Promises Series

Promise of Home - Not Your Fault

The title of this chapter is "Not Your Fault" by Awolnation.

Sherlock bolted upright, his heart beating frantically in his ears. He rubbed his forehead and sighed. He'd been having quite enough nightmares, he decided. He'd seen too much blood and death to be having these visions.

He could control his mind. He knew it. So why did he wake in a cold sweat almost every other night?

Sherlock was always too late to save them. Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Julia, John. There were all better off without him. He tried and tried to get to them, to save them, but he couldn't run fast enough. His legs were lead, and his feet stuck to the ground. He cried out as Jim Moriarty, blood still pouring from his mouth, slammed the heavy steel door in Sherlock's face.

There was blood on his hands, so much blood, and he couldn't get it off. He scrubbed at his fingers furiously, and when that didn't work, he tried to peel the blood away from his skin. The flesh came away easily, but the blood was still there. It soaked into his muscles, blood mixing with blood until there was no distinguishing whose was whose.

He dug his hands into his hair and screamed, the sound tearing its way out of his throat.

He'd woken up then. Sherlock took a deep breath and attempted to calm his racing heartbeat. Obviously, it had been a dream. He realized he had been scratching his wrist and sat on his hands. Sherlock feared he had woken up Julia, but when no outside noise was heard, he relaxed and fell back on his pillows. There would be no getting back to sleep for him tonight.

Sherlock decided to make himself some tea and catch up on some medical journals he was reading. He was beginning to feel relatively peaceful when he noticed a girl's soft mumbling and the thump of a pillow hitting the floor. He cursed the thin walls of their flat and stood to begin playing his violin.

A high-pitched scream stopped his heart cold.

Sherlock hurtled up the stairs and knocked loudly on Julia's bedroom door. The only answer was a loud wail. He opened the door and walked in slowly. Julia was lying on her back, her hands clutching the sheets at her sides. Tears ran down the sides of her face and wetted her hair. Her chest was heaving, and she gasped great, violent sobs.

"Julia," Sherlock snapped. "Julia, wake up."

He rested a hand on her shoulder, but she yelped and jerked back. Sherlock grabbed both her wrists and closed his hands around hers. He tried to remember what he'd read on those damn useless websites.

"It's fine. It's all right. I won't let them hurt you. I'm here. I'm right here with you," he said. "Come on, Julia. Follow my voice. Can you do that for me?"

The girl's eyes cracked open, but she continued to sob. She took one look at Sherlock and launched herself into his arms, crying on his dressing gown. Julia's fingers dug into his back. Sherlock awkwardly put his arms around her.

"They- were there a-and they had my hands tied- tied down and..."

"I won't let them hurt you," Sherlock whispered.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she repeated. "I'm sorry I ruined everything."

"You didn't."

"Yes, I have. Everything," she cried.

"Why do you keep saying that?"

"Because it's true! My mother had me when she was a teenager. She could've gone to university if I hadn't been born. She could've done something else. She could've become a doctor or an accountant or an actual florist. Sh-She should've given me up for adoption at least," Julia rambled. "If I hadn't come to Baker Street with you, Mary never would have tried to kill either of you! If I had just killed myself when I had the chance-"