Hello! I'm just really pleased to inform you that this fanfic, that will be multichaptered, is based in one of the posts of the Facebook page "Sherlock, the mess you've made!", so thank you very much for such an inspiration! I recommend you to go and follow this wonderful site. Thank you for choosing my story, remember I don't (sadly) own any of the Sherlock BBC characters, and, please, enjoy this first chapter! Any reviews will be welcome!
Chapter 1: "Ambulance sirens and hurried races"
The growing smile that Jim was wearing in such an occasion seemed to fall at the sight of the gun lowering to the Semtex jacket that had been previously abandoned on the floor of the dark pool. The silent and shared nod between the doctor and the detective made sense now for the villain. Time seemed to slow down when the moment of pulling the trigger was coming dangerously closer. Breaths forgot to be taken, hearts increasing their paces, mental last words being formulated... No one ever thought three seconds could keep so many actions at the same time. The jacket exploded with a bleeding noise and a painful bomb of light. Their bodies seemed to be made of paper against the wild force of the implosion. Who would have thought that it would actually be made of non-fake explosives? Who would have ever deduced that James Moriarty was going to put himself in such a danger, the excuse of being a psychopath remaining forgotten as a possible explanation even?
Ambulance sirens and hurried races to the surgery fulfilled the next moments. The waiting room was deadly silent, but crowded of muted actions: the hands of the Government man couldn't leave his temple for a single second; the eyes of the landlady wept without control, leaving unquestionable red marks around them; the Detective Inspector's fists were formed by white knuckles which were ready to hit any close wall, or just to hit anything at all. Hours passed until the steps of the man with the news sounded echoed in the white corridor of the hospital. His words made our beloved little awaiting community breath normally again.
-OoOoO-
John. John. John. John. John.
"JOHN!" says finally awakening from his post-surgery sleep.
"Finally. You were being too slow this time" says Mycroft with faked disinterest.
"Where is John? How is him?" In his voice there was a note of horror at the possible answer his brother could provide him.
"He's two rooms away from you, Sherlock. He just broke a few ribs and hit quite roughly his head against the floor. The doctor's thought he had damaged his cranium of seriousness, but it was a superficial issue thankfully. He's out of danger"
At his brothers words Sherlock lays back again against the bed, nerves going down knowing his friend was alive and, most important of all, recovering successfully. Confusing pictures are constantly crossing his mind about the previous moment of the Semtex incident: the trigger, Moriarty's smile dying in his lips, John affirming with his head, his thoughts while his body was in the air...
"Aren't you going to ask me about your diagnosis?"
"Not interested at all" It was difficult to talk normally. The movement his chest made built a hiss of pain, so now that he has been awaken for a couple of minutes he's trying to get used to the feeling, controlling the pressure and voice tone he must use to decrease the pain. "By my own state I suppose I had some ribs of the right side damaged, one of them threatening to hurt my lung. Hopefully the doctors were quick and avoided a possible serious problem. Am I right?" says, coughing slightly at the effort.
"You forgot some little cuts, but they weren't worth to be named. The rest is absolutely correct."
Sherlock nods and remains silent for a couple of seconds, just looking at the ceiling until he decides to break the silence.
"I want to see him".
"You can barely move, Sherlock. Let's not have a row for such incoherence"
"I said I want to see him, Mycroft"
"And I said that you won't be moving from here until you have recovered minimally. Is it understood, dear brother of mine?" says with a firm and angry tone, not raising his voice, though.
The look in Sherlock's face is dark, his eyebrows expressing the anger in him, as he starts sitting himself up with a painful facial expression. Not wanting to argue in such a moment, rolling his eyes and quickly getting up, Mycroft adds:
"For God's sake! Wait here, I'll get a wheelchair"
In less than a minute the older Holmes brother is back with a wheelchair and is helping his little brother, one arm over his shoulder, the walk being a challenge. The distance of two doors seems infinite to Sherlock. Inside John's room, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade are sitting down, one at each side of his friend. He is fully awake, thing that makes Sherlock smile wide. But he knows something is wrong. The Detective Inspector and the landlady's faces have that "something" that confirms Sherlock's deduction. With his weak arms makes the wheelchair come closer to John's bed, being now able to totally see his face.
"John, I'm so sorry" it's the first thing he says. In response, John looks at him, with... Is that confusion in his eyes?
"Excuse me, do I know you?"
"Joking even after being unconscious for hours? We all can see you were a war man" says chuckling and hissing after, painfully.
"What? War man? Who are you? Why do I know no one in this bloody room? And why am I here?"
Sherlock's face freezes. Mycroft's contracts in a horror expression.
"This can't be happening" says Mrs. Hudson, her voice cracking.
The detective's hands clench, shaking slightly. His throat is suddenly blocked by a knot. John had forgotten everything. This wasn't any kind of joke. John had forgotten his years in Afghanistan. John had forgotten his friends. John had forgotten his late good memories... But most important of all: John had forgotten him.
I'd adore knowing your opinions! I'll try to be as quick as I can in updating this story. And sorry if there are any grammar mistakes all along the text, English isn't my mother tongue and I try my best. Thank you once again!
