"John. John. John." His flatmate-friend's-name is wrenched out of Sherlock almost like a sob but not quite-he's not that far gone. Some irrational part of his mind tells him to stop, that repeating John's name so many times will strip it of its importance, of its meaning. And then where will Sherlock be? With an unconscious, possibly dying, friend who no longer has a name. Distantly, he watches his fingers clench and unclench in the bright orange shock blanket around his shoulders. This time, Sherlock notes with black humor, he needs it-and it's not even helping.
What is the point of these bloody blankets?
Mycroft steps forward, face schooled into impassivity. But Sherlock sees, and he deduces. He knows his elder brother is at once surprised at his passionate regret and angry at him for not thinking it all through and relieved that he is safe.
"Sherlock. Come now. Dr. Watson will recover. At the least, go to your home and rest before you have all the nurses in your hospital quitting by nightfall." Sherlock makes a face at his brother.
And Mycroft thinks he's clever, really, he sneers in his mind, Like I am going to leave John to the mercy of him and his slimy concern and Lestrade's bumbling uncertainty.
John twitches slightly, lips twitching down. See, John agreed. Lestrade places a hand on his shoulder, staring at Sherlock intently. He looks older. Weary, still in shock, and concerned, with just a touch of anger. Almost like Father did when Sherlock fell out of a very high tree during an observation of how Mycroft would react to acorns being thrown at various body parts.
"Your brother's right, Sherlock," Lestrade urges. "He'll be fine. Don't worry." How did they know? What if there were…complications? This 'caring lark' is harder than he gave John credit for. Is this how he felt when Sherlock met with the cabbie and was about to swallow that damned pill? Finally, Sherlock concedes with a sharp nod. Reluctantly, he pulls away, fingers tightening in his shock blanket. He's barely to the door, when suddenly, Mycroft stiffens. Sherlock whirls around in time to see John's body tense. Shoulders curl in, hands tighten to fists, legs lock and even his face twists to a snarl.
Then the screams come.
At first they sound like pain and fear, but then Sherlock begins to hear words from the noise.
"No-no-don't touch him, I'll kill you if you touch him, I'll set off the bomb-LET HIM GO!" Mycroft is warding off the nurses attempting to intrude and Lestrade is on the other side of the bed, looking helpless. Sherlock half climbs onto the bed, hands fluttering uselessly-what does he do?
"I'll murder you. I'll kill you. You hurt him and you'll wish you've never been born. Knives and guns and bombs and blood and torture-
"Dr. Watson!" Lestrade had attempted to help and now John has his hands curled around his throat and Mycroft-the bloody nincompoop-is looking on in almost pride and respect. Sherlock notices that John's hands loosen as Lestrade croaked.
"He's hysterical. He's never lost control like this," he tries, seeing if his voice will help, too. At the same time, almost instinctively, Sherlock pulls John's hands from Lestrade and places them on either side of his face. He lets the fingers hesitantly trail over his cranium, tracing eyes, nose, and hair. To everyone's surprise, John relaxes completely. A small smile even curls his lips as a soft sigh is exhaled.
It almost sounds like Sherlock's name.