Delayed action stabbing.”
“Neat,” you mutter, then realizing what you’ve said, you grimace. “Sorry.”
“You’re supposed to open the door, Major, he solved the case.”
Silence.
“Whatever you’re doing in there James, stop it, right now, I will kick this door down!” John yells.
“You and I are very similar Mr. Holmes,” the Major continues. “There’s a proper time to die, isn’t there?”
“There is.”
“And one should embrace it when it comes. Like a soldier.”
“Of course, but not at John’s wedding!” Sherlock screams. “We wouldn’t do that, would we, you and me? We would never do that to John Watson.”
Sherlock steps away from the door, and right as John is getting ready to ram his foot through the door, it opens.
John and Mary disappear into the room, leaving you and Sherlock in the hallway. He suddenly picks you up by your waist and spins you around, setting you down to press a firm kiss to your lips.
“You’re a drama queen, too,” he pouts.
“Shut up,” you shake your head, pulling him back into you for another kiss.
Hello again! This one is shorter than usual, so apologies. Apologies also for the torture. It’s fixed in the next chapter (I promise). Enjoy xx.
You’re jolted awake by a cold bucket of water being poured over you, effectively knocking you back into consciousness, albeit with a raging headache, the kind that comes after not fully sleeping off a drowsy medicine, only amplified.
“There you are,” Gidon smiles. “Now, I was trying to discuss this with you.”
“Discuss what?” You groan, fighting to keep your eyes open, and now fighting your body’s urge to begin shivering. The water was cold as hell, and it’s already cold enough in here – wherever it is he’s keeping you.
“How you’d like to die.”
“Just shoot me,” you scoff, your speech slurred. “It’s quicker.”
“I like the way you think,” he smiles.
You yank on your wrists again, this time being met with metal reinforcement, and a sharp pain in the shoulder. The bastard must have dislocated it.
“Christmas is in one hour,” he informs you, his tone almost wistful. “So soon.”
You make a face at the door when it closes behind him, leaving you alone in the room. You try one more time at the handcuffs on your wrists, but nothing is budging. Even your ankles are cuffed, which is smart on his part, but extremely annoying on your end.
Fighting through the remains of whatever drug he gave you that’s in your system, you try to look around the room. No windows. Just the door. Unfortunately.
No cameras either, but they could be hidden somewhere. Or microphones, something of the sort.
As you’re turning to look, you see – and begin to feel, as it starts to sting – Gidon has carved a cross into your arm. Not deep, surprisingly, but enough that little beads of red blood have dotted the lines, and enough that it stings when you twist and turn.
One hour.
One hour of your life left and you’re stuck in this room, in this chair that’s bolted—
Wait.
You immediately look to your feet, nearly squealing in glee when you see the chair is not bolted to the ground. Not at all. It’s just sitting here.
One hour. He’s probably going to see Mary Josephine. And then he’ll be back.
One hour.
~~~
Sherlock yells at Lestrade to drive faster, even though Lestrade is driving as fast as possible, the lights and sirens on his car flashing and wailing as they fly through the streets of London toward an old abandoned factory.
Gidon made the biggest mistake of his life when texting Sherlock that message – partly because Sherlock’s anger has reached a lethal level and partly because he gave away his location. All in those two words, one simple text, and they’ve got him.
A helicopter flies above, two ambulances and four police cars following behind Lestrade as best as they can. They’re prepared for the worst, but are hoping they won’t have to be.
~~~
You scoff as you look down at the chair, the ropes and two pairs of handcuffs sitting neatly on the seat.
Amateur.
Your head is still pounding, your eyes and body threatening to close and shut down, but you can’t right now. You have to keep moving if you’re going to make it out of this alive.
Testing your luck, you pull the door open as quietly as you can manage, poking your head out into the hallway. Not a single soul is in sight, so you quickly make a move, darting down the right side of the hall. You have no idea how you got in here or where you are, but your legs are fine, so at the very least, you’re going to run.
You hold your shoulder as you do, grimacing when your arm swings enough that it sends a pain down your arm. You need to pop it back into place, but it’s kind of hard to do that when you’re trying to avoid being seen or heard.
You turn a corner, coming to skidding stop when you see Gidon at the other end of the hall. You freeze, your mind panicking, but your thoughts are much slower, and you don’t move until you see Gidon lifting his gun, causing your body to act on instincts and throw itself backwards to safety.
“Shit,” you gasp for air, your back pressed against the wall, and then your mind screams, “Don’t stand still!” so you turn and run the other way, as fast as your legs will take you, your shoulder practically burning from all of the movement.
Shouting echoes off the walls behind you, your mind screaming along with them. There’s the loud, ringing sound of gunfire, and you hit the ground.
~~~
“Here!” Sherlock yells, pointing to the building.
Lestrade throws the car to the side, into park, and then throws himself out of the car with John and Sherlock. The officers in the cars behind them follow suit, all running to catch up with Lestrade as they make it to the door.
“You know what to do,” Lestrade nods at them. “Mary Josephine and Y/N L/N are to be kept safe and alive. If anyone stands in the way, you know what to do.”
Sherlock wastes no time in kicking down the door, stepping across the splintered wood and pulling out his firearm.
John splits off and goes the opposite way, keeping his gun raised as he runs through the halls, shouting your name.
~~~
Somewhere through the pain that’s blossomed in your abdomen and the swimming in your mind from hitting your head on the way down, you hear someone calling out your name. You know it can’t be Gidon, he’s the one standing over you, threatening to shoot again, threatening to ruin history and finish you off before the strike of Christmas. You almost beg him to. You know there’s no way Sherlock could get here in such little time. You’re staring down the barrel of a gun, staring at your end. Even Sherlock Holmes can’t get you out of this one, and you know that.
But Gidon hears it too, the shouting, and it distracts him enough for you to scream in pain and fury, reaching up and grabbing his weapon. He fires another round, the bullet hitting the concrete next to your head. Using the rest of your strength, you yank on his arms, sending him flying over you and onto his back, releasing the gun into your grip.
You scramble to your feet, holding the weapon with shaking hands. “Stop,” you order, your voice weak. You must look pathetic. “Don’t move.”
But Gidon doesn’t stop, he stands to his feet, pulling another gun from the waistband in his pants. “You think I didn’t see this coming?” He cocks it, holding it up, his finger fidgeting on the trigger. “Remember? I know you.”
You try to focus on the shouting around you and not on the amount of blood you’re no doubt losing. You can feel it; your shirt is warm where it’s stuck to your stomach. You can feel your consciousness beginning to fade, your balance wavering.
“I’ll shoot,” you murmur.
“Then do it already,” he demands. “But you can’t. You can’t, can you? Because the last time you did, you shot your mother. The woman who gave you life, and you took hers,” he shakes his head, clicking his tongue. “That must be hard to bear. That must weigh on you, surely.”
Sherlock stands around the corner, listening. There are men on the other side, a plan in action, but he can’t risk Gidon shooting you again – no matter how badly he wishes to step out from the wall and shoot Gidon down in one go.
“Shut up,” you shout, the noise hurting your ears. Your ringing ears, the pain is white and blinding and your knees are ready to give—
You jolt back into reality when Gidon is tackled from behind, his gun flying out of his hand and skidding to a stop at your feet. You do them one more favor and kick it backwards, halfway down the hall and out of reach.
The energy it took to kick his weapon was all you had left, your knees finally buckling and your hand releasing the gun you had been holding. It clatters to the ground as you slump against the wall, feeling someone place their hand on the middle of your back. Your eyes need to close. You’re so…tired…
Officers swarm the hall, three of them handcuffing Gidon and three more trying to talk to you. What are they even saying? Merry Christmas? Is it Christmas yet? Has midnight come already?
John. One of them is John. And Sherlock. Sherlock looks…terrified.
You’re on a stretcher. Somehow that happened. An oxygen mask over your face. Pressure being put on the wound to your abdomen. That hurts. Enough that you start to see stars in your vision, constellations forming in the darkness.
“Y/N! Y/N, we’re losing you, stay with me.”
John. John. The brother you apparently had but never knew about. The man who took you in when he didn’t have to. He could’ve told Sherlock he was full of shit. He could’ve told you to have a nice day and to leave them alone, that there’s no way he could have a younger sister. But he took you in. He cared for you and worried for you even after only just meeting you. He gave you all the love you don’t deserve.
And Sherlock. Your eyes flick to the other side of the ambulance, meeting Sherlock’s gaze. There are tears in his eyes, falling down his face. Something you haven’t really seen. And is it because of you?
A hacking cough wracks your chest, pain blinding you from your abdomen and a rusty taste on your tongue. In the back of your mind you hear, blood…you’re dying.
John and Sherlock are pushed out of the ambulance, John shouting in the process that he’s a doctor and he should be able to stay, but you’re in too bad of a condition, so he’s not allowed—
