This story is set between The Hounds of Baskerville and The Reichenbach Fall in Sherlock. It starts immediately where Merlin ended. I know it's an overused concept, but I couldn't help but add my own version. Also, I will bring in a few Doctor Who references, but I am not very informed on that show, so if I get anything wrong, please correct me. Enjoy :)
The aching pain inside of him had now become a permanent part of his being.
For days he wandered the streets of London aimlessly, unseeing eyes staring straight ahead. He didn't sleep, he didn't eat, and because of this his strength was quickly fading. Additionally, the energy it took to maintain the disguise of an old man drained his strength, powerful as he was. He felt himself dying, but he no longer possessed the motivation to reverse this downward spiral.
His will to live had been snatched from him, and he believed it would never be regained.
"Why is nothing a big deal to you? A woman has lost her son, and all you can say is, 'boring'"?
"He obviously died of natural causes, which left no case for me."
"But the woman was distraught!"
"Oh, I'm sorry John, since when do I care about the feelings of a stranger?"
"Any decent human being would feel for what she's going through."
"Key-word: decent. That's something I've never pretended to be." Rising from his couchant position, the criticized man strode towards the kitchen.
In the midst of his stride, his phone buzzed in his pocket. Pulling it out, he answered, "Yes, what's the matter with the world today?" in an annoyed tone.
"Are you Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" came the reply after a momentary pause.
"I've been known to answer to other names, but that is the one my parents forced upon me." Another confused pause followed while John rolled his eyes.
Finally, the voice on the other end said, "This is St. Bart's, and we have a young man here in critical condition who keeps saying your name. We thought you might want to see him."
"He's obviously out of his head, maybe heard my name from the papers - certainly no one I should concern myself with." Before the other person could say anything else, Sherlock hung up and placed his phone in his pocket. Sighing with satisfaction, he continued to the kitchen.
"Who was that?" called John.
"Someone from St. Bart's."
"What did they want?"
"Ah, nothing of importance."
"Well, what did they say?"
"Someone was out of their head - saying my name in their sleep. They thought I might know him."
"How do you know you don't?" asked John, still thinking of their previous conversation, and worrying that Sherlock was turning away from a situation that needed him.
"Would I know anyone who was stupid enough to be in critical condition?" John was fed up with Sherlock's snarkiness, and he barked,
"That's it. I'm taking a walk. Might even check in on that poor guy at St. Bart's - let him know that someone cares about him." He stomped out of the door, leaving a satisfied flatmate.
"Finally - peace and quiet," murmured Sherlock to himself.
John stepped out of the taxi as it stopped in front of the hospital. A few people bustled by, but this was not a busy area of town. Entering, he found that it was quite empty inside. A nurse sat behind the front desk, and a cleaning lady was sweeping the floor, but there were no other visitors to be seen. John remembered how it used to be when he was here: The noise, the crowds, the hustle and bustle, and the prestige. Now, the old hospital was barely keeping its doors open. With a small feeling of sadness, John realized he was fond of the place and would hate to see it close.
Approaching the front desk, John asked the nurse there, "Has there been anyone brought in here recently in critical condition?"
She replied disinterestedly, "Yeah, I think there was some kid that they found on the streets, almost dead. Don't know why they didn't just leave him - as if we ain't got enough idiot kids on our streets already." John looked at her with a confused expression, then asked,
"Can you tell me where he is?" She heaved a great sigh of discomfort and rolled her chair over to a computer screen. After a few lazy clicks, she said,
"He's in room 313, on the third floor. Take the elevator, it's faster than the stairs." John hesitated for a moment before replying,
"Yeah, well, thanks for that." He walked away from the desk, shaking his head at the imbecility of some people.
As he got on the elevator, though, he quickly thought about what the nurse had said. A kid? Sherlock wasn't even willing to help a kid? John grew more incensed at his friend the more he thought about it.
When the ding announced he had reached the third floor, John disembarked the elevator and made his way towards room 313. There was a bit of quiet talking coming from the room, but nothing that would signal a person in critical condition.
The long hall seemed so still and foreboding, with the drab walls lining it seeming to speak of some sinister thing that was on its way. John almost feared to approach the room.
However, common sense got the better of him, and he shook away the dark feeling. He entered the room, finding a male nurse and a female nurse chatting quietly about life and feelings.
"Am I interrupting something?" asked John with an air of disapproval. Both nurses stood up quickly and looked at each other guiltily. The man laughed nervously and answered,
"Uh, uh, no, I uh, we were just, uh, well, I mean, no!" Studying them both with displeasure, John stated,
"I heard there was a patient here in critical condition, but I assume that's not true?" It was a statement, but he voiced it as a question. This made the two nurses look even more guilty.
"Well, um, actually, uh, that boy over there is not doing well. He's in a very serious state, but I don't think I'd call it critical. If it were critical, we'd be doing much more to make him comfortable." The man ended with a fake smile, hoping John wouldn't see through his bluff.
"I'm sure," muttered John under his breath. He drew near to the bed upon which the boy was lying, and he was surprised, and then distressed, at what he saw.
The first thing he noticed was the likeness the boy held to Sherlock. The dark hair, the prominent cheekbones, each trying to tell a story of relation.
The next thing that John noticed, though, was the seriousness of the boy's condition. He was drenched with sweat, glistening face showing the raging fire within.
He was also tossing and turning sporadically, obviously in great pain. He writhed on the bed as John watched, and the anguish on his face spoke volumes to John's medical mind.
The two nurses were still behind him, and John jerked around to face them.
"What do you mean he's not serious? This boy is dying! Now, if you two could stop Romeo-and-Julietting and start getting your mind where it should be, you might be able to save him." The two nodded shamefacedly and hurried to get on some gloves.
"I'm going to leave for a little while, but I'll be back to make sure you're tending him. Do you think you can handle that? If not, I'm sure the authorities would love to hear about your incompetence." John's blood was boiling, and his eyes seemed to express that, for the nurses both nodded their heads vigorously and set to work. John hurried out of the hospital to hail a taxi.