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It was late in the afternoon, and the blue shadows were everywhere. They cut across his field of vision criss-crossing, overlapping, making it nearly impossible for him to see where he was.
The shadows -- they were being cast by buildings, right? So he must be outside. He scratched his chin thoughtfully, his fingers encountering days-old stubble. Had he been sleeping rough? That didn't make sense: he wanted John to find him and save him. Go to hell, Mary had said...
"And here you are," said an Irish lilt by his ear.
"You're dead," Sherlock muttered wearily.
"Not in here. Never in here," Moriarty intoned. Suddenly, he was standing in front of Sherlock, a manic glint in his eye. "So what does that tell you about where you are?"
"Mind palace."
"Ding, ding, ding! Score one for the genius!"
Sherlock ignored him, trying to stare past the blue shadows and make sense of his surroundings. This was his mind palace, after all; surely, he could find the way out. Unfortunately, the more he struggled to focus, the more the shadows shifted.
All right, vision was not proving helpful. He had four other senses to work with. He closed his eyes and stretched out his hand. Brick. Good, he'd found a wall. Using that as a guide, he walked forward a few paces, then stopped.
Wrong; that was wrong. He wiggled his toes in his shoes, confirming that he was wearing dress shoes, not trainers. But where was the sound of his footsteps? He rocked on the balls of his feet. The ground was soft. Not pavement, then. He dropped to his knees and brushed his fingers against what was definitely carpet pile.
He opened his eyes and found himself staring at the rug in his sitting room at 221B. But the rug had gotten blown up, hadn't it? Or burned somehow? He must have dreamed that.
"Sherlock."
He knew that voice. He looked up, and thank God, his vision was normal again. He could see Mycroft clearly. The flat must be bugged. Mycroft had seen his agitation and come over. He was so relieved, he couldn't make himself care about the affront to his privacy. Mycroft could help him fix this. His big brother always knew how to fix things.
Heedless of dignity, he surged to his feet and practically threw himself at his sibling. "Mycroft," he croaked. He felt his brother's arms go around him, steadying him as he shook. "Mikey, it's bad."
"I know," Mycroft soothed.
Sherlock swallowed hard and tried to organise his thoughts. Symptoms: dissociation, disorientation, fragmented memories, false memories, hallucinations. Conclusion:
"I have to go in hospital," he sighed.
"Mmm, I'm afraid so."
"I'm going to be good this time, Mikey," Sherlock promised. "I'm going to listen to the doctors and take my meds. That'll make everything better, won't it?"
"Of course." Mycroft guided them to the couch, where he settled them so Sherlock's head was in his lap. He carded his fingers through the younger man's hair as he crooned the French lullaby Grand-mere Vernet used to sing to them.
"He loves me," Sherlock thought. He'd do anything for me." For some reason, this thought brought a tearing pain to his chest, and fresh, hot tears seeped out from under his lashes. "All that rubbish about sentiment...I have to tell him someday soon...I'm onto him." He drifted off to sleep.
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He stirred back to wakefulness, feeling as though a long time had elapsed. "Welcome back, Sleeping Beauty," came John's voice behind him.
His eyes opened -- and he sat bolt upright, gasping in shock. This was not 221B. This was no place he'd ever been before. "Where am I?" he demanded.
"Hospital," John replied matter-of-factly.
"But...that fast? I was just home."
"You couldn't have been," his friend said patiently. "The explosion, remember?"
Sherlock buried his face in his hands and shook his head in confusion. The explosion had been real? But he'd just been there, with Mycroft...he moaned in distress.
"Hey, it's all right." He felt John rubbing soothing circles on his back. "You don't have to remember everything right now. You've been through an awful lot; this will take time."
Sherlock looked up at him-- and shrank back, horrified. John was -- blue. More precisely, he was an ugly, mottled grey-blue. He blinked once hard, and the blue disappeared, replaced by John's usual ruddy complexion. Just another of those damn blue shadows, then. He drew a deep breath, trying to settle his nerves.
"What's wrong?"
The detective chuckled self-deprecatingly. "Just ... for a moment, you looked blue."
"What, like a smurf?" both men laughed at that image, then John asked softly, "It was a blue shadow, wasn't it?" Sherlock nodded, startled. "You've mentioned those before," John explained. "They're bothering you a lot less than they used to, though. The meds are working."
Sherlock smiled, then grew thoughtful. The meds are working. The time it takes psychoactive drugs to take effect... "How long have I been here?" he asked.
"Going on two months now," the doctor replied.
Sherlock absorbed this, then asked, "Where's Mycroft?"
John's smile froze, and he answered too smoothly, "Not here right now. He's been pretty busy."
The detective studied his friend in full-on deduction mode. "You're lying," he spat. "What aren't you telling me?"
"I'm not -- Sherlock, I can't tell you. There are some things you have to remember on your own."
"Where's Mycroft?" he demanded.
"I'm sorry," John stuttered, getting to his feet. "I should leave."
Sherlock sprang out of the bed, shoving his friend backwards and clenching his fists in frustration. "Where's Mycroft?!" he raged.
John threw his hands up defensively and gasped, "Not in the face!"
Sherlock blinked. John had never thrown his hands up at all; that was something he simply wouldn't do. Instead, he was standing there, poised and alert, ready to defend himself if necessary but keeping a cool head. John had never said those words either, had he? That had been...
"Not in the face," Sherlock breathed. "He'd bequeathed his brain to the Royal Society. So I shot him in the chest." He gasped as the full impact of the memory ripped through him. "In the heart. I shot my brother in the heart. I killed him! I killed him!" He sank to his knees, and a wail of utter devastation ripped from his throat. "I killed my brother! Mycroft! Oh, God!" The room was suddenly thick with medical personnel. He saw the glint of a needle. "No!" He screamed and kicked out against them.
"Sherlock, Sherlock," John soothed, his dark blue eyes swimming with sympathy. "It'll help. Let them help, yeah?" With a strangled sob, Sherlock acquiesced, and shortly the sedative swept him away.
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He woke to see Mummy adjusting the tape holding his IV in place.
"You should let the nurses do that," he murmured.
"Oh, I think I can handle a piece of tape," she rejoined, smiling at him.
"How can you stand to look at me?" Sherlock asked thickly. "After what I did?"
"Oh, sweetie. You were in an impossible situation. Of course I understand that."
The tears were welling up again. He couldn't even pretend to hold them back. "Oh, God, Mummy!" She gathered him in, rocking him gently as he poured out his grief and remorse. The part of Sherlock's brain that is constantly cataloguing data noted that she'd changed her perfume. Used to be Eternity, this is White Diamonds. He snuffled a bit, starting to calm down. I like this better.
Feeling him relax, Mummy eased him back down, smoothing his curls back from his forehead. "Better now?" He nodded. "I'll be back" she assured him, and left.
As soon as she had gone, the door to the loo clicked open and John stepped out, toweling his hair dry. Sherlock bit back a growl of frustration: damned if he wasn't blue again! Just a shadow, he told himself sternly. It will pass. "Thought you left," he said out loud.
"Nope." John chucked the towel back into the bathroom. "Although I'd wait a while before going in there, if I were you."
Sherlock snorted at that, then grew contemplative. "I'm going to miss him so much." He considered a moment. "Although I'm glad he can't hear me say that."
Both men chuckled through tears at that. They spent the rest of the evening sharing reminisces of Mycroft's Greatest Moments, until sleep overtook the detective again.
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The nurse caught up with the doctor in the break room. "He retained the memory of his brother's death this time," she announced.
"Excellent!" the doctor exclaimed. He nodded at the damp patch on the nurse's shoulder. "Is that due to his reaction?"
She nodded. "It was a much better cry this time. Good catharsis." Her smile grew wistful. "He called me Mummy."
"Reaching for that extra bit of comfort, I shouldn't wonder. Poor Mrs. Holmes has hardly been able to visit since she started chemo. Still, we finally have some good news for her. His lucid periods are getting longer and he's starting to process the traumatic memories little by little. I think things are looking up."
The nurse poured herself a cup of coffee. "One thing I wonder," she said. "Why does he perceive Dr. Watson as blue?"
The doctor smiled sadly. "Have you ever seen the victim of a drowning, nurse? Especially if the water was cold, they do look quite blue."
- Fin -