A/n: Sorry about being MIA for a while, but I've been really busy between going to London, and writing everything else, and becoming a Wattpad Fanfic Representative (so if you have any problems, feel free to flip me a message and I'll do the best I can to help you!) I have to admit, I've been trying to avoid writing this until I figured out WHAT ON EARTH I WAS DOING WITH THIS but figured since my birthday's on the fourth of August, and I enjoy giving presents more than receiving them, I'd sit down and write this. Enjoy.
CHAPTER TWELVE: IT'S ALWAYS SHERLOCK'S FAULT
Before anyone could react, the windows caved inwards. It was as though someone had punched through them in an explosion of fire and smoke, tearing the room in two. Glass shards embedded themselves into every available surface—the walls, the now overturned desk, and any exposed skin. Charlie, Sherlock, Amelia, and John were thrown against the opposite wall by the force. Alarms blared, shrieking into the chaos and drowned out by the horrified screams of people below. Charlie lay in the corner of the room, blood trickling from a gash in her forehead, and Sherlock alongside her. Neither of them seemed to be breathing.
Amelia's voice was hoarse, like sandpaper grinding against stone. She wouldn't have been surprised if she had inhaled a mouthful of rock dust—she could taste the grit on her tongue. "John?" She struggled to get up, only to fail as she saw what was stopping her. There was a long, metal beam lying across her chest, and with every wheezing breath she took, it put more pressure on her cracked ribs. She let out an agonised groan as she tried to move it, then leaned back, abandoning hope.
"Ames?" came John's voice through the haze of smoke and ash. Emerging from the rubble, he rushed over to her side, faltering as he saw the beam across her chest. "Oh my God... Right, stay calm, okay?"
She laughed, voice pained. "It's times like these that I'm thankful you were an army doctor." She coughed as she inhaled smoke. "I'm conscious. I don't know if Sherlock or Charlie are. You need to check them first. I'll be okay." Even she didn't believe her own lie.
"You have a metal beam lying on top of you."
"Trust me: it isn't the worst thing I've had on top of me. I'm pretty sure some of my exes take that title."
"Ames, now isn't the time for this." John reprimanded, rushing over to Charlie and Sherlock, bending down alongside them, trying to see if they were breathing. A large patch of blood was starting to grow on the back of John's shirt, seeping through the fabric and causing it to cling to his skin.
Though her head pounded, and her tongue felt heavy, Amelia managed to get out a, "John, you're bleeding."
"I'm fine." he insisted, scuffling back to Amelia. "Right, on my count we'll lift this beam, okay?" Amelia took in a deep, shuddering breath and nodded. "On three." John braced his hands under the beam, "One...Two...Three."
With a great big heave, the crushing weight on Amelia's chest was lifted, and she found herself suddenly able to breathe again. Her ribs creaked with every motion, threatening to overwhelm her, and drag her mind into the comfort of darkness. Her head still swimming, she asked, "What happened?"
"Building across the street exploded." John answered, struggling to get to his feet. "Damn, that hurt. Can you walk?"
"I think so." Amelia pushed herself to her feet, trying to ignore the stabbing pains in her chest. As soon as she spoke, she fell to her knees, retching. The back of her throat burned as acid made its way up her throat, and as soon as her vomiting had quelled, she wiped the red-tinged saliva from her mouth, dragging crumbles of concrete across her face. "Maybe not."
John crouched alongside her, hand on her shoulder. "I'll go get some help. Will you be okay?"
Sirens wailed in the distance, becoming louder with every passing moment, cutting the destruction as though it were a cleaver cutting through bone; breaking the horrified screams as though they were nothing more than a stick a child had found in a park. It jolted Amelia's dazed mind, briefly bringing her back to reality, but the urge to collapse was starting to become tempting. Lilith herself was whispering her ear, crooning to her to relinquish control.
"Yeah." Amelia nodded once, eyes drifting closed as nausea overwhelmed her. "Go. I'll be okay."
And that was when she passed out.
♠
When Amelia came to, he was sitting there as if nothing had happened. Unlike the last time she had seen him, he was now smartly dressed in a bespoke suit, dark blonde hair slicked back. One leg was crossed over the other, and his leather-clad feet made small circles in the air. His sharp eyes scanned a newspaper, although she doubted that he was reading it, only glancing at it for something to do. Amelia reached up to touch her throbbing head, wincing when her fingertips came in contact with cloth bandaging.
"I wouldn't if I were you." said Sebastian Moran without looking up. "Wouldn't want to make it worse, isn't that right, dear?"
"I was never your dear." she said, her mouth far too dry and voice cracking because of it. She coughed, trying to clear plaster dust from her mouth. She remembered bits and pieces of what had happened—flashes of light, searing flames, and screaming, oh God, the screaming she could hear. She wanted to put her hands over her ears, still able to hear the shrieks of the dying and the echoes of the dead's, and she couldn't do anything to make it stop. It rang in her ears, and suffocated all other noises. She saw Sebastian's lips move, but heard nothing besides more screaming. She closed her eyes, attempting to clear her chaotic thoughts. "Sorry?"
"I said you were always Jim's dear, weren't you?" Sebastian repeated, pouring a glass of water and handing it to Amelia.
She eyed it, warily.
"Well, I haven't poisoned it, if that's what you're worried about." Sebastian said, perching on the edge of her bed, Amelia flinching away from him. "I have more decency than to kill an injured woman in a hospital. How's your ribs?"
Amelia stuck her hand out, reaching for the glass of water, but lowered it when her ribs screamed in agony. "They're fine." she said, ignoring the pain and reaching for the water once again.
He raised an eyebrow as she struggled to sit up, and began to sip the water. "You're lying."
She swallowed, mouth still dry but wet enough to speak and have her voice not crack on every word. "Obviously." she said. "Were you behind the uh..." She trailed off, unable to think of the word. Her head throbbed harder.
"The explosion." Sebastian finished. "Obviously." Even through her daze, she could tell that he was mocking her. "Don't worry about not knowing the word. You have a mild concussion." He got to his feet, straightening his suit as he made his way over to the nurse's notes by the door. "As well as a fractured arm, three broken ribs, and internal bleeding in the abdominal region." He looked over his shoulder back at her. "Sorry about that, I was aiming for Sherlock. Guess I missed."
"How badly is he hurt?" she asked him, breaking into a fit of coughs. He was by her side in an instant, fretting over her. She pushed him away, secretly glad that despite all he was doing, he was still concerned about her.
Sebastian caught his momentary lack of weakness, and took a step back.
She almost missed him.
Almost.
"Sherlock?" said Sebastian. "Not very. He's better off than you are. I believe he was unconscious for a while. Sprained a foot, and has a bit of a fractured skull. John's the best of the lot of you. Got some abrasions, and that's it. He's been all bandaged up, should be out walking in no time. Sherlock should recover sooner than you will."
"And Charlie?"
Sebastian looked surprised. "You're concerned about the woman who drew you up to her office just so I could blow up the building across? That's awfully...empathetic of you. I'd have thought that you would agree with Sherlock by now, and think that 'empathetic, in itself, says pathetic.'" He dropped his voice to match Sherlock's baritone, a scowl on his lips.
"I'm not Sherlock." she said.
He turned his head towards the door but glanced at her out of the corner of his eyes. "Don't you think I know that? After all we've been through, Amelia, give me some credit. I'm willing to be that I know more about you than Sherlock or John do."
"I wouldn't bet against it." she replied. "But how is Charlie? Really?"
"She's fine. Broke her collarbone. She'll be fine soon enough." Sebastian stepped towards her and sat down on the edge of her bed, looking her in the eyes. "I don't have much time left, I'm afraid, so I'll have to be blunt. You know what's coming, and you know that you'll have to pick a side. Sherlock can't be allowed to live. He'll die by my hands, or by someone else's, or he'll disappear, never to be seen again, and we both know what that means. A war is brewing, Amelia, and you're caught in the middle of it. You know what I have to do, and you know you can't stop me. Each of us has been sentenced to die, and it's not about escaping death any more, it's about who is last to the guillotine, and who we can take down with us. So, question is, who are you going to destroy?"
"If you lay a single finger on him," she said in a low voice, "you."
"Have you chosen then? What side you're on?"
"Oh, Sebastian," she said, eyes downcast. "You know my answer."
He chuckled bitterly. "Yes, I suppose I do. I should have guessed that ensuring you met Charlie was a bad idea. You two are so similar. Only ever playing for yourselves, but that's not going to get you very far, Amelia. Someday, you'll want to settle down, to have someone to love you and to love them back. Maybe even have children. You'll want a life outside of this, and I can tell you right now, out of all of us, John, Mary, Rachel, Sherlock, Mycroft, Charlie, Sherrinford, and myself, you're the only one with any chance at escaping the knife. You're on the razor's edge, certainly, but you still have a chance. Don't waste it." His phone began to beep over and over again in his breast pocket, and he pulled it out, only to press a button and have the beeping cease. "I'm afraid that's my cue. I have to be going, but remember what I said, Amelia. You have a chance, and on behalf of all of us that don't, don't waste it." He picked up a broad brimmed navy hat, placing it atop his head as he left, skirting around a nurse wheeling in a patient in a wheelchair.
"You look like shit." Amelia remarked as the nurse wheeled Sherlock closer.
He laughed breathily, unable to take in enough air for it to seem natural. "So do you." Gauze similar to her own was wrapped around his head, pulling his curls away from his face. It seemed odd, seeing him like this. Confined to a small chair, looking frailer and weaker than ever. The Sherlock she knew was so strong, so vibrant, and here he was. Bruised, battered—beaten.
How was there any way that any of them would come out of this alive? She wasn't sure if she could think of one possible way that someone didn't end up dead. The only thing Sherrinford had against John was Mary, which meant that if Mary died, John, Sherlock, and she would be free. But that meant John was alone. Again. Mourning the woman who had saved him after what had happened with Sherlock. Amelia hadn't had someone that had been Mary to her, and she had suffered agony for three years. She couldn't take that away from John. Removing John would allow for Mary, the unborn child, Sherlock, and Amelia to do as they pleased, but losing John would be just as painful as losing Sherlock. Now, Sherlock could die, leaving Mary, John, and Amelia free to go, but then...but then Sherlock would be dead, and Amelia wasn't sure if she would be able to stop herself from following him, unlike last time. The only logical thing she could think of was taking Sebastian down herself. Sherlock was stronger than she was, and had functioned perfectly well without her before they'd met, and John could keep his fiancée and child. Everyone else would be safe.
But then Amelia would be a martyr.
She was always the self-sacrificing type, always thinking that her life was never worth as much as anyone else's, but somehow, this time, she imagined that she would be missed. If people had been asked if they would miss her if she died five years ago, the answer would be a resounding "no." Even John would've grieved her death, as any brother would do, but he wouldn't miss her. Amelia didn't know what to do, so she did what she always did: she deflected it.
"Don't you know never to tell your fiancée that?" she said.
"I think, after all we've been through, I can afford to." said he.
"It's not just a matter of being able to afford to, but whether or not I'll have your head for saying it." she said, a coy smile on her lips.
"Not sure how much my head is worth in this condition." he muttered. "Couldn't even sell it on the black market."
"Because you would know." Amelia said, giggling. Why was she giggling? She wasn't five. She blamed it on the medicine coursing through her veins. She imagined that it couldn't be too easy for Sherlock, given his past, being in a hospital and drugged up. She went to ask him if he was fine, but decided against it, knowing that Sherlock was too stubborn to give her a straight answer. "My head's just as bad, thanks for asking."
"Yes, well, I was trying to avoid talking about that." Sherlock said, wringing his hands. "Charlie is my sister. I should've seen it coming."
"I don't blame you about Charlie." she said.
"No?"
"No, I just blame you about everything." she said with a smile. "Because, most times, it is your fault. Well, actually, it always is, because you always seem to be at the centre of everything."
He laughed, shaking his head. "I suppose I am. Must be because everyone loves me."
The nurse, who'd been tidying Amelia's room, snorted.
"I couldn't agree more." Amelia said, looking to her. She glanced back to Sherlock, Sebastian's words running through her mind. She fell silent, swallowing as she tried to not let it get to her. There were so many things that could go wrong in the upcoming weeks, and Amelia couldn't help but worry over them. As much as she despised to admit it, Sebastian was right. "Have you been eating, Sherlock? You look...gaunt."
"I've been eating perfectly well, thank you." he said under his breath.
"I don't believe you."
The nurse looked at her over the top of her glasses, eyebrows raised. "And with good reason too," she said, "because he hasn't been eatin', I have you know. Are you comfortable, Mrs Holmes? Do your bandages need to be changed?"
"No, no, I'm perfectly well, thank you." Amelia insisted with a dismissive wave of her hand.
"Oh, don't be silly." the nurse tutted, lifting Amelia up to rearrange the pillows. "How uncomfortable this must be! Can I can get you anything? Food? Drink? Something to read? Putting up with this one as your husband surely deserves my respect."
"He's not my husband." Amelia said.
Sherlock smirked. "Not yet, anyway." Amelia didn't have the heart to tell him that if Sebastian won, there wouldn't be the time to have a wedding, and Sherlock didn't take a moment to consider this possibility as he gazed upon his fiancée, thinking that as soon as this was all over, and once they were out of the hospital, life could return to what it was before the dreadful events of St Bart's. Chances were, one of them was going to end up dying, and this time, there wouldn't be any faking it.