Author's Note: Since 'Valliance' had such a large number of people reading it within such a short amount of time, and I've had a few requests, I've decided to do a follow up and this is it! I initially started with all intentions to only keep it as a one shot again, but it seems to want to be more, so this is the first installment. I have no idea at all how long it'll be, so bare with me. I will try to update once every two days, but don't hold me to that! Anyway, Enjoy!
Love, Ruby xx
DISCLAIMER: Don't own Sherlock, or anything attributed to it... Unfortunately...
Mycroft was tended to, so I rolled John onto his back. The colour ran from my face as I saw blood pouring from John's stomach. That bullet had hit him. His face was crumpled up in pain as I instantly applied pressure to the wound. "Stay with me John! Stay with me!" I said softly to him. "Paramedic!" I screamed next, and a whole hoard of people flocked around us as I watched the life pour from John's body.
I was pushed out of the way by the overzealous doctors, and a stray tear may have fallen.
•
彡Intelligence - a. The capacity to acquire and apply knowledge. b. The faculty of thought and reason. c. Superior powers of mind.
Twelve hours I've been sat here in this waiting room in a horribly umcomfortable chair feeling quite distraught. John's still in surgery, Mycroft's leg was only bruised, thank God (if there is one). I really don't know what I'd have done itlf he was seriously injured like John.
John has to make it. I need John. I never told him that he actually helps me, how much I would have missed at crime scenes if it wasn't for him. I'm not normally emotional, but then again, it's not every day that someone has a friend like John, and then that friend risks his life for you and your brother and is subsequently in surgery for an inhumane amount of time.
Mycroft has visited me a few times, more to thank me and convey how he feels about the whole situation. I'm glad my brother feels he can use me as an outlet, but it's not what I need right now. What I need right now is to know that John is alive and going to survive.
I've now been here in this same seat, being told the same thing, "I really couldn't say, Mr Holmes. His wound wasn't particularly good.", by the nurses for thirteen hours. I don't like repeating things, and I certainly don't need the same phrase said to me again and again either. If I'm asking again, surely it means I haven't got the answer I'm looking for and want a different one. They clearly don't understand this at the hospital.
As soon as John's out, we're going to the manor. I don't care what they say. Mycroft wants him there anyway, and they're not going to want to mess with an angry Mycroft. Things don't turn out pretty. There's all the equipment at the manor and better doctors, so I shouldn't see their problem.
I haven't cried for about four hours, which is a positive sign, however I am aware that my eyes are still red and a little puffy as I keep getting sympathetic glances from the other people who pass through the room. I feel that these are rather unwarranted and unwanted.
I thought I had trouble understanding people, can they nit just tell me if he's still alive. That's the fiftieth time I've asked and the fiftieth time I've been given the same damned response. This refrain is getting more than a little tedious. In fact, it became tedious the second time I asked and got the same response.
I'm now thouroughly bored and anxious about John. I've never known boredom and anxiety to be a good combination, and they still aren't. I have considered pacing the waiting room, but I feel I that may put me in an even less sociable state than I am in now. I need to remain fairly socially acceptable so that they will let me see John faster when he is eventually release from surgery.
I'm not a doctor, but I do know that thirteen and a half hours in surgery really is extortionate, and not a good sign. But I can't let my brain continue down that thought path, I need John. He has to survive.
Fourteen hours later and I ask the same question about John's progress again, and this time, I get the answer I'm looking for. "He's just come out of surgery, quite a difficult one too. He's down the hall, third door on the left." replied a rather short nurse. I don't really know I she was that short, but most people appear short when you're my height. Anyway, John wouldn't be here much longer.
"Thank you." I said in the most palatable way possible without seeming overly relieved that I hadn't got the same answer repeated to me again. I don't really know which I'm more pleased about, getting a different answer, or John being out of surgery and alive. No, it's definately the latter. I'd have sat through more hours of that same refrain if it meant John was ok.
I found the room where John was and slowly opened the door to the sound of steady beeping from the heart monitor. The room was whitewash and rather drab, but John was in it, so that made it better.
I took the seat next to the head of the bed and reveled in the quiet which was absent from the waiting room.
I looked down at John. He looked paler than before due to the large amount of blood he lost. At this point I realise that some of it was still dried on my hands from where I had tried to stop the bleeding. I walked over to the small sink in the corner of the room and began to wash the dry maroon coloured substance from my hands and wrists. The water was too hot and it scolded me a little, but I didn't care. What's a small burn in comparison to a second bullet wound?
A second bullet wound... That was ringing through my head as I came up with all of the consequences: trauma, his limp returning, him leaving... I don't think I'd cope with the latter.
•
It's been three hours since John came out of surgery and I've been told to go home a total of eight times now; at least they didn't repeat the same phrase over and over again, this made the request slightly easier to tolerate.
Where was Mycroft? He should be here by now to collect John and I.
Speak of the devil. That's definately Mycroft causing that raucous noise. Ahh, the nurse is trying to pursued him to let John stay here; a futile attempt. Only I can argue with my brother and win.
"Come on Sherlock, let's go." He said as he blocked the doorway. Idiot.
"I'd love to, only you might just be blocking my only exit." I said as monotonously as possible. He rolled his eyes and let me pass; his men walked into the room and placed John on another bed and wired him up to some portable, temporary equipment for transport.
As expected, the rather large black car was waiting for us just outside the door, a separate van had been bought along for John, it was just big enough for the bed and one other doctor; I understood that I couldn't travel with him, much to my disappointment.
I sat in the back of the car, facing my brother. We said nothing, just gazed out of the windows for the majority of the journey. I quickly got bored of this so decided to tackle the subject that was causing such an irritating awkwardness between us. How was I meant to think with an atmosphere? That was why I liked John for company. there were always silences between us, but they were never awkward.
"Why didn't your people find you, Mycroft?" I asked bluntly, still maintaining my position, eyes fixated on the grass verges that bordered the motorway.
"I knew you'd ask." he replied. This question appeared to trouble him somewhat as he paused. I took the opportunity to drop in a sarcastic comment about his obvious statement.
"Of course I was going to ask. It doesn't take a Holmes to work that one out!"
"Sherlock please. I've had to do a complete change over of all of the people that work for me since you found me and I've been back. It was a small division of the people under my command that also worked of Moriarty. They were the ones who took me."
"Chloroform." I said, matter-of-factly.
"What?"
"I said, chloroform." I hate having to repeat myself. I think I could be forgiven for the hint of irritation in my voice at this point.
I looked at Mycroft who still looked completely bemused.
I sighed loudly. "Do I have to explain everything to you? They used chloroform to subdue you whilst they took you. I can smell it on our clothes and in the car. I'm surprised you missed that." I said blandly. I was getting more irritated by the second and we still had another thirty minutes left of this car ride.
"I'm sorry, dear brother, but not everyone is like you. I had just been kidnapped and thought I was going to die you know?" he spat. This only served to irk me more.
"Yes, I am aware. I was the one who found you. And let me remind you, my one and only friend in the world is fighting for his life in the car behind and has just come out of fourteen hours of surgery. It's not always about you, Mycroft."
That seemed to silence him for the rest of the journey. I couldn't care less about the atmosphere between us now. We were back to where we began. To him, it was clear that it was irrelevant that John had almost given his life for him; to me, however, it meant the world.
The manor was just how I remembered it. Intimidating, if you'd never seen it before, as it loomed ominously over you as you walked in and swallowed you. Still just as soul-less as I left it too, about twenty years ago.
Some men were pulling John to the front door as another opened it for us. I followed them in by John's side all the way down three large corridors and into a room where all of the appropriate equipment had been set up and three doctors were waiting to check up on John. At least Mycroft was thorough.