Chapter Text
The London skyline beyond the window pane disappears into the blinding glare of triage every time the magnetic-locked doors shush open behind him. In the reflection of the lighted room at his back, Sherlock does not intentionally deduce -- but cannot help deducing -- the reason each person is in attendance at A&E tonight. Illness gone rogue. A broken bone garnered in an embarrassing manner. Heart palpitations, not unlike the ones he imagines he's feeling, except he knows his are due to anxiety and dread, not an actual cardiac condition. Almost certainly.
The door to triage swooshes closed, and London comes once again into focus past the glass, overlaid with his own pale face reflected by the light of the nurse's station. He feels homesick for Baker Street, which is ridiculous, since he's barely been gone two hours. The face in the window is the only one he can't seem to deduce. Why is he like this, relentlessly? Absurd, that's what he is, and he despises absurdity. One might deduce, then, that he despises, too, the face in the window, but he allows that train of thought to fizzle out as the door reopens, giving in to deductions as another patient is whisked through. Soot? But not from a fire. Old. Someplace filthy, a basement or a crawlspace. A ruddy face made even more red by the copious amounts of alcohol the patient had consumed before - before what? Trying to break and enter through a chimney?
He's off his game.
The doors shush closed and Sherlock avoids his own gaze in the window glass. Energy builds in his body, has been doing for quite some time. He isn't used to standing still for so long while existing within himself. His body can go still for days if his mind is engaged, but tonight his mind won't seem to hang on to any one thought for longer than it takes for The Other Thing to wipe it out. The Other Thing - for a man with so many words and ideas, he can't for the life of him narrow down what The Other Thing is made of, only that it seems to be both mental and physical, and perhaps even -- god forbid -- sentimental as well. It starts in his stomach, a physical sensation of dread, which doesn't make sense because dread isn't a physical sensation. Sherlock doesn't like when things don't make sense. He could puzzle on it, but The Other Thing swells again, from his stomach to his clenching and unclenching fists to the fluttering sensation in his heart.
Utterly absurd.
And his mind! It's like a plane crash, twisted, smoldering metal scattered for miles across a debris field, each bit of wreckage marked with a tiny evidence flag representing a separate bit of dread or guilt or pain -- or fear? -- all of it cracked loose from the same terrible occurrence.
There's a little girl in this hospital who is hurt because Sherlock failed. And at her side, there is a father who will never speak to him again.
Thus, homesick. Not exactly for Baker street. But close enough.
The Other Thing seems to start and end on John Watson's face going cold with fury at the foot of the stairwell at 221B. Sherlock remembers the fear and pain in Rosamund's scream. He recalls with shame the fear that seized his own heart when John advanced toward him, his body remembering a hail of fists and feet on a cold morgue floor in a haze of drugs. Shame, because, how dare Sherlock have such a selfish reaction when Rosie was injured on his watch?
"She's a baby! You have to watch her every second! You have to be present! You can't just slip away into your mind and let her fend for herself, christ, Sherlock!"
"I ..." But Sherlock had offered no defense, because there wasn't one. Rosie had fallen from the sofa and banged her head and it was Sherlock's fault. He hadn't slipped away into his mind, as John had accused, but there was hardly a reason to correct him, because there was no excuse to make what had happened okay. Sherlock was trying to keep Rosie entertained so that John, who had been awake for nearly 24 hours at work, could catch a decent sleep. He'd twisted away from Rosie, who was sitting, propped on pillows and seeming quite stable, to retrieve the sippy cup she'd just thrown for the eleventh time, and from what he could tell, she'd lurched forward to try to follow him and tumbled. Her screams had woken John, who had rushed down to find Sherlock frozen in dread, unsure what to do. He knew not to move people who were potentially injured, but did the same apply to babies? She was already moving herself, squirming, flailing, wailing -
"Breathe, Watson," he'd murmured, "I'll fix it," and that was as far as he'd got before John came in like a whirlwind, pillow lines creasing him from cheek to temple, eyes wild with fear that, for John, was always one single breath from anger. John took in the scene - quite incorrectly, of course, but close enough - in lightning speed, and his reaction had been so volatile that Sherlock hadn't known what to do besides obey the command to "get out of the way and leave me to parent, if you can't be bothered to watch her properly!" Sherlock had not at all liked the sensation of walking away from the injured child, feeling an intrinsic pull to stay with her, to reassure himself that she would be all right and to reassure her that he was sorry and he loved her - but Sherlock wasn't hers, nor was Rosie his, and if she was injured because of him, perhaps it was best he step away. He wasn't the type to care for babies, how could he have ever thought he was? He was too selfish and single-minded to protect such a bright little life.
And of course, had he considered staying, there was still the matter of John advancing on him, face twisted in rage, and the feeling gripping Sherlock that felt a lot like terror in response, his mind spinning back to that night on the floor of the morgue and John's words. "Yes, you did." Words that, at the time, hurt as much as the physical pain. More than. Because when he said, "I killed his wife," it only sounded like a statement. Sherlock had been asking John a question - Did I kill Mary? Do you think I killed Mary? Will you ever forgive me, or is this truly my fault, in which case, I am unforgivable? In his battered heart and drug-addled brain, he had been hoping John would reassure him. Of course you didn't kill Mary, that stubborn woman leapt in front of a bullet and there was nothing you could have done. Of course it's not your fault. Of course you're not beyond forgiving.
And instead John confirmed his worst fear.
And in the hollow moments that followed, the physical pain made itself known, the broken ribs and the loosened teeth and the fractured orbital rim, and the combined physical and mental agony had become an exhaustion so great he thought he might die simply from being too tired to go on ...
But that was months ago, more than half a year gone. He bore no lasting damage besides a bit of blurring of the vision in his left eye, which John didn't know about. And how dare he make this situation about him when Rosie was the one currently injured and in hospital?
Sherlock hadn't even known she'd required medical treatment until more than an hour after her injury, when he returned to Baker Street to check on her and discovered both she and her father missing. There were signs they'd left quickly and erratically, and he was able to promptly deduce where they had gone. He hailed a cab immediately, the need to check on Rosamund's well-being outweighing his fear and dread at the thought of seeing John. But upon entering the hospital, his resolve lagged. He could not, after all, introduce himself as family. He wasn't. And if the staff asked John whether to allow him up, the answer would surely be no. Maybe worse than no.
And now he's here, indefinitely. He can't approach, but he also cannot bear to leave the premises without knowing how the junior Watson is faring. And so he lingers, waiting for a chance to happen by her door, or catch the right nurse or doctor with their guard down, or find an unattended medical work station to hack.
"Sherlock?"
He spins, startled, caught unawares even though he's facing a window with the obvious reflection of anyone approaching broadcast across the night scene. Even as he spins, his mind identifies and categorizes. It is Greg Lestrade, not a threat.
"Lestrade. What are you doing here?"
"Waiting for a rather ineffective house breaker to be cleared medically so I can take him in. Bloke tried to enter through the chimney like Father Christmas. Got stuck and dangled there the better part of a day. Homeowner thought they had squirrels." Lestrade studies him, eyes narrowing when Sherlock has no reaction to his story. "Why are you here, then?"
Sherlock is prepared to give a roundabout reason, distract Lestrade from looking too closely, but instead the words break out in a horrified rush: "I injured Rosie."
“You what?"
"Rosie. She fell. I was watching her, and ... Well. John's with her upstairs and I just ... I need to know if she's all right before I ..."
Greg studies him and appears to not like what he sees. "Why aren't you upstairs with her, then? With John?"
"John doesn't need me interfering and making things worse," Sherlock says briskly. "I just want to know if she's all right and then I'll clear out, let him 'get on with parenting.'" Even he can hear the quotation marks as he speaks.
Greg's eyes narrow. "Did John have a go at you, then?"
"He was well within his rights," Sherlock says. "I hurt his daughter."
But Greg's gaze remains sharp-edged. "Did he hit you again?"
"No."
"Sherlock?"
" No. He told me to leave, that's all. Like I said, his right. I'm not related to his daughter, he doesn't have to allow me access."
Lestrade stares for perhaps longer than he means, and Sherlock grows uncomfortable under his scrutiny. Under normal circumstances, he would say something scathing to get the attention off himself, to anger the DI long enough to gain his leave. But these aren't normal circumstances and his intellect seems to be bowing under the weight of The Other Thing. The grief and guilt and sorrow, evidence flags snapping in a smokey breeze.
"My guy's going to be a while," Lestrade says at last. "Why don't I pop up and check in on our Rosie-girl? Let you know how she's doing?"
"Yes," Sherlock promptly agrees. He nods perhaps more times than is necessary before catching himself.
Lestrade claps a hand on Sherlock's shoulder and retreats, and Sherlock resumes staring straight through his own reflection at the shape of the city.