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The pitter-patter against the window slowly nudges her back into consciousness, where the pain keeps her. A wave of nausea washes over her along with the cramps. The room smells of vomit, of orange juice and cheese rolls – the girl next to her throws up, a gagging, gurgling sound that makes her own stomach seize. She takes deep breaths and blinks at the ceiling, waiting for the moment to pass, for all of it to pass.
The room's whiteness stings in her eyes.
I'll be there with you, he said and she believed him too, when his hands enclosed her own, fingers stroking her pulse, intimate and soothing. Yet he can't be in here now, when she needs him the most.
A breath rattles through her, almost a sob, and she stifles it; it clogs her airways.
She feels scooped out, hollow, as if her intestines have been replaced with molten iron, white-hot and burning away the carbon in her skin, using it to cement itself. Cooled too quickly, steel is unusable, and its many grain boundaries will facilitate cracking from the inside.
In her mind, the Symphony of Sorrowful Songs slowly builds up its theme, and she listens for her part. She yearns for her violin, yearns to transform the ache in her body into vibrations on the strings and ban it, even if she's too weak to lift the bow.
We'll get through this, he said, yet what has he to suffer? What pain does he carry?
She thought this would never happen to her, thought she was immune. How stupid of her. Mycroft was right, he has always been right when he told her what a stupid, stupid girl she is.
And he's right now, too, as usual; evasion is his strong suit, not hers.
"Are you the father?" they asked to clarify their relation.
He smiled, indulgently, and answered: "I'm the brother."
Which was the truth – just not all of it.