Sherlock (bbc) Fanfic - Survival - Chapter 1
Title: Survival (Chapter One)
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC series)
Genre: Angst, drama, friendship - there will be a great deal of bromance (or pre-slash, you can in fact read this one either way)
Rating: T
Chapter Length: 3,552 words
Spoilers: End of series 2, “The Reichenbach Fall”
Warnings: Spoilers, angst, some violence and mentions of drugs
Status: Incomplete
Summary: “Sherlock had never expected dismantling Moriarty’s empire would be anything less than gruelling, however he also never anticipated just how desperately he would miss home.” Post-Reichenbach to reunion; Sherlock’s p.o.v.
A.N.: I have read so many brilliant fics detailing John’s suffering after the end of series 2, but as yet I haven’t seen many at all for Sherlock and (much as I feel awful for John) I don’t think our favourite consulting detective had an enjoyable three years either. And as the wonderfully patient carolstime (seriously, she’s a Saint) requested it, here we are - a great, heaping, multi-chap. helping of Sherlock!angst.
Major thanks must be given to the amazing betas velveteenkitten, infinityuphigh, patchsassy, interjection and smash_leigh, who have all been so incredibly kind as to offer me their time and expertise.
ooo
SURVIVAL - CHAPTER 1
ooo
He is not unconscious. That is the first surprise.
He had expected the fall to send him under for at least half an hour, but instead he is only stunned when he rolls from the truck to the pavement. The pain, even after being cushioned by the bags (full of duvets as well as the planned sheets, which he is currently very thankful for), is near-blinding. The centimetre-long incisions he and Molly had made just behind his hairline and stitched so very carefully have burst open, split further with the force of impact, and he can feel the blood smeared across his face and in his hair. Hopefully it is enough to fool those necessary - even small head wounds tend to bleed badly, a fact he is counting on. He has to remind himself to relax, to keep his breathing slight and his eyes open no matter what. Despite the rain he is managing well; being on his side is making it easier.
The homeless network - the small portion he can trust with this - crowds forwards, hidden in plain sight as hospital visitors and local professionals, a few as nurses and two doctors, with a couple of paramedics waiting in the wings. He keeps up the façade anyway and, sure enough, is proven right once again when a couple of passing women (secretaries, mid-twenties, both single, both looking for promotions, on the way to an early lunch) join the crowd. There is a prick to the skin between his middle and ring fingers on his right hand, rushed and surreptitious, judging by the slight shake of the needle hidden in the nurse’s (Natalie, a hard woman from down by St. Paul’s) hands. He can’t feel it working, although he knows it is, knows that any second he will - There. His hand is numb, the agony of the rest of his body (pulled muscles, two cracked ribs on his right side, dislocated right shoulder and right knee, pain in his right wrist, lacerations, concussion) being progressively stifled by the drugs. Sounds slur, black and bright spots hit his vision, the whole world slows down and speeds up all at once. It isn’t the same as his long-ago hits of cocaine however there is a particular terror to it, a familiarity filling him with a mix of horror and shame after so many promises to Lestrade. He shoves the unwelcome feeling down, pushes everything away and prays his heartbeat slows enough in time. If anyone suspects - If John suspects -
It doesn’t bear thinking about.
Sherlock’s borrowed watch is beneath his sleeve. Still, even knowing the drugs are pulling and twisting his precious mind, that his internal clock is compromised, he is certain that John is late. He had factored in the moments of shock and the military training to overcome them, allowed for any stumbling and the cyclist (Phil, one of the youngest in his network and a trustworthy boy, although he still has no idea of the full plan - only five do) and even the possibility of John’s limp re-emerging due to extreme emotional stress; he had worked it all out three times, and John should be here by now. If John is not here then, oh Lord, where is he? Did Phil hit him too hard? He told the boy not to be too rough, that he only needs a few extra seconds and a little disorientation, and he trusts the boy to stick to that. If not Phil though, then the sniper? Moriarty’s man - itchy trigger finger, never planned to let them live no matter what Sherlock did or did not do, honest mistake, betrayal by one of his conspirators? (He refuses to consider the thought that John has left him, knows better than that, hopes for better than that, despite the lies he just told and the grief he knows he is causing.) He wants to look, to see for himself and be sure that the pain he is still in and the blood he is continuing to spill are worth it, but to move would be to give the game away entirely and it is not only John who is counting on him right now.
It keeps him still, that thought, but it does not (cannot) dispel the raw ache, the desperate need in both his skull and ribcage demanding that he move, check.
“ -lease, he’s my friend, he’s my friend - “
John. Slurred and stretched and warped (probable concussion) but there, approximately one-point-three meters away if he’s compensating correctly and level with Sherlock’s midsection. The Network must be crowding around his head, doing their jobs well. He can’t bring himself to care in this moment - what focus he has is going straight to his friend, reaching for him if his blurry vision is to be believed, still repeating that same distressed phrase as he tries to latch on to Sherlock’s ‘corpse’.
Honestly he is not sure who has it worse. Himself, broken on the pavement, life and reputation in tatters and with so very much still to do alone (alone as he had always wanted, had always been but for John and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson and now he does not want his solitude at all)? Or is it John, whose tone tells Sherlock far more than he ever wished to know about his friend’s pain even though, for the doctor, the ordeal is “all over but the crying,” as the saying goes?
Strong fingers at his wrist. Calloused in that very particular way which speaks of guns and military training, abraded and with the delicacy and assurance of years as a medical professional (pronounced tremors denoting emotional distress, an involvement with the victim as well as usual human shock) - John’s fingers. John’s hand is at his burning wrist, searching for a pulse. Sherlock’s heart wants to speed up, the nervousness and fear of this moment, of all the things that could go so wrong, trying to trigger adrenaline but being lost to the drugs already flooding his bloodstream and numbing the bright pain sharpened by John’s firm grip. A doctor (David, usually found near Tower Bridge) already has fingers at his throat, ignoring the too-slow but steady thud of Sherlock’s pulse and gently jostling his shoulder (he wants to scream, the pressure on the dislocated joint threatening to break his control) just a few times before backing off, presumably shaking his head. John’s fingers are being pried from his wrist, one of the women (Aimee, from Battersea) having held it just within his field of vision by tugging at John’s own, not allowing him to get a proper reading on Sherlock’s traitorous heartbeat.
He can hear the rattle of the trolley over the paving slabs. Almost there. Almost. It is beneath him to be affected by things like this - his body is, after all, only transport - however he cannot deny how desperately he needs this to be over. Even through the drugs it is as though his nerves are caught on barbed wire, the movement as they shift him to lie on his back blaring agony every which way, although it is becoming increasingly difficult to keep his eyes open.
Once as he is turned and again as he is lifted, he is blessed and cursed with the sight of John Watson. The older man is blatantly going into shock, his skin nearing grey and his limbs refusing to support him when he truly sees the smears of haemoglobin decorating Sherlock’s nose and cheekbones. His temple and hair are likely the worst - the cuts he and Molly made were small, but they were close together and numerous. They will look messy. They were intended to look messy, once the stitches popped. Part of the act, and a convincing one if John’s reactions are anything to go by (he is admittedly blurry to Sherlock’s eyes, but the shaking is obvious enough and the small noises, his slurred denials are close enough to be picked up under the general chaos); however, right now he wishes he had never suggested them.
Still, Sherlock will not see this man, his best friend, for an unknown length of time once he is wheeled into the hospital, and the few glimpses of John he can steal are being tucked carefully away in his Mind Palace. Any view of him, even in such terrible distress, is to be treasured. He has only been a part of Sherlock’s life for eighteen months, but Sherlock can no longer remember how he managed without ‘the good doctor’. He has no interest in doing so either, except he must.
When they move to wheel him away it is a struggle not to reach out for him. He knows his arm twitches, spasms as though to begin the movement before he can clamp down on the impulse. Sherlock experiences one truly horrific moment of panic, waiting for the crack of a gunshot until it becomes clear that any visible shift is being put down to the unsteady trolley. Then they are around the corner and through the doors, the bright sky becoming wood and then cream ceiling lit by only four of the five humming strip-lights. The sounds of the commotion fade; the four of his Network still surrounding him conversing urgently but quietly to remain credible as they wheel him towards the lift and the mortuary.
His eyes are almost watering. The strain of remaining conscious against concussion and drugs and more stress than even he had anticipated is taking an increasing toll on his ‘disguise’; ironically, he needs to close his eyes if he wishes to remain awake. He needs to.
David’s hand brushes over his face, fingers against his eyelids, the answer to his prayers. He keeps the motion slow, controlled, but his eyes close. The darkness is far more of a comfort than the soft lighting had been.
They move slower now - no need to hurry when the patient is already dead. The paramedics mutter goodbyes once they exit the lift, as much for Sherlock’s sake as anyone else’s, and Molly meets the doctors at the door to the mortuary, helping them to place him on a slab before they take their own leave. There is a little-used door two corridors away that leads directly on to the back-alleys and will allow them to disappear quickly and without arousing any suspicion. No one will return the clothes he gave them for their performance - part of their payment, and one he does not begrudge them in the slightest; they have certainly earned it.
Molly is gentle as she strips him to his underwear and runs the checks, her fingers cool and shaking ever so slightly when she touches him. He twitches his left hand to let her know they did it, that he really is alive, and she lets out one sharp sob before he hears the scratch of a fortnight old biro on paper - she’s filling out the forms, getting everything out of the way as quickly as possible so that they can replace him.
His will states that he wants no viewing of his shell, it has done for years, but the more thorough they are the better. His substitute is two years younger than him, with similar bone structure and features - their eyes are as close to a perfect match as Sherlock could have dared hope for. Molly has, he knows, already completed the surgery to turn resemblance to reflection (the mixed scents of the necessary chemicals on her hands, the surety of her steps, the slowing down of her breathing) and now all that is left is to correlate the injuries, get Sherlock treated, and put him in some new, unfamiliar clothes.
“Dislocated shoulder, right. Badly sprained wrist, right. Damage to right side of ribcage - severe bruising or possible fractures.” Molly’s voice does not shake, although Sherlock would be the first to admit that his senses are somewhat dulled at the moment. This woman is so much stronger than he has given her credit for; to give him his due, however, it was hidden by how she reacted to him until recently.
It is a shock to realise that he has four friends. He will not complain that he is noticing so late though, all things considered. Had he known, Moriarty would have known, and Sherlock’s careful plan would never have stood a chance. “Dislocated knee, right. Lacerations and bruising concentrated down right side of the body. Some further damage to abdomen and collar - abrasions. Severe head trauma, concentrated at right hairline and temple. Cause of death would be the head trauma,” Molly finishes, muttering the last.
It is all information his body has already provided, but he is still grateful to her for spelling it out for him. Her care when she shifts the slab to the top of the trolley is also very much appreciated, and he wishes he could spare the time to thank her properly. He manages a soft mutter when they are in the storage cupboard. It is not enough. It could never be enough. He has never understood why all those people, all those clients, have wanted to stand and wring his hand and say those two words over and over again, but now things are different. Now Molly is the reason he is alive to eliminate the threats to John, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, and all he wants is to tell her how very much he appreciates every last breath of work and risk she has put in to it.
“Really, Molly,” he tells her as she moves to his leg, “Thank you.”
“It’s alright. You don’t - You don’t need to thank me. You save people all the time, so it’s a bit special to be the one to save you,” she responds with a tiny smile, and her voice still fails to tremble. Oddly, it makes him proud. “Now bite down on this,” she continues, pressing a guard against his lips and sounding slightly desperate. “You mustn’t scream, Sherlock, please, whatever you do. There are rooms that back onto this one and I don’t know if anyone will be able to hear.”
He nods.
They press his kneecap back in to position, then his shoulder. Cleaning his cuts is time consuming, driving him in to the realm of simmering annoyance until the pain of having his wrist strapped knocks him back out of it. Finally his ribs are loosely taped, just enough to support them and hopefully prevent further injury without being restrictive. All are rush jobs, professional and effective but distinctly lacking in the usual care and hesitance. There is simply no time, nor do they have the proper supplies. Molly has done her best in collecting what little she can, however disinfectant, bandages and elastic supports can only do so much. The drug is also wearing off, making him only too aware of how much damage he has done to himself until Molly gives him a small dose of Etidocaine (could have been so much worse - a miracle no bones broke). Dressing is still hellish.
He doesn’t scream. He does, however, come embarrassingly close to passing out, and it is a relief when Molly presses the near-full bottle of anaesthetic and two small, easily concealable cases of syringes in to his palm; he has no doubt that he will need them.
He insists upon staying to help her fabricate the injuries on his stand-in. Or, rather, he tries to - the damage to both his arms renders him less use than he had hoped and he can’t produce the correct amount of force to break the bones or loosen the hold of long-stiff joints. He ends up slicing lacerations and creating abrasions according to instruction whilst Molly uses various medical clamps and more than one weight to re-create the worst of it. When he tries to say goodbye, she simply waves him away. Instead he scribbles a note, expressing his thanks on the back of a receipt when she is checking that the coast is clear for him to leave.
ooo
He has never told anyone about the flat in Catford. It is a small, one-bed affair, close to the station and within delivery distance of everything Sherlock considered essential. It is, of course, not listed under his own name but rather that of ‘Robert Clarke’ (chosen for popularity and the lack of any hidden meaning or sentiment), an identity Sherlock has held for almost five years, since just after his second (and last) major relapse. He has bank accounts and all the usual official paperwork, which has been used on a regular enough basis to ensure that no questions have ever been asked. There are a number of these accounts and identities that even Mycroft apparently has no knowledge of, and until today he had felt unusually guilty about keeping them a secret from John. Now he will consider it just another example of his genius and foresight.
The flat is colder than he would have expected. Cleaner as well, considering it should be “spruced,” as Mrs. Hudson would say, once a month - which reminds him that he will need to cancel the cleaning contract or be out of here by a week on Thursday. It would, naturally, be more useful to test his disguise on the cleaning lady, let her see him and discover how likely it is to work in the midst of a crowd, however if she was to see and recognise him… It does not bear thinking about. If it were him they would come after that would be one thing, but Moriarty’s gunmen will be ready to hunt down John and the others at the very first sign of his survival, and as such it is another entirely.
Namely, it is not a risk he can bring himself to take.
The assassins will stay, he deduces as he undresses and sinks back against the cold cotton of the bedsheets, for at least a fortnight. The reputation of “Boffin” Sherlock Holmes may have been scuppered by the press and in the minds of the general public, but Moriarty’s men will know better. They will know that he has solved more crimes involving faked suicides than most police departments would in half a century, they will know that replicating one of them would be perfectly within the scope of his abilities, and they will know not to take his leap in to the abyss at face value. They will stay, possibly for a month or more if they deem it necessary, until they can be certain that he will not be ‘pulling a Lazarus’ - and even after that will only leave when it will not raise the wrong sorts of questions. They are, after all, professionals.
There are not many contacts upon whom he can rely and call for help, as much for the fact that most are homeless and not exactly reachable by phone as for the lack of anyone he can trust or whose life he dares risk.
There are, however, the two ‘doctors’ from earlier. They are a pair, as close as brothers, having looked out for each other and stuck together since David’s first week on the streets; they will have obeyed Sherlock’s instruction to keep the mobile phone he had pressed upon them for at least a week before trying to sell or trade it. One short, quiet (risky) phone call from the land-line later, he has the word out that someone wants to know who is tailing Mrs. Martha Hudson, DI Greg Lestrade and Dr. John Watson and will pay extremely well for any information as long as none of those involved are alerted to unwanted interest. Information will be conveyed at the earliest possible convenience; David will keep the phone until Sherlock tells him to do otherwise.
This, he knows, will be the easy part. Once these three (it will be three; the fourth, standby contract will have ended as soon as Sherlock’s blood washed over the paving slabs) are out of contact for too long, or do not take on the next assignment when expected, the entire organisation will be made aware of there being a problem. Sherlock will be anticipated wherever he goes, no matter what amount of subtlety he employs in his actions and movements. Dismantling Moriarty’s web, even without that clever, clever spider sitting ready to utilise the appropriate threads, will be more difficult than anything he has ever previously attempted. Crimes upon crimes hidden beneath charities and firms and yet more crimes… Identifying just who it is he should be targeting will be a task in itself. Then the decisions of how to deal with them - Sherlock is not so naïve as to think that placing them all in prison is even feasible, never mind anything resembling a good idea.
On a more selfish level, the thought of leaving his life behind, of letting John and the others try to fill his place with hobbies or new people, makes him feel sick and bitter. The knowledge that there really is nothing else to be done if he wants to keep them alive only makes the churning in his stomach worse.
It takes two hours and an extra (and probably inadvisable) dose of painkillers for him to achieve the temporary peace of sleep.
ooo
Thank you for reading! I’ll be updating this on a weekly basis until its eventual completion - I have a few chapters just about ready, so if I’m hit by writer’s block anyone reading shouldn’t be affected.
If you have the time and inclination I would greatly appreciate any comments you care to leave. No flames, please, but constructive criticism is always appreciated.
Continue to chapter 2...
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC series)
Genre: Angst, drama, friendship - there will be a great deal of bromance (or pre-slash, you can in fact read this one either way)
Rating: T
Chapter Length: 3,552 words
Spoilers: End of series 2, “The Reichenbach Fall”
Warnings: Spoilers, angst, some violence and mentions of drugs
Status: Incomplete
Summary: “Sherlock had never expected dismantling Moriarty’s empire would be anything less than gruelling, however he also never anticipated just how desperately he would miss home.” Post-Reichenbach to reunion; Sherlock’s p.o.v.
A.N.: I have read so many brilliant fics detailing John’s suffering after the end of series 2, but as yet I haven’t seen many at all for Sherlock and (much as I feel awful for John) I don’t think our favourite consulting detective had an enjoyable three years either. And as the wonderfully patient carolstime (seriously, she’s a Saint) requested it, here we are - a great, heaping, multi-chap. helping of Sherlock!angst.
Major thanks must be given to the amazing betas velveteenkitten, infinityuphigh, patchsassy, interjection and smash_leigh, who have all been so incredibly kind as to offer me their time and expertise.
ooo
SURVIVAL - CHAPTER 1
ooo
He is not unconscious. That is the first surprise.
He had expected the fall to send him under for at least half an hour, but instead he is only stunned when he rolls from the truck to the pavement. The pain, even after being cushioned by the bags (full of duvets as well as the planned sheets, which he is currently very thankful for), is near-blinding. The centimetre-long incisions he and Molly had made just behind his hairline and stitched so very carefully have burst open, split further with the force of impact, and he can feel the blood smeared across his face and in his hair. Hopefully it is enough to fool those necessary - even small head wounds tend to bleed badly, a fact he is counting on. He has to remind himself to relax, to keep his breathing slight and his eyes open no matter what. Despite the rain he is managing well; being on his side is making it easier.
The homeless network - the small portion he can trust with this - crowds forwards, hidden in plain sight as hospital visitors and local professionals, a few as nurses and two doctors, with a couple of paramedics waiting in the wings. He keeps up the façade anyway and, sure enough, is proven right once again when a couple of passing women (secretaries, mid-twenties, both single, both looking for promotions, on the way to an early lunch) join the crowd. There is a prick to the skin between his middle and ring fingers on his right hand, rushed and surreptitious, judging by the slight shake of the needle hidden in the nurse’s (Natalie, a hard woman from down by St. Paul’s) hands. He can’t feel it working, although he knows it is, knows that any second he will - There. His hand is numb, the agony of the rest of his body (pulled muscles, two cracked ribs on his right side, dislocated right shoulder and right knee, pain in his right wrist, lacerations, concussion) being progressively stifled by the drugs. Sounds slur, black and bright spots hit his vision, the whole world slows down and speeds up all at once. It isn’t the same as his long-ago hits of cocaine however there is a particular terror to it, a familiarity filling him with a mix of horror and shame after so many promises to Lestrade. He shoves the unwelcome feeling down, pushes everything away and prays his heartbeat slows enough in time. If anyone suspects - If John suspects -
It doesn’t bear thinking about.
Sherlock’s borrowed watch is beneath his sleeve. Still, even knowing the drugs are pulling and twisting his precious mind, that his internal clock is compromised, he is certain that John is late. He had factored in the moments of shock and the military training to overcome them, allowed for any stumbling and the cyclist (Phil, one of the youngest in his network and a trustworthy boy, although he still has no idea of the full plan - only five do) and even the possibility of John’s limp re-emerging due to extreme emotional stress; he had worked it all out three times, and John should be here by now. If John is not here then, oh Lord, where is he? Did Phil hit him too hard? He told the boy not to be too rough, that he only needs a few extra seconds and a little disorientation, and he trusts the boy to stick to that. If not Phil though, then the sniper? Moriarty’s man - itchy trigger finger, never planned to let them live no matter what Sherlock did or did not do, honest mistake, betrayal by one of his conspirators? (He refuses to consider the thought that John has left him, knows better than that, hopes for better than that, despite the lies he just told and the grief he knows he is causing.) He wants to look, to see for himself and be sure that the pain he is still in and the blood he is continuing to spill are worth it, but to move would be to give the game away entirely and it is not only John who is counting on him right now.
It keeps him still, that thought, but it does not (cannot) dispel the raw ache, the desperate need in both his skull and ribcage demanding that he move, check.
“ -lease, he’s my friend, he’s my friend - “
John. Slurred and stretched and warped (probable concussion) but there, approximately one-point-three meters away if he’s compensating correctly and level with Sherlock’s midsection. The Network must be crowding around his head, doing their jobs well. He can’t bring himself to care in this moment - what focus he has is going straight to his friend, reaching for him if his blurry vision is to be believed, still repeating that same distressed phrase as he tries to latch on to Sherlock’s ‘corpse’.
Honestly he is not sure who has it worse. Himself, broken on the pavement, life and reputation in tatters and with so very much still to do alone (alone as he had always wanted, had always been but for John and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson and now he does not want his solitude at all)? Or is it John, whose tone tells Sherlock far more than he ever wished to know about his friend’s pain even though, for the doctor, the ordeal is “all over but the crying,” as the saying goes?
Strong fingers at his wrist. Calloused in that very particular way which speaks of guns and military training, abraded and with the delicacy and assurance of years as a medical professional (pronounced tremors denoting emotional distress, an involvement with the victim as well as usual human shock) - John’s fingers. John’s hand is at his burning wrist, searching for a pulse. Sherlock’s heart wants to speed up, the nervousness and fear of this moment, of all the things that could go so wrong, trying to trigger adrenaline but being lost to the drugs already flooding his bloodstream and numbing the bright pain sharpened by John’s firm grip. A doctor (David, usually found near Tower Bridge) already has fingers at his throat, ignoring the too-slow but steady thud of Sherlock’s pulse and gently jostling his shoulder (he wants to scream, the pressure on the dislocated joint threatening to break his control) just a few times before backing off, presumably shaking his head. John’s fingers are being pried from his wrist, one of the women (Aimee, from Battersea) having held it just within his field of vision by tugging at John’s own, not allowing him to get a proper reading on Sherlock’s traitorous heartbeat.
He can hear the rattle of the trolley over the paving slabs. Almost there. Almost. It is beneath him to be affected by things like this - his body is, after all, only transport - however he cannot deny how desperately he needs this to be over. Even through the drugs it is as though his nerves are caught on barbed wire, the movement as they shift him to lie on his back blaring agony every which way, although it is becoming increasingly difficult to keep his eyes open.
Once as he is turned and again as he is lifted, he is blessed and cursed with the sight of John Watson. The older man is blatantly going into shock, his skin nearing grey and his limbs refusing to support him when he truly sees the smears of haemoglobin decorating Sherlock’s nose and cheekbones. His temple and hair are likely the worst - the cuts he and Molly made were small, but they were close together and numerous. They will look messy. They were intended to look messy, once the stitches popped. Part of the act, and a convincing one if John’s reactions are anything to go by (he is admittedly blurry to Sherlock’s eyes, but the shaking is obvious enough and the small noises, his slurred denials are close enough to be picked up under the general chaos); however, right now he wishes he had never suggested them.
Still, Sherlock will not see this man, his best friend, for an unknown length of time once he is wheeled into the hospital, and the few glimpses of John he can steal are being tucked carefully away in his Mind Palace. Any view of him, even in such terrible distress, is to be treasured. He has only been a part of Sherlock’s life for eighteen months, but Sherlock can no longer remember how he managed without ‘the good doctor’. He has no interest in doing so either, except he must.
When they move to wheel him away it is a struggle not to reach out for him. He knows his arm twitches, spasms as though to begin the movement before he can clamp down on the impulse. Sherlock experiences one truly horrific moment of panic, waiting for the crack of a gunshot until it becomes clear that any visible shift is being put down to the unsteady trolley. Then they are around the corner and through the doors, the bright sky becoming wood and then cream ceiling lit by only four of the five humming strip-lights. The sounds of the commotion fade; the four of his Network still surrounding him conversing urgently but quietly to remain credible as they wheel him towards the lift and the mortuary.
His eyes are almost watering. The strain of remaining conscious against concussion and drugs and more stress than even he had anticipated is taking an increasing toll on his ‘disguise’; ironically, he needs to close his eyes if he wishes to remain awake. He needs to.
David’s hand brushes over his face, fingers against his eyelids, the answer to his prayers. He keeps the motion slow, controlled, but his eyes close. The darkness is far more of a comfort than the soft lighting had been.
They move slower now - no need to hurry when the patient is already dead. The paramedics mutter goodbyes once they exit the lift, as much for Sherlock’s sake as anyone else’s, and Molly meets the doctors at the door to the mortuary, helping them to place him on a slab before they take their own leave. There is a little-used door two corridors away that leads directly on to the back-alleys and will allow them to disappear quickly and without arousing any suspicion. No one will return the clothes he gave them for their performance - part of their payment, and one he does not begrudge them in the slightest; they have certainly earned it.
Molly is gentle as she strips him to his underwear and runs the checks, her fingers cool and shaking ever so slightly when she touches him. He twitches his left hand to let her know they did it, that he really is alive, and she lets out one sharp sob before he hears the scratch of a fortnight old biro on paper - she’s filling out the forms, getting everything out of the way as quickly as possible so that they can replace him.
His will states that he wants no viewing of his shell, it has done for years, but the more thorough they are the better. His substitute is two years younger than him, with similar bone structure and features - their eyes are as close to a perfect match as Sherlock could have dared hope for. Molly has, he knows, already completed the surgery to turn resemblance to reflection (the mixed scents of the necessary chemicals on her hands, the surety of her steps, the slowing down of her breathing) and now all that is left is to correlate the injuries, get Sherlock treated, and put him in some new, unfamiliar clothes.
“Dislocated shoulder, right. Badly sprained wrist, right. Damage to right side of ribcage - severe bruising or possible fractures.” Molly’s voice does not shake, although Sherlock would be the first to admit that his senses are somewhat dulled at the moment. This woman is so much stronger than he has given her credit for; to give him his due, however, it was hidden by how she reacted to him until recently.
It is a shock to realise that he has four friends. He will not complain that he is noticing so late though, all things considered. Had he known, Moriarty would have known, and Sherlock’s careful plan would never have stood a chance. “Dislocated knee, right. Lacerations and bruising concentrated down right side of the body. Some further damage to abdomen and collar - abrasions. Severe head trauma, concentrated at right hairline and temple. Cause of death would be the head trauma,” Molly finishes, muttering the last.
It is all information his body has already provided, but he is still grateful to her for spelling it out for him. Her care when she shifts the slab to the top of the trolley is also very much appreciated, and he wishes he could spare the time to thank her properly. He manages a soft mutter when they are in the storage cupboard. It is not enough. It could never be enough. He has never understood why all those people, all those clients, have wanted to stand and wring his hand and say those two words over and over again, but now things are different. Now Molly is the reason he is alive to eliminate the threats to John, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, and all he wants is to tell her how very much he appreciates every last breath of work and risk she has put in to it.
“Really, Molly,” he tells her as she moves to his leg, “Thank you.”
“It’s alright. You don’t - You don’t need to thank me. You save people all the time, so it’s a bit special to be the one to save you,” she responds with a tiny smile, and her voice still fails to tremble. Oddly, it makes him proud. “Now bite down on this,” she continues, pressing a guard against his lips and sounding slightly desperate. “You mustn’t scream, Sherlock, please, whatever you do. There are rooms that back onto this one and I don’t know if anyone will be able to hear.”
He nods.
They press his kneecap back in to position, then his shoulder. Cleaning his cuts is time consuming, driving him in to the realm of simmering annoyance until the pain of having his wrist strapped knocks him back out of it. Finally his ribs are loosely taped, just enough to support them and hopefully prevent further injury without being restrictive. All are rush jobs, professional and effective but distinctly lacking in the usual care and hesitance. There is simply no time, nor do they have the proper supplies. Molly has done her best in collecting what little she can, however disinfectant, bandages and elastic supports can only do so much. The drug is also wearing off, making him only too aware of how much damage he has done to himself until Molly gives him a small dose of Etidocaine (could have been so much worse - a miracle no bones broke). Dressing is still hellish.
He doesn’t scream. He does, however, come embarrassingly close to passing out, and it is a relief when Molly presses the near-full bottle of anaesthetic and two small, easily concealable cases of syringes in to his palm; he has no doubt that he will need them.
He insists upon staying to help her fabricate the injuries on his stand-in. Or, rather, he tries to - the damage to both his arms renders him less use than he had hoped and he can’t produce the correct amount of force to break the bones or loosen the hold of long-stiff joints. He ends up slicing lacerations and creating abrasions according to instruction whilst Molly uses various medical clamps and more than one weight to re-create the worst of it. When he tries to say goodbye, she simply waves him away. Instead he scribbles a note, expressing his thanks on the back of a receipt when she is checking that the coast is clear for him to leave.
ooo
He has never told anyone about the flat in Catford. It is a small, one-bed affair, close to the station and within delivery distance of everything Sherlock considered essential. It is, of course, not listed under his own name but rather that of ‘Robert Clarke’ (chosen for popularity and the lack of any hidden meaning or sentiment), an identity Sherlock has held for almost five years, since just after his second (and last) major relapse. He has bank accounts and all the usual official paperwork, which has been used on a regular enough basis to ensure that no questions have ever been asked. There are a number of these accounts and identities that even Mycroft apparently has no knowledge of, and until today he had felt unusually guilty about keeping them a secret from John. Now he will consider it just another example of his genius and foresight.
The flat is colder than he would have expected. Cleaner as well, considering it should be “spruced,” as Mrs. Hudson would say, once a month - which reminds him that he will need to cancel the cleaning contract or be out of here by a week on Thursday. It would, naturally, be more useful to test his disguise on the cleaning lady, let her see him and discover how likely it is to work in the midst of a crowd, however if she was to see and recognise him… It does not bear thinking about. If it were him they would come after that would be one thing, but Moriarty’s gunmen will be ready to hunt down John and the others at the very first sign of his survival, and as such it is another entirely.
Namely, it is not a risk he can bring himself to take.
The assassins will stay, he deduces as he undresses and sinks back against the cold cotton of the bedsheets, for at least a fortnight. The reputation of “Boffin” Sherlock Holmes may have been scuppered by the press and in the minds of the general public, but Moriarty’s men will know better. They will know that he has solved more crimes involving faked suicides than most police departments would in half a century, they will know that replicating one of them would be perfectly within the scope of his abilities, and they will know not to take his leap in to the abyss at face value. They will stay, possibly for a month or more if they deem it necessary, until they can be certain that he will not be ‘pulling a Lazarus’ - and even after that will only leave when it will not raise the wrong sorts of questions. They are, after all, professionals.
There are not many contacts upon whom he can rely and call for help, as much for the fact that most are homeless and not exactly reachable by phone as for the lack of anyone he can trust or whose life he dares risk.
There are, however, the two ‘doctors’ from earlier. They are a pair, as close as brothers, having looked out for each other and stuck together since David’s first week on the streets; they will have obeyed Sherlock’s instruction to keep the mobile phone he had pressed upon them for at least a week before trying to sell or trade it. One short, quiet (risky) phone call from the land-line later, he has the word out that someone wants to know who is tailing Mrs. Martha Hudson, DI Greg Lestrade and Dr. John Watson and will pay extremely well for any information as long as none of those involved are alerted to unwanted interest. Information will be conveyed at the earliest possible convenience; David will keep the phone until Sherlock tells him to do otherwise.
This, he knows, will be the easy part. Once these three (it will be three; the fourth, standby contract will have ended as soon as Sherlock’s blood washed over the paving slabs) are out of contact for too long, or do not take on the next assignment when expected, the entire organisation will be made aware of there being a problem. Sherlock will be anticipated wherever he goes, no matter what amount of subtlety he employs in his actions and movements. Dismantling Moriarty’s web, even without that clever, clever spider sitting ready to utilise the appropriate threads, will be more difficult than anything he has ever previously attempted. Crimes upon crimes hidden beneath charities and firms and yet more crimes… Identifying just who it is he should be targeting will be a task in itself. Then the decisions of how to deal with them - Sherlock is not so naïve as to think that placing them all in prison is even feasible, never mind anything resembling a good idea.
On a more selfish level, the thought of leaving his life behind, of letting John and the others try to fill his place with hobbies or new people, makes him feel sick and bitter. The knowledge that there really is nothing else to be done if he wants to keep them alive only makes the churning in his stomach worse.
It takes two hours and an extra (and probably inadvisable) dose of painkillers for him to achieve the temporary peace of sleep.
ooo
Thank you for reading! I’ll be updating this on a weekly basis until its eventual completion - I have a few chapters just about ready, so if I’m hit by writer’s block anyone reading shouldn’t be affected.
If you have the time and inclination I would greatly appreciate any comments you care to leave. No flames, please, but constructive criticism is always appreciated.
Continue to chapter 2...