STONE-Chapter 10-Turned to Stone(ReaderxSherlock)

WARNING: Slight gore, but not enough for a content label. If you don't like reading about blood, think twice before viewing.

A/N: And the full title is revealed...

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Also, I strongly recommend listening to this song: The Fray-How to Save a Life: www.youtube.com/watch?v=qw0wRf… Really listen to the lyrics (mostly the chorus). This is basically the theme song for this story. If you'd like to listen to it in the background, but don't like lyrics disrupting your reading, here's a string quartet version www.youtube.com/watch?v=jCy8x0…

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Chapter 10 - Turned to Stone

You roll your head around your neck as you try to loosen the stiffness in the muscles. You then extend your arms above you and your legs in front of you—wait, your ropes just fell off! You stand to observe this new revelation further and stretch the rest of your body as you do. You squint at your fingers through the black. Only ten! This isn't a dream! Can you actually just walk out of here?

You cautiously step forward, groping through the darkness as you try to find an edge of the room....There! You silently tap the metal. A solid wall. Now to find a door, or at least some type of exit. You glide your hands along the frigid aluminum, lifting them off every few minutes to regain feeling in your digits, and soon reach an even colder hinge. Your heart leaps a little in your chest once you find the handle and move it just the slightest to prove it's not locked. You pause.

This is too easy. Could this be a trap? They give you the impression you're safe to escape, and just when you least expect it, they drag you right back. But if Moriarty really meant it when he said your only way out was a body bag, then you have nothing else to do but try.

You halt once more before opening the gate that will soon choose your fate. Was Sherlock ever going to save you? Does he even care that you're gone? You don't know how much time has passed since you disappeared, but he should have been able to track down your location by now...shouldn't he? You stiffen your shoulders and back. This isn't about him at the moment. You need to get out of here.

You slowly slide the door open, avoiding any and all noise possible, and are blasted with a gust of the evening breeze. Great, snow. They could easily trace your path and find where you ran off. Once your eyes adjust from the great contrast of the black you were just in to the slightly brighter--but enough to give you a headache--white covering the dark ground, you see the blank canvas painted with hundreds of different footprints traveling every direction possible. It must not have snowed in a while. No fresh powder to hide everything. This could actually be easy. All you have to do is choose a set to step in and follow and it's like you were never here.

As carefully—and swiftly—as you can, you find a way through the maze of prints. You're about seven meters away from the building when a thunderous clap cracks the dry air. You just barely recognize the noise to be from a gun when something like a small thorn explodes in your abdomen. It shatters all balance from your legs, causing them to buckle underneath you. You hear someone yell your name as you drop to your hands and knees, grasping your bleeding midriff that's slowly flowing onto the snow. Being around guns your whole career, you'd gotten shot before, but that was in your arm. Nothing in your entire life had hurt as much as the searing pain you were feeling now.

A hand rests on your shoulder and you glance up to see Sherlock, mobile pressed to his ear, looking down at you with a mix of fear and concern in his eyes. Suddenly it's like you're drowning and you immediately start choking on whatever liquid is filling your lungs. You gag and spit the substance onto the ground as the foul taste of copper leaks into your mouth. Blood. Never before have you had so much of the scarlet fluid enveloping your tongue and throat...and you might just be sick.

Your vision blurs and shakes as you stare at the crimson splatters before you. You faintly hear Sherlock talking, but not to you, someone on his phone, as you can only discern half of the conversation. A clicking sound from the device tells you the call has ended and this time the detective kneels beside you, sliding his hand across your back to your other arm in a reassuring grip. "The paramedics are on their way." His thumb begins rubbing your shoulder in a circular motion; and you're not sure he knows he's doing it. "You'll... Can you walk?"

"Of course I can," you laugh bitterly. "I wasn't shot in the leg." As you say this, you raise one foot, shaking away his comforting hold. But once your other is lifted and you stretch to stand, you're overwhelmed with dizziness and begin a descent straight down and would have fallen flat on your face if Sherlock hadn't caught you just before your nose hit the ground. He twists you so that his left hand and knee are supporting your head and the rest of your body is lying straight across the snow. You open your mouth to speak but the words catch in your throat and you hack up blood again. He pulls off each of his wool gloves—one he has to tug off with his teeth because of the inability to use his left fingers—and presses them gently, but firmly, against your bullet wound, trying to soak up as much fluid as he can and also slow the bleeding.

"What a pathetic way to die," you finally croak with a forced smile.

"You aren't—" He swallows and jerks his face away from yours. "Just keep talking." He focuses back down to you as your eyes flicker dim. "And keep your eyes fixed on me." He cups your cheek and, a little forcefully, tilts your head so that your gazes meet. "You're stronger than this. I know you are."

There. Something in Sherlock's features changed. It was a small shift, but it was briefly prominent as he turned to you. Something in that sea of ice melted, revealing what you just can't place your finger on. You eventually regain your voice and try to speak as if you hadn't seen what you thought you saw.

"W-what strength?" you scoff, but your tone softens as you go on. "When I joined the police force, I had convinced myself I wasn't afraid of dying. That I wouldn't care. But Sherlock," Your speech turns to a whisper. "I'm scared."

Your eyelids grow suddenly heavy and you have a hard time keeping them up. You're probably tired because of how much you slept while tied to that chair. Without anything else to do in the dark, you did manage to catch up on sleep. But now you're not sure if that was a good thing; still feeling groggy with absolutely no energy when you should be full of it. The detective shakes you, hoping to break you from your haze. "No, you need—to stay—awake. A group of medical professionals will be here soon. _{Or at least they're supposed to be professionals.}" he mutters. You grin through reddened teeth.

As you relax your mouth, a small fleck of white floats down onto Sherlock's mop of curls. You barely lift the pale flesh in a smile again before more little puffs descend from the dark sky. "Snow," you murmur.

"Hm?"

"It's snowing." you casually state. He tilts his head up toward the gray clouds, watching the snowflakes fall around the two of you. Curling at the corners of his lips, he beams up at the winter weather. The flakes slowly collect in his hair, forming a sort of halo to frame his milky skin. Heh, it must be true then: People really do hallucinate before they die. As you admire the detective, you could swear he began to glow, like an angel or some kind of heavenly being.

A cold chill crawls its way through your spine and you involuntarily shiver. How could you have been so oblivious to have not thrown on a coat? It may not have mattered when you were fuming with embarrassment and anger, but now that you can't move to create heat and are bleeding out, you are freezing. Suddenly you become acutely aware of Sherlock's wool coat almost radiating warmth like a furnace. You're about to wiggle closer to the welcoming fabric, when a hand slides under your legs and the one that once supported your head shifts to your shoulders and lifts you into a bridal-styled hold. Your head tucks comfortably underneath Sherlock's chin as his arms wrap further around you, pulling you as close as physically possible to his chest. You almost ask why this sudden change in position but are silenced by a wave of heat that surrounds you. This is actually quite warm... The sound of his beating heart and steady pattern of inhales and exhales from his lungs soothes you and you soon realize you both are gently rocking back and forth.

"Sherlock, are you okay?" Though he doesn't reply in words, you hear his answer when a breath hitches in his throat and he clutches you tighter.

"The name—" His voice cracks and he then straightens his back as he draws in a deep gulp of air. "Do you still remember the name you tried to tell me before?"

Name? What nam— Oh, yeah. The man who kidnapped you. Your brain is becoming slower to process things. "M-Moriarty." you manage to mutter into Sherlock's jacket.

Just after you say that, the resounding ring of church bells floods your ears. It's so loud that it can be heard clearly but soft enough so that it's not annoying. "Aren't they beautiful?" you whisper with a smile.

"What?" He chokes on the word.

"The bells. Can't you hear them?"

"What are you—" He stops mid-sentence. He sucks in another shaky breath and buries his face into your hair.

Suddenly through your fogging mind you're able to detect a single shining thought. That subtle change in the detective's eyes you saw before: His pupils dilated when he looked back at you. Although you know he probably won't admit to it, you can at least deduce your own answers without his input.

Sherlock Holmes loves you.

Your sight begins to fade and you barely register the words caressing your eardrums as you slip into unconsciousness.

~Sherlock's POV~

I rub the pad of my thumb against the pale skin of (F/N)'s hand. It’s freezing to the touch, but I’m not searching for warmth. I just need to know she’s there. Not even the monotonous beeping of the heart monitor can convince me she’s alive. I slide my fingers to her wrist. Still a steady pulse remains. Through all of the chaos that’s been these last couple of days, this one, peaceful moment is enough to melt everything else away. Even this exceedingly uncomfortable chair is swept from my mind as I gaze upon her radiant and calm face. Lights from the window dance along the dark, hospital walls and decorate them with an array of colours, giving life to the dreary white. A nurse had tried three times to tell me that (F/N) is past any kind of critical stage and I should get some sleep. They even offered me a bed in one of the hospital visitor’s rooms but I ignored their efforts. Nothing will pry me from the girl I nearly lost. I'd stay up all night if I had to, to make sure she’s okay.

As the night drags on and (F/N) displays no signs of moving anytime soon, I shift into a better position on the seat, my fingers remaining laced with hers. I almost slip into what could be called rest when a strange pattern of sounds catches my ear. The heart monitor is producing a fast and offbeat rhythm of (F/N)’s pulse. I place my fingers on her neck. None of the beeps are accurate with her heart rate. Everything is still in order, so why is nothing worki—

I look up to the screen projecting her pulse and discover it’s no longer creating sharp arches, but instead, repeating the same stream of eight letters: M-O-R-I-A-R-T-Y

H-how is that possible? The machine is made to follow peaks and lines, not shapes, let alone letters. But how, of all words, could it spell out that name?

Out of the corner of my eye I see a figure in the room. I turn toward it out of instinct and am frozen in place. Right in front of the door stands a man in a black suit and scarlet tie. Though his face is shielded in darkness, a white, devilish grin shines through the black. I step toward the man but when I place my right foot ahead of me, the floor beneath it cracks. I glance up just in time to see the smile part into a maniacal laugh and the heart monitor flatline as the ground opens up underneath me and I plummet into the chasm.

I watch my entrance hole of light quickly shrink smaller and smaller until all I see are the shadows. Surrounding me is the straight, red line as it continues to alarm death and those eight, crimson letters: MORIARTY. Through the overwhelming buzzing rings the gong of chapel bells. A roar of laughter joins the chorus and I grip the sides of my head to block the sounds. The carillon gradually toll louder and louder and louder and louder. The noise becomes so chaotic that I finally squeeze my eyes shut and howl against the darkness, praying my brain will focus on my own voice and all of this will just disappear.

I launch myself off of my pillow, screaming and struggling for breath. I grasp my head when the phantom tone of the machine reverberates in my ears and I bury my face in the space between my knees. My body shudders involuntarily as I feel cold sweat trickle down my skin. The truth is impossible to run from, even in the comforts of a fake reality.

(F/N) is dead.

I climb from my bed and stretch my arm into the black underneath it. I pull back a single floorboard and lift out the case. I’ve done this so many times before, so why does this feel so different? I sit on the edge of the mattress and unravel the syringe from its bindings and turn it over in my hand. I was actually proud when I had came across this Victorian styled syringe. It appears as an antique but is still fully functioning. It would be so easy to make this pain go away. But, isn’t that pathetic? Finding relief at the end of a needle. And yet, it is the simplest route.

I smooth my thumb over the glass cylinder. So easy.

Suddenly memories from when I’d last held this device all compile into one place. Images of a needle clutched close to an arm, a woman standing in a doorway and soon shouting and running out of the room flash through my mind. This is the same object that caused (F/N) to get kidnapped. The same object...that caused her death.

I curl my fingers around the tube. If this bloody thing had never existed I might still have (F/N). I tighten my grip; the glass cracks under the pressure. This damned syringe!

The cylinder shatters in my hand and the shards slice and embed themselves into my skin. In my blind rage, I whip open the window of my bedroom and thrust the scattered remains out into the night. I don’t care where the pieces land or even if they hit someone. I just want anything to do with that away from me. I’m not aware of any pain until I gaze down at my now stained scarlet hand. The glass stick out at odd angles from my flesh; most shining a pink or red from the blood that’s painted them. I shuffle across the floor, cradling my bleeding hand, and resume my seat on my bed. I then allow myself to do something I hadn’t truthfully done in a very long time. Cry. I cry not because of the spreading flame of torment that’s consuming my whole arm, but because of her. I was— I am the reason she died.

As I pressed my gloves against her bullet wound (I’ll have to get a new pair now that the others are so thickly soaked with blood), I couldn’t ignore (F/N)’s face growing paler by the minute. I needed to keep her body as flat as possible so as to not squeeze any more fluid out of her than there already was, but did that make a difference? She had already lost quite a bit of blood and more continued gushing from her stomach.

She acknowledged she was dying. That hurt. But I couldn’t agree with her or tell her the opposite. I simply could not ignore the blatant facts. She told me she was scared. That hurt even worse. I wanted to comfort her, say she’d be fine, but I couldn’t soothe her with lies. I knew the paramedics wouldn’t arrive in time, but I had to try, at least. The only thing I could do to keep her alive was to keep her awake. If her soul gave up, her body would too.

I felt her shiver beneath me. Great, if she didn’t die from blood loss, she would from hypothermia. She couldn’t curl inward to protect herself from the cold because that would only increase the flow of liquids from her body. But did she still have a chance of survival? I disobeyed every logical statement streaming through my mind and lifted her into my arms. If she was to die, the least I could give her was comfort in her last moments. It was calming holding (F/N) close to my chest; it was almost natural to cradle her like that. I wished we could have remained that way forever, but some moments need to be broken.

I asked her again for the name of her captor. Moriarty I barely heard her mumble. I didn’t recognise the name but there had to be some information out there about them that I could use to track them down.

She then said she’d perceived the sound of bells. I could discern no such thing and was about to question what she meant when an old legend popped into my head. It was once a widely known story in Asia that the day you were to die, you would hear church bells ringing and no one else could hear them. That was the very phenomenon that was happening to (F/N). She could have been delirious—most people are before they die—but what could be the coincidence that she was hearing bells? It had to be proof she was fading.

I felt her breathing slow and clutched her tighter; hoping against hope I could tether her to the earth. I began whispering words, sentences to her but I don’t even know if she heard them. I muttered things like, Don’t leave me; I need you; Just hold on; but above all, I repeated multiple times, I love you. I wanted her to know that. I needed her to know. Even if she died in my arms right then, I needed her to know that I, Sherlock Holmes, love (F/N) (L/N).

Red and blue lights flashed across the white ground and wall of the warehouse but I didn’t turn around. It wasn’t until the soft crunch of snow and a voice (‘Sir, are you alright?’) wafted from behind me that I actually moved. I walked through a daze as my feet lifted and fell automatically. They placed (F/N)’s bagged body in the ambulance and I watched as it silently drove away. No lights or siren signalled a possible life inside the vehicle. The first person I’d ever truly loved was slowly drifting farther and farther from me.

A bell chimed in the distance. Thankfully I recognised the tone and counted the rings. It was Christmas Day.

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It was then that a heart was turned to stone.
A cold, dark wind swept over the soul,
Blocking all warmth from entering again.
Why try to love if it is turned to grief?
But even in the blackest abyss,
A single flame may brighten a whole room.
And yet, a tree must sacrifice itself
to bring that light and heat to someone.
But who could tell that to the soldier who was shot?

---

I stride through the halls of St. Bart’s, completely ignoring any and all bystanders. I have one destination and I swiftly make my way to it. I burst through the double doors of the morgue, causing Molly to squeak in shock.

‘Is (F/N) (L/N) on your list?’ I ask and she immediately shuffles through the papers on her clipboard.

'Y-yes,' she stammers, a bit sceptical.

'Could you wheel her out for me?'

'Why? All the paperwork's been sent through. They're going to cremate the body later today and ship it to America.'

'Exactly. So would you, please?' Molly frowns but does as I requested. She unzips the black bag and pulls back the corner to reveal (F/N)’s ashen face. Every part of her still looking just as perfect as when she was alive. She appears to be at peace but at the same time, completely devastated. It takes me a few moments to realise I’ve been staring long enough and I clear my throat.

'How much of a difference would it make in the quantity of ash if a bone was missing?'

---

Turning the skull over in my bandaged hand, I inspect the contours of the bone further. Molly was quite shocked by my request but complied anyway only after asking why I'd want a female skull and why from this girl. I ignored her questions and she left the room in a huff, mumbling to herself something with the word 'morbid'. I set the skull on the highest ledge of my bookshelf, angling it thirty degrees from the wall. She—it actually makes a nice decoration. No one will question it then.

Suddenly someone is rapping against the door. It takes me a tenth of a second to recognise the knock. Mycroft. He did always have the same, dull pattern of taps. I groan as I step to the entrance of my flat, flipping the handle and frowning while I open the door. ‘What do you want?' Blunt. It's the only way to get to the point of the matter with him.

'I can't even be privileged with a proper greeting from my own brother?' He smiles, attempting to hide his annoyed tone.

'No. Why are you here?’ I grip the edge of the wooden frame, preparing to close it at a moment’s notice.

'To see how you are getting along.’

'I'm fi—‘

‘How was your Christmas?’ He pushes his way past me and slips off his coat as he seats himself in one of my chairs. He isn’t just asking how I’ve been; he came here with a purpose. He knows something. ‘It must have been quiet with no contact whatsoever with any of our family.’

‘It was fine. Completely normal,’ I lie, sill standing next to the door, refusing to ease into a long conversation.

‘Really? Because I’ve received information that it may not have been so “normal” as you say.’ He crosses his legs. How much does he know? ‘I was told the Legal Attachés  are short one agent now. It was also mentioned the agent’s name was (F/N) (L/N), who had been missing for two days prior to being shot one late night on the twenty-fourth of December. But what intrigued me the most was that a “Sherlock Holmes” had dialled 999 forty minutes before she died. And the same man was reported to have been holding her when paramedics and police arrived.’ He folds his hands. ‘Is there something you would like to explain to me, Sherlock?’

‘No.’ I press my lips into a thin line. Of all the people in the world, why does it have to be Mycroft who’s first to interrogate me? He definitely will not be getting any answers. He must notice this thought cross my mind, however, and backs down with a sigh.

He scans the interior of my flat as something to do while he formulates a new topic to discuss when his eyes stop at something on the opposite side of the room. ‘You have a skull now?’

I should have placed it somewhere less obvious.

‘Yes,’ I drone.

‘A female skull?’

‘A human skull.’

He beams another one of his patronising fake-smiles and rises to retrieve his coat. ‘I hope I only have to tell you this once.’ He says while sliding an arm into a sleeve. ‘Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock. It never has and if one day it is, I’ll be the first to see it.’

With a grim bid of farewell, Mycroft strides out of the flat and I slam the door behind him. What a way to start the day.

---

Not three hours later, there comes scrapes of heavy shuffles from the hall. I raise my head from the arm of the settee. It’s not just one pair of feet or even two, but several different sets, all treading with some type of large weight. They all are travelling slowly to the right and then faster back to the left. Carrying things out, then. There aren’t any other flats toward the left except for (F/N)’s so they must be clearing out all of her items. I try to ignore the noise and resume my original position but the thunderous trek of shoes across the floor grows so loud and annoying I can’t concentrate. I leap up toward my door to complain but just as I pull the gate open, a silver haired man is standing on the other side with a fist raised. Lestrade.

‘Oh, hey, Sherlock,’ he greets with a shy grin while lowering his hand. ‘I was just going to check if you were here.’

‘Why?’ I inquire after two men pass behind him holding a large crate. ‘Is there a new case or are you just “seeing how I’m getting along” like Mycroft? If it’s the latter, I’m perfectly okay.’

‘Either one of those would work, but they weren’t my first intention.’ He lifts a small, gold-wrapped box. ‘Your name is on this. Probably a Christmas gift (F/N) never got to...’ His voice trails off as he finds the subject still too delicate to speak about. ‘Well here you go. And happy belated-Christmas, Sherlock.’ He hands me the present but then draws his brows together in bewilderment.

‘What happened to your hand?’ Lestrade questions.

I hastily tuck my wrapped appendage from sight. ‘Nothing.’

‘Looks like a lot of plaster for “nothing”,’ he says with a hint of annoyance. ‘Are you sure you’ve been “okay” these last couple of days?’

‘Yes, fine.’

He resigns with a sigh and manoeuvres around a desk that’s dragged through the corridor. He provides a final sentence before departing: ‘If you're able, would you stop by Scotland Yard in an hour? I have a few questions, if you’re interested.’

I simply nod and flee into my flat. I examine the carefully adorned box closer as I sit on my sofa. Golden paper splattered with glitter, a violet bow perched on the top, a tag attached written in fluent manuscript: To: Sherlock   From: (F/N), and tucked underneath the ribbon lay a note:

I hope you enjoy this. I’m terrible at finding presents for people. But you, especially, were difficult. Maybe it’s because you sort of have that ‘air’ about you that says you’re picky of things others give you.
Well, first I want to tell you, you are the most interesting, most enigmatic man I have, and probably ever will have, met. You are extraordinarily intelligent and definitely right to be a detective. Please continue to do what you love and are very good at, even when I’m not there to congratulate and encourage you.
Now, don’t expect this gift to be something fancy or expensive. This is probably more sentimental than it is ornate. But, the best gifts are from the heart...isn’t that what people say? I just think you always look a little cold whenever we’re outside and I hope this can at least help you stay warm.
Merry Christmas, Sherlock
~(F/N)

A mysterious drop of liquid splashes onto the paper. Where it came from, I have no idea, but it seemed to have rolled off of my face. I may have to ask about the pipes later.

I tug the purple ribbon loose and remove the lid of the box. I slowly unfold the item inside with shaking hands, stretching it out between my arms.

(F/N)’s deep blue coloured scarf.

Why would she give me something of hers? She was right: this is a very sentimental gift. The longer I stare at the beautiful fabric and run my fingers along the soft fibres, the more memories emerge from the far corners of my mind. The first time we met and she told me I was amazing. The first moment we realised we’d be working side-by-side in cases. The way she coddled me and frantically tended to my small wound after she’d cut my cheek without knowing it was me. Her bright smile when we walked together admiring the fairy lights and other decorations hanging from the buildings and street lamps, the snow collecting perfectly in her (h/c) hair to form a crown of ice. How soft and warm her skin was under my lips....And the tears that fell from her eyes as she sprinted out of my flat. The way she looked so peaceful even after death. And the small part of her that remains sitting on my bookshelf.

I gaze up at the skull with blurred vision. My eyes blink automatically to focus and I feel another liquid stream down my face. I then smother myself in the scarf, (F/N)’s familiar scent filling my senses and eventually relieving me altogether.

I was never able to conjure up a ‘true cold reason’ as to why I’d chosen to ignore love in the past; always convincing myself there was a reason. But now I really do. I’d constantly be reminded while working cases how much a dangerous disadvantage love is, but I hadn’t imagined I myself would be blinded by it in such a way. I had always been alone before I met (F/N) and it was just...safer. Alone is what I had, and it protected me. How could I have abandoned that shelter, only to be betrayed by the one emotion I had vowed never to explore further? Of course I’ve felt love before. I have to love my mother and father and even...Mycroft, but never had I wanted to display that affection to someone whom I have no close relations to. Why is love so adored by people when all it’s left me is pain and sorrow? ...Maybe having a girlfriend just isn’t my area.

Snowflakes drift from the sky outside and silently tap the window, alerting me of the time. I glance at my watch. It’s close enough to the time Lestrade requested; I better get going. I shrug my coat onto my shoulders and absentmindedly turn to (F/N)’s skull, watching the small, white puffs descend behind it. I smile and pull on my new, leather gloves but pause at the door. I wrap (F/N)’s scarf around my neck, relishing in the comforting warmth of the dark fabric, and stride out of my flat.

Maybe this all could be summarised better in the words of Leonardo da Vinci: ‘Our life is made by the death of others.’