Grief (Part 3)
(If you have not read the end of Volume 1, I warn you, this won't make much sense)
Mrs. Hudson came home to find Baker Street eerily silent. She stepped into the foyer, still shaking from her recent encounter. She clutched her pepper spray tightly in hand, sensing that something was not quite right.
She had a flash of rememberance to the day before she was given the pepper spray. She had just came back from the gossip luncheon with Mrs. Turner (she had been so excited to tell tales of her boys), when she walked in the door, and had been seized by men; who she found out later, we rogue CIA agents. asking about Sherlock's camera phone of all things.
After the whole fiasco was over the next day, she had found a container of pepper spray sitting on her kitchen table with a bow, and the note. It said only "SH". It was typical Sherlock.
She had carried her gift with her ever since. and thank God she did, otherwise she would probably be lying bloody in a ditch somewhere right now.
Unfortunately she had misplaced her newly bought bag of Jammie Dodgers on the way to the police station, after a man had attacked her as she left the supermarket over an hour ago.
"Sherlock?" she called out softly.
No reply answered her. She knew her boys were not out, because John would've dragged Sherlock back home to see The Queen's Speech this afternoon. Mrs. Hudson took a step forward and stopped. Instead of the sounds of Bach, or arguments, or deductions, Mrs. Hudson's well tuned ears picked up the sound of soft crying.
Not crying for attention, not the crying of a child, but the sounds of grief. This was the sound of intense, uncontainable grief. Mrs. Hudson's heart twinged as she recognize the sound, it was what she to had felt when she lost her parents long ago.
Something is terribly, terribly wrong.
"Oh no, no, no, no."
Resolutely, (ignoring the pain in her hip) she ran up the stairs yelling, "Sherlock? John?"
The quiet sobbing stopped as Mrs Hudson flung open the door. She barely registered the shattered window, or the overturned chair, or a large stain of blood covering John's chair and the floor. All she could see was Sherlock's wide, tear-filled eyes. He was leaning up against John's chair hugging a red jumper to his chest.
A small voice whispered in her brain, John doesn't own any red jumpers… Mrs Hudson caught a glimpse of oatmeal colored fabric in Sherlock's bundle, and she realized.
John's favorite jumper was soaked in dried blood.
Only a second had passed as Mrs Hudson stood in the doorway. Sherlock opened his mouth, but no sound came out, and he sat gaping like a gutted fish. His face crumpled, and he buried his face into the untarnished bit of the jumper.
A voice coughed behind her, and Mrs Hudson spun around.
"Mrs. Hudson, " Mycroft rumbled. She took a step back, not wanting to hear…
"John Watson has been murdered."
"Oh dear lord." Mycroft exclaimed. "Sher-"
Sherlock glanced up, not caring in the slightest what his brother needed, but the thump following demanded his attention. Mrs Hudson had fainted into Mycroft, and he was clutching at her elbows with a look of revulsion on his face. Sherlock stood, a feeling of coldness gripping him.
He took two long strides and picked his landlady off of Mycroft. He cradled her head gently on his shoulder, and laid her on the couch. Sherlock softly wiped a tear off her wrinkled cheek. He turned to face his brother, who was looking a bit bashful.
Sherlock reached out to the familiar coldness, letting it fill him, and chase away all that blood... John... Sherlock gave his head a slight shake, and put on his mask. The one only John had been able to see through.
"Tell me." He said quietly.
Mycroft shifted; uncomfortable for once in his life. Sherlock could practically see the thoughts scampering through his brain. Pity won out. Mycroft's face formed into that of a mourner at a funeral.
"If," -Sherlock opened his mouth to protest- "Yes IF, I tell you, you have to promise me, no rash decisions will be made."
Sherlock could feel the cold tendrils creeping into his chest again, ready to squeeze his heart dry. He pushed it down, and replaced it with a close substitute. Rage.
Sherlock advanced on his brother, eyes flashing like steel. However, before Sherlock could make contact, Mycroft held up his signature umbrella; pointed at Sherlock's heart. He stopped, -umbrella length away- and leered at his brother. Mycroft's face remained perfectly blank.
"It was Moran." He said stoically.
Sherlock froze. Sebastien Moran, retired sharp shooter of the British army, currently employ of Jim Moriarty.
"As you know, I have surveillance all over Baker Street. Exactly fifty seven minutes ago, my assistant alerted me of a man sitting on the roof of crossing 221B. He had a rifle with a scope, and was supposed to look in through the window," he gestured at the broken window. " We called you with no response, than quickly dispatched my guard. But as you know, we arrived too late. There's been no sighting of Moran. It was clear he was sent to assassinate you. Additionally the way that John, and Mrs Hudson were detained, it must have been the intent to create three murders."
Sherlock staggered, falling into his arm chair. He glanced at Mrs. Hudson, who was clearly safe and sound.
"They failed obviously." Mycroft added.
Sherlock's blank eyes met Mycroft's. " No," He said.
"They did not fail. John is d- gone..."
An expression of concern contaminated Mycroft's facade.
"They failed in murdering John and Mrs Hudson initially. This attack was clearly aimed at everyone you... love. I personally would like to know how John escaped his would-be murderer."
Sherlock's eyes became unfocused, and he stared at the wall.
"I thought he was going out with Lestrade... We had been having a disagreement about the case with the hung little girl. I thought that it was the parents that did it, but John couldn't believe that the parents could commit such an act. I told him he was being illogical, and he left. Then it turned out, he was right." Sherlock shook his head with a small smile.
A groan for Mrs Hudson interrupted their conversation. She set up slowly, rubbing her head. "Oh, hello dears, I-I must've dropped off. I'll… go make some tea…"
She ran out of the room muffling her sobs. Sherlock sighed inwardly.
Well, wasn't today a day of firsts. First time he cried in years, first time he felt like he needed a hug, first time a man died in his arms.
"Mycroft?" Sherlock barely kept his voice from trembling.
Mycroft looked at him sadly, reminding Sherlock of so long ago when he had held his dead dog in his arms.
"Yes?" Mycroft prompted.
"Every time I close my eyes all I can see is his. And the blood. So much blood... Mycroft, my heart," Sherlock motioned at his chest. " It hurts. I... I can't…"
Sherlock threw himself out of the chair, and started pacing furiously. He skirted around the large stain of blood, and his hand raked through his hair.
"Something is wrong with me Mycroft. I can't think, I can't see anything but John, I can't even tell why you're still standing there."
Mycroft stood as stiff as a board, entirely shell shocked by his sociopathic sibling's emotions. Sherlock spun around, and let out a hoarse, feral cry.
He punched the wall, and yelped in pain. Reeling away, he cradled his hand to his chest.
Sherlock looked up at his elder brother, tears of anger and pain in his eyes.
"Why did he have to save my life?"
Mycroft softly closed the door of 221B behind him. He had never seen Sherlock in such a state. He had left his brother on the stairwell, where he had gone to talk to that landlady of his. Breaking the bad news as Anthea would put it. Mycroft was fairly certain that Sherlock was not about to run off into London, searching out Moran. But you can never be certain with a Holmes.
Mycroft slid into the black car that was waiting at the curb. As he sat, he pondered Sherlock's reaction.
His brother had acted like a broken man. He could not help thinking that possibly he had made a very grave mistake. He took out his cell, glanced up at his driver, and slid the privacy window shut.
"Yes hello? It has gone according to plan so far. No, no he's not out of danger yet. You can't- Listen to me. You have to let this play out, I will keep you fully updated. Er... He seems to be... coping. I will contact you soon, Doctor Watson."
A/N Yes I know it isn't summer yet, but i couldn't wait to get back to this story :D Reviews would be extremely welcome (Shoutouts will be given) and I apologize about the not 'Daily' thing, but I will try to do it as often as possible. Welcome back to Daily Occurences :)))