A Bond is Painful (The Final Song) Part II
“Leave her out of this. She has nothing to do with us,” His voice is stern to hide away the terror ripping him to shreds, his limbs shaking and jerking from the want to toss himself in front of her. He would take any bullet, any stab wound, any injury if it meant that you would be unharmed. He was ready to die that day. He was ready to race off into the sky to the ground below with Moriarty at his arms to save you from his monstrosity.
“ But she does, because of you. You love her. You lust after her. She’s your kryptonite and with her by your side, Superman, you’re nothing but a normal, sniveling man in love who’s about to beg for her life over yours. And I can’t have that. If you can’t see how mundane you’re becoming. I’ll show you, the only way I know how…
“ ...consider this a favor. ”
No. No. No. He screams internally, fighting at the memory that consumes him as the first bullet pierced his shoulder and the rip of pain that stunned him. For a moment, he can’t breathe, thoughts blank until he tried to step closer to your cowering figure sitting in front of the balcony. He tried to open his mouth to scream at you to run, but nothing comes out. He can’t speak no matter how much he wants to warn you to run and find somewhere to hide as fast as you can. Those moments of pure bliss hit him again, the wedding, the children, watching (y/n) swollen with their baby. The moments are always different each time; sometimes he sees them old together, him still as detestable and pretentious as he is now and (y/n) an adorable grandmother knitting booties for their grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Sometimes Sherlock likes the fact that the good memories change, it gives him something to hold onto even if the few seconds are brief and he’s being shoved right back into his never-ending nightmare.
The shot won’t kill him, but it leaves him too stunned, the pain blooming from his shoulders as the red blossom of blood unfurls onto his coat. He reaches to clutch at his shoulder and tries to get closer, ignoring the pain, locking it up tight in his vault as a second bullet pierces flesh. Your scream rings out louder, so loud that it stings, your eyes wild and wide with unshed tears. He watches you try to stand, your legs always shaking as you push yourself up unsteadily. The third bullet hit his forearm and pushes through to the bone and out again. But he ignores it all, trying to escape back into the darkness that keeps this memory away.
Moriarty dragged her over to the edge of the balcony, Sherlock watching as the pain overwhelmed his senses and began to drape him in hot blood. Sherlock knows what’s coming the second Moriarty touched her. Knew what was coming as he reached the balcony, grasp firm. You are small, weak compared to him, and the fear reflected in your eyes would haunt Sherlock until the end of time. Sherlock hates this part of his photographic memory, replaying the last thing to happen to him on repeat.
“I wonder if she can fly.” No. No. No.
“(y/n)!”
Time stopped at that moment when Moriarty pushed her over the edge of the balcony, her small frame sailing out into the middle of the sky before sinking lower, faster, with no safety net. Sherlock isn’t there to catch her, to grasp onto her hand to pull her to safety like he’s supposed to; he’s busy bleeding out all over the imported carpet, vision spotty, his bond torn up somewhere in the forefront of his thoughts. Watching it again pushes him off the edge of the cliff he’d been hanging onto, falling into light instead of the dark, his body shaking and going into an alert mode with a rush of adrenaline setting off his heart monitor. It quickly alerts the nurses on-call to Sherlock’s room as the male finally broke his way out of his own mind.
“I guess not. For all her looks, she couldn’t float.” It’s the last thing Sherlock hears before everything grows bright and begins to melt away into red, his eyes snapping open as a scream released from his dry lungs, sending him into a coughing fit.
“(y/n)!”
The nurses burst into the room, ready with a syringe of sedative as Sherlock wildly pulls about, feeling restrained and out of control. He reaches for the tubes and needles all poked into his arm, attempting to tear them out without caring about the potential damage to himself at acting so hasty. There’s only one thing on his mind, his shoulder is aching, mourning, and he needs to see that his dreams are in fact false, that you are alive, that you are perfectly fine and waiting for him. His brain is short circulating as a nurse managed to restrain him enough for another to administer the sedative in one of the tubes in his arms. It takes a few moments, but Sherlock knows that the drug is working quickly through his weak system and before he can voice the millions of thoughts shifting through him, he’s clawing at the sheets trying to escape the darkness quickly crawling its way across his clear vision.
No… not again… not again.
He’s afraid to go to sleep again.
.x.
“Margaret, dear, are you alright?” Jim’s question pulls you from your stupor, your head slightly shaking to bring you back to the present. The sensation of being pulled in another direction thwarted any and all reason, and you were taken in by the intense sensation of pain, loss, and fear? Seizing up, you turn to the first thing you can reach onto, Jim, and clutch onto him quickly, eyes glazed over with fear as the sensation dove deep into your chest. You’re terrified of falling, of falling from somewhere high and sinking further and further. You can’t see the glee in Jim’s eyes under a mask of concern as he gives you a gentle shake to break you free of the spell. The sensation lasted a minute more before it began to fade, the streets of London unwittingly welcoming you back into the fold. The streets you discovered on your own months ago when you had just moved to the city, the very streets that led you to Sherlock one way or another.
Maybe they would guide you back.
“Feeling better?” Jim asked, the concern so clear that you can’t hear the falseness of it. You nod after a moment, embarrassed at having a dizzy spell of sorts.
“Y-Yes, I’m fine. I’m not sure what that was, but it’s gone now. Maybe I wasn’t ready to leave just yet..” You murmur, knowing deep down that you were. You did like living at the manor, sure, but you missed the wind, the grass, walking outside on your own without feeling like Jim was making sure you were locked up safe and tight. If only you knew. Before you can catch your breath, the car is coming to a stop, pulling up alongside a large, extravagant building, other cars also idle with fancily dressed patrons exiting in stride. Jim opens up the door and the fresh air instantly hits you, filling your nostrils with the scent of the outdoors and allowing your mind to decompress. You watch him slip out and offer his hand, and for some reason that you don’t quite understand, it is the first time that you don’t want to take it. You feel terrified of his kind eyes and gentle, concerned smile, but reach for his hand anyway like it’s the only thing you have left that’s yours.
And you’re wrong. You allow yourself to be pulled out of the car on unsteady feet, taking in a deep breath before walking a few steps. He doesn’t let go of your hand; it stifles you and feels uncomfortable for the first time. But Jim is always there, always a presence there beside you or behind you, making sure that you’re alright, that you are eating out of the palm of his hands. You both walk up the pavement towards the entrance and the large spotlights where people stop to have their photo taken. You grow entranced by the snapping of photos and the bright lights because it’s something you don’t remember ever seeing before in your life. Your pace slows the closer you get and Jim glances over at you before guiding you over to the photographer.
“Shall we immortalize this moment?” Jim suggested, already setting the pair of you in front of the man behind the camera. The photographer set up quickly, counting down from the number three before pressing down and causing the flash. But you blinked in surprise and the photographer was forced to take it again, this time with Jim reminding you to smile and stare directly at it. The second take goes better and you finally walk alongside Jim to the inside of the venue, staring around like a dazed child. You can hear the orchestra preparing and practicing chords from the main hall and you couldn’t help but walk a little faster in your comfortable heels, the smile on your face warming some long-dead part inside of Moriarty’s chest. He pays it no mind, doesn’t bother to because all emotion and feeling are meaningless and fleeting if not accompanied by power. And you were too powerless to stay in his heart or his thoughts. He kept thinking about the moment he would be rid of you, the very moment Sherlock Holmes would finally die, but even to himself, he had no idea that he was falling.
Slowly but surely into a hole of his own design.
The main hall of the Royal Festival Hall is massive, expanding from not only the bottom floor but up with multiple balcony levels. You rose your head to look up, seeing the starry mural that danced across the ceiling for the night, matching the big, deep blue curtains on stage. They were drawn apart to show the orchestra, full with every band instrument, a piano, and various percussions accompanied by symbols, chimes, and a xylophone. You had never seen a sight so dazzling before and you paid no attention to the man beside you as he carried you to the very center of the seating because it was the best spot to see all of the instruments. Once seated, you relax, feeling comfortable for once while in the outside world. Whenever it came to music, you were always more familiar, saner. You could almost reach back into yourself for the memories of the past when a violin or cello tone bellowed in your head; maybe music did have a chance in bringing back the memories that you desperately wanted.
Jim sat by your side, quietly observing you and how happy you looked just watching the orchestra warm up. This had been a good idea on his part, just like every single idea he’s had in his life. And everything appeared to be right on course. Your reaction to the outside told him that you must be feeling something through your bond or a type of pull to Sherlock. He hadn’t bothered keeping tabs on his foe because he knew Sherlock would always be nearby as long as he held onto her, which is exactly why he planned for their lovely photo to be in the newspaper, why he would let her outside on watched outings to make her Bonded crazy with the need to find her. Sherlock was like a lost dog aimlessly searching for his owner, but you belonged to him now; he refused to let you go for as long as he lived. More and more people continued to file in until even the balcony and rest of the hall was filled to the brim. Although the balcony was for the luxurious, he knew that you would not have enjoyed such a seat. He watches the way your back straightens unconsciously when the conductor walks out onto the stage in pure silence, turning to greet the crowd before turning to face her orchestra. Raising her baton, she led them through practice runs before quieting them down, indicating that the concert would soon begin.
.x.
The sedative didn’t last as long as the doctor’s thought it would, but it did last long enough for John to rush over to the hospital in case his best friend might wake up again. The incident had happened earlier on in the day, and by now the sun had just set low. John sat in the only available chair in the room, wrapped up in a jacket and loose blanket because the room is frigid with not only the cold but the sadness inside of his very soul. Sherlock is restless, his face scrunching up like there is a bad scent in the room and an even worse taste on his tongue. John merely watches on, kind of staring past Sherlock and against the furrow of his brows. He looked so disturbed, bothered, like maybe Anderson was in the vicinity and he had the innate sense that there was stupidity in the air. Whatever the case, the more restless Sherlock became, the closer John sat in his chair, waiting with bated breaths for the moment his best friend would wake up again.
“John, you’ve been staring at me for the past hour like a stricken wife; can you sit back and try not to cry all over your new shirt.” The statement that leaves Sherlock’s chapped lip almost send John into hysterics, his chest constricting as an exasperated breath left in.
“You mean to tell me you’ve been awake for an hour already and you didn’t think it was prudent to-”
“Tell you? Yes. Now be quiet, I’m trying to think.” John’s mouth drops open slightly and the anger quickly dissipates to relief and a weird sense of pride that despite being in a coma for six months, Sherlock still had the mental capabilities of an over-processed computer and the emotional compass of a magnolia tree. Sitting back in his chair, John lightly pushed the blanket he’d been ensnared in onto his lap, unsure of where to begin. In a moment, he would ask about you, about where you were, and John had a feeling that Sherlock could already tell the one place you weren’t, in the hospital room by his side the way John was. How could he tell Sherlock that you had gone missing that very day he was pulled out of the restaurant on a stretcher, so delirious that the EMTs feared that the shock would kill the detective before he succumbed to his wounds. Even now, fragments of one bullet had yet to be removed because of the precarious location it landed.
“Where is she?” Sherlock asked after a few beats of silence, and John has a mind to state the fact that he was just told to be quiet, but he could be petty later once Sherlock was out of the hospital and back at the flat. He’d already be pissed at the way the hospital staff looked after him because Sherlock was never truly satisfied with someone else’s work if he felt he could do it better and more efficiently.
“There was only a report of a woman screaming on that balcony the day you were shot. Either people were paid off to keep it quiet or killed so that Moriarty could take her body with him,” John caught the flinch that shook his best friend’s figure, but continued on, “Or she’s still alive. Lestrade has a working theory that when she was taken, she had to still be alive because there wasn’t enough…. Blood at the crime scene that would constitute as enough to die. The fall itself had to have been-”
“Manufactured. A ploy to catch me off my guard by pushing her off and making it seem that she- is my tattoo still there?” He asked, voice brusque and pained. The image of your terrified face is enough to force energy into his limbs, but it’s not enough to get him moving. His entire body is stiff from the lack of movement over the months and the echoes of pain encase the points where bullets pierced his skin. His mind is already racing from one side to the other, thoughts and questions fueled with emotion making him see clearly for the first time since waking up. John shifted from his seat, leaving the blanket curled up in the chair as he shuffled the few steps over to Sherlock’s bed. Reaching out with shaking hands, the doctor grasped onto the collar of the awful hospital gown, pulling it down low enough to reveal Sherlock’s shoulder. As a part of his medical studies, John had studied bond tattoos and their many anomalies years ago, ranging from tears in a tattoo to the emotional capabilities tying back to the shape and design. Sherlock’s tattoo was clear with no blemishes, one of the three bullets piercing just under the simple design, far enough away to leave it unscathed. He had never heard of a tattoo existing after a Bonded had passed, and perhaps he was mistaken, but it was a clear indication that you had to be alive in some way, shape, or form for it to still exist on Sherlock’s pale skin.
“It’s still here, Sherlock. (y/n) must be alive! Moriarty could be keeping her captive.” It’s a suggestion that Sherlock had already taken into consideration the moment his awareness came back from the sedative. It made sense; Moriarty pushed you over the edge to get him into the perfect position to be shot. He hired perfect marksmen who only aimed at points that would leave him alive, but stunned, the shock enough to send him spiraling into a coma. The evil mastermind had to have known where to shoot to elicit the responses, and he knew the pressure of protecting you and how that clouded Sherlock’s better judgment for just the right time. Forcing his thoughts back to those crucial moments, Sherlock thought about the trajectory of the fall and the height of the balcony to the ground below. At that height, even if a victim fell, the percentage of death wasn’t high enough to assume you met your end. Moriarty could have easily chosen a taller building to push you from, but he didn’t. And that’s not something he would leave to chance. When planning to take down an enemy, Moriarty never leaves a single act to chance; it is always foolproof.
“If you focus, you may be able to see her in your thoughts from wherever she is. Bonds have a connection that transcends time; it doesn’t matter how far away she is or how long your coma lasted. You may be able to get a glimpse of her,” John noted, returning to his seat. He thinks about the fact that a nurse should’ve been notified already, the moment Sherlock woke up, but he is a doctor, able to take care of any medical emergency. Right now, Sherlock was too focused on you to bother thinking about himself or the pain in his limbs. He closes his eyes, silently attempting to try out this mind vision. He never used to believe in the power of Bonds or the intricate relationships they possess; he believed in facts, in science, but this felt more like… magic.
Concentrating was harder than he assumed it would be. He could chalk it up to being out of sync with his Bonded, but he knew that he had always been awful at feeling along the thread connecting him to the love of his life. But if it meant he could see to it that you were safe with his own eyes, he’d attempt anything, even if it went against things he himself believes in. Eyes closed, the genius breathed in a deep, grounding breath, and reached back inside of himself with his senses and feelings, trying to draw on the happy memories the two of you had cultivated in your short time together. The violin duets, the hushed conversations in the middle of the night when he knew that you had work in the morning but selfishly kept you up, the surprise visits to the tiny sandwich shop that drew him to you for the first time, the playful arguments and the introduction to Mycroft that left you calling the older Holmes a prat to his face. So many small moments that defined and redefined what you meant to Sherlock, and with a tight mental grasp on these emotions, Sherlock attempted to tap into the link connecting you two together.
With a quick intake of breath, Sherlock feels his chest squeeze as his mind opened up to a moving picture. She looked beautiful, sitting there in the darkened crowd, her face illuminated by the light of the stage. He can’t hear any audio, only making out your face in great detail while everything else swam in and out of the darkness. Along with her radiant beauty, she looked lost, too. Thinner than the last time he had seen her, as if a small hole had been pricked in her side and she was slowly deflating day by day, turning into a ghost. But despite her appearance, she was still the love of his life and she was still alive, the light in her eyes a contrast to the darkness of the room. The tattoo lay bare to the world for all to see from her dress the color of the blood she spilled on the pavement that day. Sherlock feels the bile rise in his throat instantly, but gives nothing away, swallowing it back down because now is not the time to be ruled by his body. He can’t see much else but can clearly make out the balconies behind her, the same as in a theatre or concert hall. (y/n) didn’t like concerts, unless they were for the symphony.
Swallowing down growing nausea, Sherlock escaped back into his thoughts and out of the bond before it could force him back out. Inhaling a sharp breath once more, he forced his eyes open, squinting at the bright light in the room and turning his head in the direction of John, his best friend, and partner through it all. John is concerned by how drugged out his best friend looked.
“Call Lestrade. Check every concert hall in the area. She’s wearing maroon.” Sherlock’s voice is strained and John reaches for the call button resting against the bed, pressing it quickly before standing once more to leave. The nurses would be able to give him morphine for the pain or sedative to help him rest more before he was ready for the possibility of leaving. He still had a long way to go, but now that Sherlock was out of his coma, he could return to what he knew best, taking cases, solving crimes, rewriting the stories of those who have no one to tell it for them. Only he could find you where others, John included, had failed to. John’s calm stride instantly broke out into a mad dash down the hall once he moved past the nurses moving in to work on Sherlock. His breath leaves him as he runs, out of breath by the time he made it out of the building, phone already in hand. He pressed the speed dial number for Lestrade and brought it to his ear as he dashed down the street, heading for the nearest theater. Lestrade picks up after the second ring, voice alert.
“Watson, any news?” Truth be told, John knew that even Lestrade worried over their ailing detective. Somewhere along the line of ridicule, Lestrade and Sherlock had built a sort of trust of shorts; it held none of the properties of John’s relationship with Sherlock, but it was still a bond that Sherlock would protect if need be. John takes in a deep breath as he shuffles towards the entrance to the concert hall.
“Sherlock’s back, and with a lead. Get your men on the streets going through every concert hall in the area. He didn’t tell me anything else but that her dress is maroon.” As little as it is to go on, it is a start. Lestrade is receptive and hangs up a moment later as the trusty sidekick bursts through the entrance, running towards the main hall. Using quick thinking, he found a manager milling outside of the hall doors, trudging over to him and giving him as many details that would make him move the fastest as well as threatening him with obstruction of justice if he didn’t move his ass. That gets the ball rolling as the manager calls in all of the ushers to begin going through each aisle to locate the girl in the maroon dress and a treble clef tattoo visible on her chest. John follows a pair inside to do his fair share, but mostly to scope out the place for Moriarty. If he ever got his hands on him; John wouldn’t mind going to jail- not if it meant he could give Moriarty everything he has always deserved.
.x.
The last pluck of the cello string noted the end of the first half of the show and you were enamored by the ghostly sound of a harp accompanying the final fading noise. It felt like an eternity had come and gone while you sat in your posh red seat dressed in maroon that resembled blood all over you. For some reason, the thought of the dress crossed your mind as the orchestra stood for rounds of applause before the conductor let them take a break. It felt oddly familiar to a dream you’d had a few times after you first woke up from your coma. You were laying against a hard surface, it felt like harsh gravel smashing against your back and limbs, with warmth running all over your chest, face, and arms. The warm liquid splashed to the ground below upon impact and you could see through the hazy vision that it had to be red paint.
Red paint?
No, your brain had quickly rationalized then, blood, your blood. You didn’t fly. The dream in and of itself felt horrifying and full of fear, leaving you drenched in sweat every time you awoke from its terror. But the image of the blood dribbling down your form reminded you of the soft maroon sticking to your body like a glove. And for some reason that you couldn’t explain, it felt wrong. It felt like there was something else going on that was just beyond your realization.
“Are you enjoying the performance?” The question tore you away from your pensive mood and a kind smile spread across your lips in response as you nodded your head.
“Yes, it’s been absolutely lovely. The added harp effect to match pitch and tone with the Violin during that last concerto was so beautiful,” The words slipped out of your mouth before you even had a chance to formulate the thought but you just knew. Your musical talent and attributes simply continued to breathe back into your very lungs it seemed.
“I’m happy that you’re having a good time, Margaret. Would you like to get up and stretch your legs.” You nodded in response and stood on your own before he could offer to help, easing past him and lightly stretching your legs and arms. Other patrons did the same while more ventured out of the hall for beverages or bathroom breaks. You mentioned needing to get to the ladies room, having remembered seeing it just outside the hall, and excused yourself to do so. Being away from Jim feels like a relief than anything else and you don’t understand why you feel that way but it’s this huge, deep sensation that tugs you out from under his thumb. You feel grateful for this gift he’s given you, and you know that you should trust him, that you do in a way, but there is always something that feels off. You slip into the bathroom with ease, heading to the nearest stall as two girls gossip off to the side. You quietly close the stall door shut but can’t help but to listen in on their hushed conversation.
“I bet he killed her and is trying to hide it up with this coma act,” One murmured in an attempt at a hushed voice, her friend silently frowning at her words. You carefully reach for the tissue dispenser to pull a few sheets free in order to drape them across the toilet-
“I always knew that Sherlock Holmes would snap one day. I told you, I said, he’s got not a good bone in that body a’ his. I swear by it. He’s a villainous slag,” The words she spat were full of malice as well as disgust and you felt your insides twist up at the mention of that name. There was something about it that called out to you, that made you see something just beyond your sight. You unconsciously leaned up against the stall door to listen more closely, your breath held and your hands clutched against your chest as if they realized you were listening in on their moment.
“Maybe Sherlock Holmes will never wake up and that poor girl. I heard she was a real pretty thing, all (y/e/c) eyes and (y/h/l), (y/h/c). Such a small thing too.. Maybe she is alive and all a’ this is jus’ a game. Maybe Sherlock isn’ this monsta’ the press made a’ ‘im,” The second voice is more sympathetic than anything else and there was a sadness in her voice that made you want to console her in some way and agree even if you had no idea who this Sherlock Holmes was. You wait with a strained ear but the other female never spoke another word; she merely scoffed and finished washing her hands. The pair retreated without another word spoken between them and you took a step away from the door, lips pursed as you stood there in the bathroom stall, unsure of what to do. You no longer had the need to relieve yourself and even if you did, you found it impossible to truly maneuver yourself in the puffy material of the gown. Instead, you backed up one more step and leaned against the side of the stall, a small pain forming in your temple. Face scrunching up, you carefully made your way out of the stall, slowing finding your way out of the bathroom and back towards the concert hall where you heard the telltale signs of string tuning in preparation for the second half of the performance. As you turned and made your way inside, you missed the rush of officers racing by the door, missing the sight of you by a mere moment. You returned to your seat that night, unaware of the search for you and your maroon dress. Even more, you would miss the worried look on one John Watson’s face as he ordered people about, eyes darting around.
“Did you have an easy time finding your way back?” Jim asked the moment you carefully slid back into your seat, his body slightly turning as he faced you. You gave a soft smile and nodded, although a headache still persisted. You couldn’t get the idea of this Sherlock Holmes out of your head; who was he? Who was this girl who suddenly vanished? And why was it such a topic of discussion?
“Jim, I have a question,” You said as he stared at you expectantly, the tone of your voice reflecting your curious state of mind. Jim tilted his head a little and gave a nod for you to continue.
“I was wondering if-” The sound of your question was cut off by the beginning thrum of the viola and instantly your attention was drawn away, your eyes glancing back at the stage where the violins began to softly pluck at their E strings. Jim’s head follows in the same direction and before your attention is taken wholly, you remind yourself to ask him about Sherlock after the show. Surely he would know something about him and about the case. His name was foreign but it also felt familiar to you as if you had said the name many, many times before. The low notes of the cello drift you away and off of into a realm unlike any other, one where you are free of confusion and doubt, worries and woes.
The show ends with a flourish of dueling strings and a harpist who plays faster than anything else you’d ever heard. It added another dimension to a traditional orchestra and you could feel your fingers lightly tapping and moving along to each note, shifting between cello and violin, treble and bass clef, tempo for tempo. The sound of palm meeting palm is deafening in the concert hall and your hands begin to burn by the end of the vigorous applause. You watched the orchestra members on stage as other patrons began to readily leave their seats and file out of the stuffy concert hall, wishing for all the world that you could be up there with them. Even in the past, it had always been an aspiration but with little to no money and coming from a modest background (or so you thought) and not a prestigious one meant that it was not likely that you would ever have the chance to perform with the elite. Even with your loss of memories, you have a feeling that you had always longed to perform with a group but was never give a chance. Jim lets you sit there and stare on with admiration for a moment longer before softly nudging you for your attention.
“How would you like to play for them?” He asked, voice smooth and inviting, always inviting. And despite the odd feeling he gave you earlier, the offer to play for a live orchestra made your sense of danger retract completely. Call it your naivety and gullible nature. How were you to know that this was just as bad as offering the concert and other fanciful gifts? It was just a way to win you over, to pull you even closer into his clutches without the slightest chance of escape. Naturally, you fell for the bate.
“Really, Jim?” He nods and stands before taking your hand to pull you up, carefully leading you first out of the aisle and down the corridor towards the stage. The conductor is still standing by her podium, holding her baton from the performance. Maybe she would allow you to see the exact sheet music they had been working on. You were positive that you would be able to easily reproduce it if you could just get a sight of it. You follow Jim up the stairs along the sides of the stage and into the center, introducing you to the conductor.
“It’s so wonderful to meet you,” You gush as you fiddle with your fingers, your dress swishing back and forth with your moments, “The last adagio at the end of the first stanza was simply astounding. I was so taken away with the harp and how you find tuned it to match the pitch of every concerto. Your cellos' were so well with their staccato.” You quite with the compliments before you turned into a babbling mess. It was the first time you’d ever spoken so much in one day.
“I see Mr. Moriarty was honest about your musical talents. He said you would like to play the cello for me? I’m sure I could find a place for you within the orchestra if you are as good as he says.” She’s genuinely nice but you also have a feeling that if you were able to pull this off, that she could be intimidating during a practice. Stepping away from Moriarty, you headed towards the chair pulled away from the rest with a pristine cello besides it.
“I can play the violin, piano, flute, and trumpet, but the cello is by far my best.” Turning, you took a careful seat and reached for the cello and bow, your back instantly straightening while you maneuvered the cello around the dress. Performers usually wouldn’t wear a dress this gaudy, but you had a feeling that you could play in anything as long as you had a bow in your eyes. Glancing at the sheet music perched on the stand, you ran through each note, closed your eyes, and began to play. While you played, lost in the piece and forgetful of the people standing there watching you, an image began to form in your mind. At first, it was a mere blur of colors, pale tones with dark splotchy flecks, but as you moved onto the next stanza, you could make out a mouth, nose… piercing eyes of smoke.. A head of unruly curls. He was beautiful, absolutely beautiful, and even if you had no idea of who he was, you knew that somewhere in this world, he existed. He breathed and felt and existed on the same plane as you and your chest ached at the mental image of him. Who was he? And why was it his face that appeared the moment you felt at your most powerful?
.x.
Sherlock is… different. It is the first thing that John can notice very clearly as he studies his best friend. He’s different, more reserved than before as if he were holding back every single aching memory from that day on the balcony or the ghost of dreams that haunted him during his coma. Either way, John could tell that past the stoic expression and stretches of silence Sherlock was changed. He grew restless more easily, hated the nurses that fawned over him and their hurt expressions when he finally lost his composure enough to snarl at them to get lost. John did his best to keep Molly Hooper and her affections for him at bay because he would undeniably crush her hopes in one fell swoop without feeling bad in the slightest. And sure, Molly did deserve to know that Sherlock would never love her back in order to start the process of moving on but John didn’t want to be the one to do it when there was so much going on at one time.
“John, what it is this time? Thinking of why I’m so quiet? Brooding? You are still a simple book that’s quite easy to read,” Sherlock sighed out, his clouded eyes opening to stare over at his partner who sat close by.
“Ah, the great Sherlock Holmes strikes again. I am wondering that and how I can help you. You know, it wouldn’t hurt to talk about it… my therapist tells me-”
“Which one? The one that turned out to be my sister and almost killed you or is there another, much more credible one that you’ve been seeing since?” The response is dripping with that special Sherlock brand of sarcasm that John almost laughs. Almost. But it is also an insensitive slight that hurts his feelings even when he knows it shouldn’t.
“A different one. One who’s been checked out thoroughly before I went to our first session. Please stop deflecting and projecting your feelings back at me. I know that you’re hurting somewhere deep inside that empty body of yours because even you feel, Sherlock. You aren’t inhuman, not anymore. She made you feel things you didn’t want. She made you feel things you thought you didn’t need, and once you realized they were there and embraced them, she was torn away from you. And you’re hurting… You can call me a fool and all of this conjecture, but I know it. Every day without her, it’s like you’re still in a coma, slipping away piece by piece. But Lestrade and I are still on the search, we aren’t giving up and we won’t let you. You’re Sherlock Holmes, the Sherlock Holmes, you can do anything.” John sounds like one of those die-hard fans but it's because he is. He’s Sherlock’s biggest supporter and he just knows that wherever you are, the moment Sherlock is cleared to get out of the hospital, he’ll be on your trail.
Sherlock responds to the heartfelt speech with silence, turning his head in the opposite direction and staring at the wall. Since the night before, when he saw you through the bond, his chest had yet to cease hurting. You were beyond beautiful, even with your pale complexion and the anxious twitch of your nose. But it seemed like you couldn’t feel him at all; there was no reaction or realization. Perhaps Moriarty had shielded your bond from you somehow. What if you didn’t even know that he was still alive? What if you didn’t remember him because of the fall? There were so many what if’s and whys and Sherlock isn’t used to having to ask such ridiculous questions. He always knew the answer, could always conjure it up out of the dark recesses of his mind. But his mind palace was in shambles now and he couldn’t think straight enough to access any of the information sitting right there in his head. That day on the balcony changed him, and John was worried that the damage would never be fixed.
With Sherlock’s lack of response, John turns to read that days newspaper as something to keep him occupied. As he turned to the entertainment section, the image that met him makes him drop the newspaper out of shock, limbs frozen, chest squeezing tightly from both disbelief and anger. Sherlock instantly turns his head at the sound of paper falling, the same page John saw moments ago flittering to the ground for the dark-haired male to see. And the sight makes his mouth grow dryer and his chest squeeze painfully. The words that leave his mouth sound grave; they sound like a person who’d finally- lost.
"Moriarty knew that this would happen. He knew every step, planned three different paths I could take from the moment he had me shot. He.." The word 'won' almost leaves his throat but his silence speaks volumes. John refuses to listen. He won’t. He knows better than to listen to a depressed Sherlock who’s going through things and isn’t thinking with a clear head, which in and of itself is rare.
“He’s simply done this to bother you, Sherlock. Because he thinks he has the upper hand, but we can use this- Lestrade may be able to use this. And it’s in the papers that are plastered all over town. Someone is bound to see her whether that was his intention or not. There’s- There’s a chance we can get her back. But we can’t do it if you give up! Don’t you love her?” He asked, overstepping boundaries with his accusatory tone. He’s panting by now, so worked up by Sherlock’s silence and the sight of your smiling face with James Moriarty by your side as if you belonged there from the very beginning. Sherlock was right about one thing, this had to have been a part of his plan. This had to be why he didn’t go after Sherlock over the past months; he had to have been biding his time for an attack on Sherlock’s mental health before coming to finish off the job he started. Seeing his Bonded at the side of his natural born enemy had to do something to him, had to make him lose focus on the various different routes he could plan and see in his mind. Moriarty had hit him somewhere deep inside his chest where no one else had ever been able to reach except you.
“Sherlock, I’m going to Le-” John began only for Sherlock’s voice to reach him; he sounds angry, a fire suddenly lit up in his eyes from the deepest depths. It’s the same fire that used to warm him in the old days when the cases were aplenty and Sherlock’s drive was uninhibited.
“I’m going to make him pay, John. He’s going to lose.”
.x.
The first time you ask about Sherlock Holmes is the first instance that Jim Moriarty’s carefully crafted persona begins to crack. You flinch away from the dark expression that crosses his face the moment the newfound name crossed your lips, and you can see something new in his eyes that wasn’t there before… or maybe you had never noticed, didn’t want to. Maybe you never tried to see past his smile or kindness because it was the only thing you could hold onto to keep you grounded. But as soon as you see the new look, it is smudged out and covered up with a warm smile before he responds.
“He’s a dear friend of mine, actually. We have a lot of unfinished business, but he seems to be missing. I do hope he’s alright.” There’s only so long for him to keep out of the public eye now that I’ve set up my final trap. Your brows furrow at his admission to knowing the missing man, but you begin to think back to all of your time here with Jim. Not once did he ever speak Sherlock’s name or even appear to know that the missing man’s name was splattered all over the newspapers daily. It just didn’t make any sense and a feeling of doubt begins to take shape. You make sure not to ask Jim again because his response, both verbally and physically, was too questionable to be taken at face value. Perhaps he was hiding something or maybe you were becoming paranoid.
But your curiosity did not curb, in fact, it grew so exponentially that you began to search for information on the Sherlock Holmes when alone, using the fancy laptop Jim had provided you with to find articles, speculations, theories, pictures. His face matched the same man who came to you while you played, the same features you would see in your dreams frequently, the same face and blue eyes and curly locks that made your head ache with memories wanting to spill out all over. Did you know Sherlock Holmes? Was that the reason Jim didn’t want to talk about him in your presence and pretended not to know him. Over the passing weeks, you are overcome with more questions than answers and Jim is more silent and absent than before. It gives you room to search on your own, leading up to your first time traveling back into London on your own. You leave Jim with a lie via text, your first time telling him an untruth. You claim that you want to purchase another violin and a few French bow strings because all of the ones in the manor are German and aren’t as comfortable. He appeared to be fine with you leaving without him, and wouldn’t he be when he has a tracker inside of your cellphone, aware of your location at every waking moment?
Your taxi drops you off in the center of town and the moment you step out, you feel calm and steady. Being without Jim brought a sense of accomplishment and freedom like maybe you were becoming more independent than you ever thought possible. You walk down the concrete sidewalks with no true destination just yet. You take in the sights and the sounds of the working class citizens, all scurrying about with a job to do or rushing to get to an early lunch. You turn a few corners and come across a row of various boutiques and shops and you slowly wind your way into each of them to take a peek around because you have the liberty to do so. There is no Jim to dictate your agenda, to tell you where you are going or what you are doing. The more you explore on your own, the more you realize how suffocating Jim’s presence can be and how often he attempted to keep you cooped up and away from any other being. You try to rationalize his behavior as you peel clothes apart on a clothing rack, the dainty dresses nothing like you’ve seen before. Jim showers you with expensive dresses and garments as well as with other gifts and you always feel guilty about not wanting to accept them.
These clothes are pretty and homely, hand stitched and beautiful. If only you could wear things like this that would no longer make you feel so self-conscious. You spend some time looking at other things in the store before taking your leave and walking further down the street and deeper into the heart of London. When you turn the next corner, that’s when it hits you, an ear-shattering scream inside your head from a voice you can’t fit a face to. You feel your feet stop and stagger, your vision going fuzzy as the voice grows louder and louder in your mind. There are other people on the strip who are now becoming aware of you and your shaking form. The voice is loud, male, yelling out your name as if he will never see you again. You can hear your heart beating in your ears, louder and louder, and his voice is an echo that throbs in your chest.
Everything …
Is…
Going…
Dark…
A few pedestrians are quick to see her fall, fainting against the concrete, and someone calls for an ambulance to try and help her. They arrive within the next few minutes and raise her up into a stretcher, checking her vitals as she’s rushed to the nearest hospital. She doesn’t know that these are her memories trying to break through the lies fed to her by Jim Moriarty. They come to her as dreams, visions, of faces and smiles and Sherlock Holmes and who is John Watson? You hear Sherlock laugh and taunt and make fun of Anderson. You remember how annoyed you’d been with him when he threw away your favorite jar of pickles to make space for some experiment. You remember Sherlock’s eyes, the storm always brewing in them. A violin and bow laying against a pile of files, papers scattered everywhere and so many boxes. Sherlock is angry, laughing, voice soft and smooth inside your head, but there is something missing, still missing- for all the memories running back to you, there is nothing linking you to the tattoo on your chest, nothing pointing to the fact that Sherlock is yours and you are his.
The ambulance arrives at the hospital and she is placed in a room, nurses working to take more vitals and trying to find her identification. The problem was that all of her identification cards were false, created by Moriarty as a way to hide her in plain sight. There wasn’t a “Margaret Huntington” in the system which rose red flags. A doctor is assigned to her but there is not much he can do but wait for her to come to, which doesn’t take long when her Bond unconsciously wills her awake.
“Ah, I see you’re awake, miss. How do you feel?” The doctor asks as your eyes sluggishly open and you try to take in your whereabouts. It’s almost as bad as waking up in that bed back at the manor and seeing Jim for the first time, but this time, you know it’s a doctor.
“I’m… okay. Head hurts.” You comment and try to sit up, reaching up to lightly put a hand to your head. Your own touch makes you flinch and you visibly wince, your doctor walking over to reach out and check you himself.
“Hm, did you happen to hit your head? I don’t feel any bruising or bumps. Was it a fainting spell?” His questions all make you squeeze your eyes shut as you try to keep a grasp of the new memories swirling in your head. You remembered Sherlock Holmes, at least knowing him in what appeared to be a closer relationship than you ever could’ve thought. Why didn’t Jim tell you? Why would he keep this from you? You try to think it through but the new memories are heavy and you try to explain to the doctor about your situation. He takes notes of everything you say, about the coma, the memory loss, and the sudden headache that made you faint in the street followed up by waking up there with no memories in your head.
“I see, Margaret. Then you had an episode of regaining your memory. Has this happened before?” Wait. Margaret. Margaret? Who the fu- You blink a few times, the pain in your temple subsiding enough for you to sift through memories and more importantly, remember. You’re (y/n). You’ve always been (y/f/n) (y/l/n). Why did Jim tell you your name was Margaret? Another lie.
“M-Margaret? That’s not my n-name. It’s (y/f/n)... (y/f/n), (y/l/n).” The doctor takes note, a perplexed expression on his face before he says he needs to take a few tests on you to make sure you’re alright. He leaves with the promise of returning as soon as possible and you are left alone. Everything is… happening too fast. One moment, you are content to follow Jim wherever he wants you to without questioning a word he says. You accepted his gifts, the room at the manor, and trusted him so much. And now, with the resurgence of your memories, you are quickly realizing that Jim, if that’s even his real name, has been lying to you about who you are and what you remember. And you were somehow connected to Sherlock Holmes, a man of absolute mystery. Despite the pieces slowly coming back to you, it wasn’t enough and you were still so confused about it, especially about Jim and why he lied to you about something so important like your name.
Carefully, you sit up and rest back against a pillow, trying to come to terms with the new memories. And as you think and wonder, your chest feels warmer when the fresh images of Sherlock’s face brushes against your mind’s eye. Your tattoo grows heated and throbs with an odd sensation of both heat and hurt wrapped up in a complex mold of confusion. Your doctor takes much longer to come back than you expected him to, giving you the needed space to breathe. You look around the hospital room with new eyes and the sense of being lost all over again. Margaret Huntington isn’t your name, you know that now more than ever, but just because you uncovered the truth didn’t leave you any more enlightened. It left more questions than answers.
.x.
Despite such bravado, Sherlock knows himself more than John could ever hope to. He knows that despite his show of will and strength, that he is a tank running on mere droplets of oil; the only thing keeping him going is the mere idea of finding you alive and taking you out of Moriarty’s clutches. There had to be another reason why Moriarty kept you alive instead of allowing you to perish from the aftermath of the fall. Yes, using you as a means to bring Sherlock out into the open is a factor, but with his coma lasting months on end, no- Moriarty had to have another reason, a reason not even the evil genius was aware of. He could have been aware of Sherlock’s presence long ago and if he did, wouldn’t (y/n) be rendered useless? Sherlock tried to think along the lines of Moriarty, an easy feat considering how similar they were in mental capacities.
If he had no more use of you, you would be dead. He could easily be rid of you by his own hands or by pulling on the puppet strings of another. There had to be another reason, then, one that would undeniably cause more damage than simply killing you. And the realization dawns on him as his shoulder shoots up in flames.
“He’s starting to have an emotional attachment to her, something that could last long term if he wanted it to.” He’s falling in love with her. It’s a possibility that makes Sherlock’s stomach roll with disgust. Moriarty is not built to love, but neither were you. You thought that it was beneath you and something you didn’t need. She changed that and changed you and everything you ever knew. She could change him; she could change anyone without even trying.
Carefully reaching to pull out the few needles still piercing his flesh, Sherlock deemed it a perfect moment to escape the confines of his hospital room. John is gone, off on a mission to bring him back from the brink and his nurse isn’t scheduled to come in for another twenty minutes. Sherlock felt drained, but lying about wouldn’t find you. Remaining tied to his bed would not bring him closer to taking Moriarty down. Shifting slowly, Sherlock slips out of bed slowly, his feet a bit numb from lying down for so long. He’d only be up periodically to use the bathroom and that was the most exercise a nurse would grant him even though his bullet wounds were all but healed up. He deduced that he’s being held because his doctor thinks he’s crazy and the police don’t know what he’ll do if he gets out any sooner. He could hurt himself, he could go on a rampage, he could do something unconditionally stupid. All were accurate.
Slipping out of his room, he peered left and right before instinctively veering off to the left and walking down the hall with purpose on trembling legs. Luckily, the paparazzi had called off the hunt over the last few days and there didn’t appear to be any lurking around after him trying to take his picture or a statement over what had happened on that day. He’d probably be feral if anyone did, in fact, find him to ask invasive questions or even entered his private space. The genius takes a right turn and moves automatically without question, without thought, and there is such an innate need to move that he is unaware of the mere fact that he doesn’t know where he’s going but that he has to go. He has to move, he feels like he’s searching for something without any clues, any hints, and it is frighteningly easy to give up his mind to follow the beating in his chest. One elevator up two floors, a left turn, then a right, dodging into the bathroom to avoid a nurse for the 6th time- he feels static in the tips of his toes and his fingers and there is a distinct sensation building up the faster he walks down the stretch of the desolate hall to the last door on the left. His limbs stop in front of the door and he stares at the lackluster color, aged with use, but he knows that there is something there no the other side. It’s one of the first times that he uses nothing to get him there, only a hunch on baseless feelings instead of facts and figures. It had to be you.
Taking in a deep breath, Sherlock reaches for the door, his chest tightening with acute anxiety as he curled his fingers around the handle and pulled. The scent of generic hospital hits his nose as he steps inside, eyes glazing over the monitor beside the bed before his eyes dare to settle on the occupied bed. He starts at the covers, breath catching in his throat as he carries his gaze upward, across the shoulder, the luscious (h/c) locks and up to a pair of (e/c) eyes that are staring right back at him in surprise. She is so beautiful that it physically hurts to stare at her, at a version different from the one he’d been seeing in his dreams and during his coma. She is different from the girl who screamed his name as she fell over the ledge from the push, different from the girl that would sometimes smile at him while he looked over case files and run her fingers through his hair when he is too tired to keep his eyes open. She is different from the many memories he’s had to sift through of their time together, and yet it is still her, staring at him with a guarded demeanor and confusion upturning her lips. His arm dropped to his side as the door slid closed once more, enclosing them in the same space.
“S-Sherlock?” She spoke first, her voice smaller than before, unsure. He took a step closer, only pausing in his pursuit because of the way she curled in closer to the sheets. As if she were afraid… afraid of him? He didn’t know how to feel or if he could come back from the sight of his Bonded recoiling at the sight of him entering her room. Something had happened to her during her time with Moriarty; her entire demeanor had changed into that of someone he could barely recognize even as she stared back at him with those same eyes.
“I finally found you-” The relief in his voice is palpable and he takes one more step closer to his complete and utter light, the only person that was able to ever see him past the words and demeanor and brains. She saw him for who he had the potential to be, she believed in him when he needed someone to stay by his side, someone who could love him the way he didn’t know he needed until she was taken away. He was almost afraid to ask what Moriarty did to her, afraid to hear of grotesque deeds and torture.
“Y-You were looking for me?” Her brows furrow the way it always does and it is no less adorable than before but the fact that she is confused sets him on a string of theories.
- She didn’t respond the way a Bonded would when finally locating their other half after months apart.
- She seemed genuinely confused towards him and why he was there- she didn’t know him, not in the capacity she had.
- It had to be amnesia of some sort, whether long or short, he wasn’t too sure but he would find out.
- His thinks… maybe… his heart is breaking
“Yes.. for a long time. And no one knew if you.. Were even alive until we saw the picture of you and Moriarty in the paper.”
“Moriar- You mean Jim?” You respond, still trying to sift through the new memories of Sherlock now in the forefront of your thoughts. You can’t stop staring at him as if he’d grown a second head and you can only think that he must be dear to you, a dear friend maybe? But it didn’t make sense that Jim wouldn’t tell you. He completely omitted you knowing Sherlock the entire time you stayed with him and it only rose the question of what else he’d been keeping from you. Did you really get amnesia the way he said it happened? Your name wasn’t even Margaret. And Sherlock said no one knew you were alive, was that why Jim kept you so isolated in the manor..?
“James Moriarty…” The name makes his blood bowl with so much anger that Sherlock feels like he could explode. He’d never been this irrationally emotional before, but when it concerns you, there is too much to feel; there is no length he wouldn’t go in order to keep you safe. “He’s the reason you lost your memory.” The declaration is a slap to the face and your monitor begins to escalate.
“T-Then what really happened? Why can’t I.. Why can’t I r-remember?” You ask, and with the limited memory of Sherlock Holmes in your life, you find yourself trusting someone yet again.
“He used you. He used you to get to me.. He had me shot and made me watch him push you off of a balcony. He took you away, nursed you back to health far from me and made it appear as if there had never been an accident because your body was never located or photographed. He probably gave you a fake name to use in case anyone asked and isolated you from the city, waiting for me to come out of hiding to find you myself. He’s been using you to hunt me down-” Sherlock can’t stop his dialogue now, he can’t stop now that the pieces are trying to take shape. He overlooks the expression of horror on his face because she deserves to know the truth about “Jim.” She deserved to know that he would never let her down again.
“B-But,” She speaks up after a moment and her voice is a small bell now, different from her chime of the past, “He t-took care of me… g-gave me a home and… helped me get s-some of my m-memories back... D-Did he really do all of t-those horrible t-things?” You ask as you try to rationalize. Maybe he gave you a fake name for your protection, maybe he lied because the truth, this truth, would hurt you too deeply. Maybe- Maybe- No. you couldn’t rationalize his behavior and lies away no matter how much these new truths would crumble your already fragile psyche.
"Whatever he’s told you, he's lying to you. Believe him and the moment you've outgrown your usefulness, he'll be rid of you, too," Sherlock speaks in a quiet tone, much unlike himself. There is a sharp pain in his side, twisting and turning before embedding itself deeper into his flesh. There is another stab at his chest; the conclusion spreads through him like a slow-burning poison. This is what he meant to do, wasn’t it? Give you back as a mere shell of who you used to be. You couldn’t even feel the Bond, could you? You’d made no indication about it while his tattoo is searing with pain and hurt. It is a kind of pain that he has never experienced before; it is not merely physical, but mental and emotional as well. He’d opened himself up so much to her that to see her this way ate away at his thoughts.
“”But w-why me? W-What did I do… to deserve this?” You can’t understand what is right there in front of you; you are detached from your bond emotionally and it has left you as half of yourself. Sherlock moves forward without processing the motion when the tears form in your eyes and begin to spill over quickly. No words leave your mouth as your monitor picks up on your stress and begins to shift faster.
“It’s my fault,” he bluntly explains, unable to find a better way to say it. It is all his fault. If he had never fallen in such a love with you, you and your light would be safe from him and the darkness that has followed him all of his life. If he had just been content to be alone forever, if he hadn’t walked by that little sandwich shop and seen her for the first time, if only he hadn’t been taken in by her smile and those eyes and the way she giggles when she’s nervous and those soft fingers that create the most beautiful music he’d ever heard before..
“He hurt you to hurt me because you’re my Bonded and I’m yours. Hurting you and taking you away has left me empty and lesser... I am nothing without you.” His voice cracks at the end of the utterance and the regret builds up. And it is a complete truth; He’d been so happy with you, so complete, and watching you fall and knowing he couldn’t stop it plagued his dreams and nightmares, that even now, he can’t sleep without waking up abruptly. He watches the realization slowly dawn on her before her shaking hand reaches up to clutch at her chest. Her tears are running down from her puffy eyes and he stalks over to the side of her bed, wishing he could take her pain away with the Bond but now knowing how. Her free hand suddenly reaches for him and he is quick to grab her hand back, to squeeze it, to feel how clammy it became because of her emotions and to stroke the back of her hand in a way to soothe her the best way he can. From their touching, she can feel something small stir inside of her, small, but a familiar sensation of safety and.. What is that feeling?
“(y/n).” The sound of your real name makes a tingle run down your frame and you hiccup loudly in the quiet room, your name leaving his lips solidifying everything he’d said up until that moment, “I’m sorry I let this happen to you. I’m sorry that I couldn’t protect you..” He isn’t used to apologizing but it comes naturally to him at this moment because he means it, from the deepest, darkest depths of his soul he means it.
You are so broken inside. Jim had been lying to you the entire time… you had been called a false name for months… and Jim sat back and watched you stumble through each day not knowing where you stood in the world. He betrayed you and tried to conform you into someone you were never meant to be. If you weren’t Margaret and you barely had memories of your life as (y/f/n) (y/l/n), then who were you, really? You believe Sherlock, even when you are terrified of this also being a lie, but everything he said made sense. Jim used you and lied to you so many times to gain your trust and companionship only for it to be some plot to get back at Sherlock Holmes.
Sherlock Holmes is your Bonded.. Why couldn’t you feel it? Even with lost memories, you knew about True Bonds, Bond properties, and how it should feel to have your Bond close. Sherlock is standing right there and you feel nothing. Were you too broken now to sense that your other half was staring right back at you? If that was the case, you’d never forgive Jim for what he’s done. You never wanted to see that monster again.
“I don’t r-remember… a lot. I have s-some memories of you, your face, of listening to you talk. There’s tiny bits and clips that I can see but can barely hear… I’m n-not sure what I can do to get them b-back. I don’t know if I c-can become the person you knew. I d-don’t know who I am anymore.” Did you ever know at all? The fresh tears brimming in your eyes spill over at the revelation. And then you begin to sob out of sheer frustration and lack of control, the kind of crying that makes your chest heave with gasps escaping your parted lips. Sherlock says nothing to placate you; he simply held your hand and let you cry until your doctor returned and he was forced to leave you yet again.
.x.
When you’re released from the hospital, you don’t return to the manor. You don’t call Jim and tell him what’s happened and you don’t try to find Sherlock in the hospital either. You don’t know what you’re doing anymore but you know that you need to find yourself again. Your bank account has more money than you’ve ever seen (and you’re sure that in your memories, you never had this much either) and you find a small flat hidden away in the city to get some solitude to focus on your memories. They don’t come back quickly, or frequently, it is more of a glimpse here and dreams that give you more than the waking world. As you grow accustomed to your apartment, it makes your skin crawl when all of the items gained at the manor are delivered to your doorstep without a return address. It’s a frightening feeling, realizing that Jim is watching you and knows where you are. You’re afraid that he’ll call you and ask you to return, that he’d have the audacity to speak your name. Your anger matches your fear exponentially.
But a single silver lining of the situation is that Jim had been right about one thing. You were a Huntington and once you learned of your vast trust left by your late father, you were able to access those funds without any issues once the proper paperwork and authentication was done.
As much as you don’t want to see Jim, you do want to see Sherlock. Your Bond only began to react to him once you left the hospital, slowly unfurling from the deep recesses of your soul to reach out to him. The love you had has returned in small doses and you begin to remember his childish antics and the way he would treat his best friend John Watson.
.x.
The phone call is expected, and Sherlock is ready when he answers the phone.
“Dear old friend, how are you,” Moriarty asked over the line, a laughter bubbling to his mouth and releasing, “I hear your Bonded didn’t take you back. Doesn’t that just break your heart?” Sherlock ignores the goading.
“She is her own person, Moriarty, someone not even you could corrupt when you had the chance. Not even your feelings for her could make her stay once she found out how much fo a monster you are. When I find you, it will be your end.”
“Oh, I’m the monster here? I only wanted the very best for her, even if it took a little push. It was all for her benefit. She may have slipped away this time, but I saw the effect losing her had on you and I am looking forward to our next encounter.” Sherlock maintains his calm even when he is growing livid under the surface.
“As am I.”
.x.
“Are you sure you don’t want to call him?” Aslin whined from across the table. The cafe is small and tucked away, as are most of the places you visit since regaining the brunt of your memories. Your revived relationship with her is one of the reasons you leave your flat at all these days, an unimaginable anxiety keeping you behind closed doors. She pouts at you from across the table, one hand tapping away at her empty cup. She can’t believe that you haven’t hopped at the chance of getting back with Sherlock now that you know for certain that you are still in love with him, possibly even more now than before. But you didn’t know what to say to him now.
“I just don’t know what I’d do if I saw him again,” you try to explain away your feelings, but you’re utterly failing, “I just don’t know if we’d fit together like we did before.” Honestly, you were afraid that you wouldn’t.
“Well, kiss him! Duh!” You cough on a sip of mocha at her exclamation, turning your head away when others in the vicinity take notice. You did miss Aslan’s optimism for sure.
“I think it would be better if we talked before anything else?” You friend shook her head quickly and leaned in a bit closer over the table.
“No. Kiss him. Hold him. Then tell him you missed him and want to be together because that’s what you want and I’m pretty sure that’s what he wants to.” She’s probably right, you thought to yourself before gnawing at your lower lip.
“Maybe I can call him first? I don’t really remember where he lives. Addresses are still kind of fuzzy.” You knew that it was somewhere on Baker Street but the numbers and letters were still a jumbled mess. You did have his number, passed along inconspicuously from John Watson when he sought you out to check up on you. He had also been a welcomed respite from your new reality; Jim had stolen months of your life from you and you were sure that there were still memories deep in the recesses of your mind that might never find a way out again.
“Fine, fine. Call first, kiss his face off later,” Aslin grinned at the flush that paints your usually pale cheeks, a quiet cackle escaping her even though other people nearby still raise their heads in your direction. She has to return to her shift as an assistant in a nearby shop and her parting words are much of the same. Call him. He’ll be happy to hear from you. Call him. But- what if-just flipping call him! You leave the cafe a while after Aslin, taking in the fresh air as you walk back to your flat, eyes glancing around warily. To distract yourself, you slip a hand in your pocket and pluck out your cell phone, unlocking it quickly and pressing a few icons until it opened up to your contact list. Carefully, you walk along the sidewalk beside other pedestrians and take in a deep breath before searching for Sherlock’s name. Before you can psych yourself out over it, you tap his name and your entire screen changes. You hold your breath and bring the phone up to your ear, nibbling at your lower lip as you waited for him to answer.
“Hello? (y/n)?... Are you okay? Is everything alright? Did Mor-” Your silence sends him into a frenzy of questioning and you pause in your steps in the middle of the street just to listen to his voice no matter how frantic it’s becoming. You will yourself to speak up so he wouldn’t worry anymore and cut him off before he could get any ideas about an imaginary problem.
“I-I’m fine, Sherlock. I just wanted to call you to talk? Um- I was wondering if-if you’d be interested in…” All of the courage that you’d built up was beginning to wash away.
“I’d be interested in anything that has to do with you. Did you want to see me?” Cocky without trying, still a bit airheaded, but you missed this.
“Yes, very much. I needed time, but I got most if not all of my memories back and I know that maybe I am different now but I still want us to us. I still want to be the person you put your trust in no matter what,” You speak without thinking and now that you’ve started, everything is coming out, “I was scared that if I reached out to you, you wouldn’t be able to look past what happened or that you’d keep blaming yourself for that day. And I’m still scared but I miss you, Sherly. I miss you so much... so if you want to try again, please let me know and if you don’t-”
“Don’t you dare finish that sentence, (y/n). The mere idea of me no longer wanting to be with you is simply preposterous and you need to forget it. I love you. I love you more than I love myself and you've given me.. feelings that I haven’t felt all my life, things I don't even understand myself. I’m your True Bond and you are mine; I will never give you up or hand you over. I’ll be at your flat in 20 minutes with that silly American movie you like so much even though it lacks any form of coherent plot or dialogue.”
“Sherlock, it’s a kids movie.” You reach up to rub at your wet eyes and try to keep your voice light to mask the feelings your Bond is absorbing.
“And your point is?” You find yourself laughing all the way to your flat, Sherlock’s blunt and honest nature giving you the much needed laughs you hadn’t experienced in a long time. He argues that your movie of choice is stupid and you call him out on his childishness and why it simply makes sense because of movie logic (even though movie logic never makes sense). Sherlock has you so distracted that you find yourself at your flat in no time at all and there is no fear of being watched or that anxious feeling in your chest. You felt happy, light, on top of the damn universe.
Sherlock meets her at her flat in exactly 20 minutes, movie and ice cream in hand. Yes, he’d done his homework and studied up on proper courting rituals between people who are mutually attracted to you in case he needed to know anything (and asking John is useless because John is married and boring). His heart is throbbing in his ear, loud enough to drown out the sound of his heavy breathing, and when she opens the door and he takes in her oversized cotton shirt and a pair of shorts, he nearly short circuits again. Sherlock swallowed loudly and stepped inside, peering around the small flat as she closed the door behind him. Her new place wasn’t as big, but Sherlock promised himself he wouldn’t secretly get rid of her contract this time because he wanted to give her the space she needed to cope. He didn’t want to scare her off by being too forward.
“Oh, you got my favorite!” She indicated the strawberry ice cream in the bag, her lips curling up into a dazzling smile. She reached to carefully take the bag from him, gesturing to the soft, tan couch in front of a large television, “Go on and have a seat and I’ll make us a bowl.”
He nodded, still staring at how comfortable she looked before shuffling over to the couch and sitting down, leaning over to set up the blu-ray player and popping the CD from its case to place it inside. All the while, his mind is racing over how he should place his arms around her, maybe just hold her hand or possibly the arm over the shoulder trick but no that’s so lame and unlike him and he just can’t- well maybe I can just hold her hand. Nothing too fast. Just nice hand holding. And then I’ll help her out of- wait wait back it up, back it up.
“Thank you for coming,” Her voice coming from beside the couch makes him flinch slightly before he turned to stare at her while she sat down beside him, a large bowl full of strawberry ice cream and two spoons in her arms. Before he could set in motion one of the many ‘moves’ he read up on, she scooted in closer to press into his side and they both release a sigh, their Bond thriving under the contact.
“I’ll always come when you call. I hoped that you would,” He admitted, feeling that he could be honest since she was the entire time, “I knew you needed space from all of it and I’m happy to be whatever you need me to be. No questions asked.” She turned to bury her face in his shoulder and she can tell that she’s breathing in his scent, one that her nose will pick up differently from others because of their Bond.
“Thank you… for being so patient.” She’s shyer than before but Sherlock is unable to find it anything other than adorable. He reaches for the remote to start the movie but his eyes are glued to her. His response is nonverbal; he winds an arm around her and strokes over her side with ease. As the movie starts, she asks one more question.
“... How did you know where I live?”
“......... I have no idea what you mean.” You scoff in response, saving this moment to memory to give him shit for it later on as the opening credits rolled and the movie began, stealing away only a fourth of your attention. You were too aware of him sitting so close to you, his scent wafting and embracing you as tightly as his arm is. It’s perfect.
You felt silly for being afraid of regaining this. And all of the pain you went through did not stop you from grasping onto the love of your life as tightly as possible.
Naturally, sometime during the movie, you found your attention drifting back to the Sherlock and the fact that he can’t keep his eyes or hands off you. His fingers alternate from stroking over your side to shifting to brush against your stomach soothingly. And the response you give is out of your control; you’re touch-starved and your Bond is hungry now that you have your prey cornered. You pounce before he can get away, your lips greedily seeking out his own as he held the breath of life. Your favorite part of the movie is lost to the noises of your kisses and his hands and the feeling of completion you finally achieve.