The Crossovers (Shielded: Book 2)

Chapter 18

John's Entry

I'm so sorry to have had to cut that chapter short... if you must know, we did go off to America for a day, and they did capture the fugitive. It was an easy find for Sherlock and May. This was a very important catch for them; it got them access to a list of the smartest people on earth, where they work, and their entire background. The legality of how exactly they managed this after that case is definitely questionable, but I do know that it put May at ease. She no longer had to involve herself in the change of dimensions. With this list it was clear that only seven series, including Sherlock, had merged. Each including a number of geniuses. May is known to the world, and these people soon reached out to her, forming a sense of alliance of the intellectually inclined. Though, More pressing things have happened.

May's writing had almost caught up completely with our lives, but there was one last thing that happened only weeks after the predicament with the Chinese. It hurts for me to say that May was shot. She was in the bedroom with Sherlock, and a bullet shot through her side from the window. We were told that they didn't even make it to the hospital before the punctured lung and bleeding had gotten way out of hand. They had gotten her to the the operating room as soon as they arrived at the hospital. Sherlock wasn't even allowed in the ambulance. After that, We hadn't heard any news of it for days... they wouldn't allow anyone near her. Even with all Sherlock's attempts to contact her, he hadn't succeeded a single time. She was officially announced dead last night, but I know better. They say that she didn't even make it off the operating table. There's going to be an organized burial. Not to mention, Sherlock has an eye for catching things that weren't meant to be seen. For example, FBI. Federal agents. Undercover. What were US officials doing here, in England? Let alone outside her operating room?

It's a cover. Sherlock knows very well she's not dead, but he's denying it. I know he doesn't want to get his hopes up, knowing it's easier to just believe that she's dead, and for her to really be it. I know he knows, past the logical explanation, forgetting the rational and the technical; this is his feeling. He almost said it. Almost admitted. In the end, he just stopped talking about it. In fact, he practically stopped talking all together. Being his rational self, he couldn't hold onto something like this. At least... he didn't want to appear like he's holding onto her. To you, May. I know you're out there. I know that wherever you are, you're going to purchase your book. You're going to want to know how it ends. The truth is, I'm not ending it. This is not my story to call an end to it. I can't offer closure, for even I do not know May's true fate. Sherlock refused to write. All I can say, although knowing that May would hate to hear me say it, I do have faith that she will return. Faith isn't something she holds onto very strongly, or even at all... This may be the end of this story, but it is not the end of it all. I want to believe she's alive, and Sherlock says that's foolish of me.

This book will be published soon, leaving me little time to convince Sherlock to write. I have tried my best so far, and I will continue to try. For now, I will keep this book off the shelves for as long as I can in order to prolong my time convincing Sherlock. I truly believe he needs to write, and not just for the sake of having written something. I want him to really say what he thinks. His deductions. The real ones. The ones about why her treatment was so secretive. How he realized those men around the operating room weren't any ordinary men. How he knew the exact content of that mysterious letter that May received, and told us not to worry about... come to think of it, she didn't mention anything about that in her writing. With all these secrets and the things she was hiding, I want Sherlock to talk about how it only made sense that she's alive.

I apologize for my lack of detail on all matters. My memory is not as good as May's. I cannot repeat conversations word-for-word. I do not remember every little detail of someone's expressions or tones they used while talking. Dr. Maxwell was an exceptional young woman. It's a shame for Sherlock to deny the existence of such a woman, but even he cannot suppress his heart's deepest desires. The desire to fix itself after such a devastating break. The desire to forget what had hurt him so badly. Deep down, he holds a grudge on May for allowing him to slip into the one thing he absolutely feared; sentiment. He's resentful. His love turned to hatred. He seldom spoke ill of May, but I could see in his eyes, a fire that burns deep within him whenever her name is uttered. Sherlock believes that she weakened him, he sees fault in his love. He doesn't see from my point of view. I see how it strengthened him. He strived to protect her, and in doing so he reached heights he could never have dreamt.

There's scarcely ever a time when one could empathize with Sherlock. One rarely goes through anything Sherlock does, or the way he does. But I do have an experience I share with Sherlock. This is not an experience I'd wish on even my most hated enemies. I lost my wife. Although, in my case she was really gone. She's most definitely deceased without a shadow of a doubt. Sherlock believes that he's lost May for good. I can't relate on the level of a high functioning sociopath, but as a human. Empathy hurts.

Sherlock won't search for her. I know I already said I couldn't remember every last detail the way May did, but there is a single exception. One moment I will not soon forget. I asked Sherlock to go out and do his Sherlock thing and go find her... find you. Yes, you, May. He said to me, "John, stop pestering me. I'm trying to work." I told him that I would help him, do all in my power to get answers for him, and he simply replied, "You have no power over death... as much as I hate the story, I can't deny that it holds true; you know the one, 'Appointment in Samarra'." I asked him once again to at least find proof of her death, and he said, "If she loves me, she will return on her own." That is a conversation that will forever be burnt into my memory. As I close my eyes, I see his face exactly as it had been as he said the final statement. He had turned to me from his microscope. An expression of defeat, knowing that he couldn't find proof of her death. An expression of confusion, not knowing why she would leave. An expression of hope, hope that one day, just one day he will lay his eyes once more on his beloved.