"I thought.... I thought he was making that up. Or that it was somehow distorted...."
"It's true."
Molly stared out across a desolate field, wistfully following the glimmers of sunlight against the foliage with her eyes.
He attempted to ignore the bitter taste on his tongue as he continued rapidly. "I figured if I caused a bit of a ruckus I'd be sent home and all would be well. I had to time it perfectly; directly after the last block of the day, our science professor would go for a quick stroll in the courtyard and light up a pipe. He was always gone for a quarter of an hour. On that day, I hovered outside the lab as he left, and snuck back in. But I was seen, by a boy two years my junior."
"Sebastian," she whispered, and he nodded.
"He didn't know what I was up to, and I was desperate to keep it that way. I felt like this was my only way out of my private hell." His voice was pleading, begging her to understand. She inclined her head to him, signaling to continue. "He asked me why I was still in the class. I made up an excuse, saying I hadn't finished my lab study, and I was trying to sneak it in before the professor returned."
'Sherlock? What are you still doing here?' The boy smiled quizzically, wandering into the room. He clutched his book bag tightly against him, self-conscious in front of his idol.
For the last four months, he'd worshipped the Holmes' boys from afar. They were so proud, carrying themselves like royalty. Students and teachers alike would stop what they were at and watch the young men walk by. They excelled academically, quick studies at nearly everything. The eldest was formidable, he reminded Seb of a sleeping dragon. Calm on the surface, quiet and distant, but ready. Always ready, always fully capable of raining down fire upon anyone who provoked him.
The younger was a little different. Sebastian felt drawn to him. The boy was a walking storm: reckless and wild, out of control. Where his brother kept his composure, Sherlock flew off the handle. His moods were intense, scaring people off. Mycroft had a few followers, not necessarily friends, but companions. Sherlock was alone. If asked, he would insist that was the way he preferred it. Seb had the distinct impression that this was a lie.
He saw a slight glimmer of anxiety in Sherlock's eye before receiving an answer. 'I, I hadn't finished my lab study, earlier. I thought I'd finish now, while the professor is out. Didn't want him knowing it was coming in late, he might not accept it, you know?'
"I asked him to pretend he hadn't seen me, to keep it a secret. Told him I didn't want to fail the lesson."
Seb laughed, nodding at the explanation. 'I understand,' he replied with a smile.
Sherlock relaxed slightly, but his eyes still darted from Seb to the door. 'Listen, could you pretend you didn't see me? I need to get this done in the next thirteen minutes.'
A favour? Sebastian nearly split his face from smiling. 'Sure thing, mate. I'll see you around?' The lilt in his voice was hopeful. Sherlock nodded, forcing an awkward smile onto his face.
'Yeah. Thanks, Moran. I owe you.'
"I didn't have an extensive knowledge of chemicals back then," he admitted, a shadowy expression on his face. The golden glow on the horizon reflected in his face, making a stark contrast. "I had planned to cause temporary chaos, not permanent damage. I set everything up properly, but the mixture was wrong. Unstable.
"Moments before the explosion," he continued, his voice strained, "he came back."
He'd walked halfway down the hallway before realizing he'd left his book bag on the desk. As he turned back, he chastised himself. Why did he put it down? He never did that. He stepped through the door to the lab again, calling out a greeting. 'Sherlock, it's just me,' he started. 'I forgot my-'
The light came first. White, painful light hit his eyes, stabbing through his pupils straight to the back of his skull. A searing heat swallowed him as he reached his hand out to grab his bag. He watched the fabric singe in front of him as if played on half speed. The burns climbed up the satchel toward him, reaching his fingers before he could register what was happening.
Then the noise.
The boom of fire shook the walls, raging all at once and out of nowhere. It was as if the flames had always been there. They burned with furious intensity, devouring the desks and biting at the ceiling. There was a shrieking noise from the core of the room, hissing and popping from the chemicals that initiated the disaster.
'SHERLOCK!', he screamed, his voice barely registering over the rushing blaze. Through the bursts of flame, he caught a glimpse of the younger Holmes boy, his face a mask of fear. Sebastian stumbled to the floor, howling at the burning skin on his arm. He struggled to stand, swaying dangerously amidst the disintegrating furniture. A sudden splintering of overheated glass sounded across the room, one of the cabinets exploding. Rogue shards of glass sliced his skin, chemicals spitting and bubbling lit his uniform on fire. Desperately he tore his jacket off, crying out in agony as the fabric ripped from his skin where it had burned on. He felt with horrific detail the violent embrace of the fire across his throat, choking out his screams as he crumbled to his knees. Twisted and bloody, with streaks of molten chemicals consuming him alive, he gave up on escape and begged for death.
Molly shuddered hard, rubbing her arms as the story gave her physical symptoms. Sherlock stayed between 3 and 3.5 feet away from her as they walked, face down and eyes unfocused. She didn't want him to continue. She felt sick hearing the story. Deep down, though, she knew it had to be told. "What happened afterward?", she asked softly.
He flinched at her voice like he'd been slapped. This was literally the last thing he wanted to talk about, with anyone, ever. How much more so when it was Molly listening. What must she think of me? He cringed, knowing exactly how she must feel toward him. The same way he felt, the same way Seb felt, and Jim, and Anderson, and Donovan, and anyone who'd ever met him. Still, he continued. She deserved the truth, no matter what it ruined for him.
"I dragged him out of there. Pulled him into the safety shower, turned the damn thing on. It didn't do much good. It seemed to make it worse. He screamed and sobbed, convulsing with anguish that I inflicted. There were people everywhere. Streaming through the halls, shouting to each other, running for water. It seemed hours before someone noticed me shouting for a medic."
Sherlock's desperation rang in his voice as he called out. The school medics ran through the crowds to find the two boys, gasping in horror at the sight of Moran. They ordered a hovering student to call for an ambulance, quickly going to work at quelling the ongoing burns. Seb had become delirious, unaware of life outside of pain.
Sherlock sat at the head of the stretcher on the ride to the hospital, slapping away hands that tried to heal him. He shouted to fix Seb, help Seb. His lip was gashed from flying glass, blood dripping down his chin and neck. He wrung his hands, pulled at his hair. He pointed to patches of Sebastian's body they hadn't paid attention to yet, trying to correct any loose bandages, grabbing at the salve to apply it. Finally a paramedic pushed him back. 'Let us do our job,' he commanded, turning his back to the boy. He crumpled to the floor of the vehicle, tears streaming down his battered face.
"We got to the hospital and they took him away, wouldn't let me see him. I lied, told them I was his brother, but they already knew who I was.
He pleaded to be let in the room, brokenly telling the nurse it was his fault, that he needed to be in there. She tried to calm him, but he only became wilder.
Eventually she had him escorted to the waiting room by an immense security guard, assuring him she would come to keep him updated. He was left in an empty room, the smell of stale coffee in the air. Infuriated and full of self loathing, he began pacing, stopping suddenly to punch the wall. He smashed his knuckles into it over and over, sobbing as he caused as much damage to himself as he could. Unable to continue, he sagged against the now broken and bloody drywall, sliding down to lay on the ground.
'Sherlock? Oh God, Sherlock!' Mycroft walked through the door and quickly dropped to his knees, pulling his broken brother into his arms. The younger burst into fresh tears at the atypical kindness, clinging to Mycroft's jacket.
'Sherlock, you're hurt, why haven't you been treated?' He gazed suddenly up at his big brother, a strange resolve in his eyes.
'Help me die, Mycroft.'
