Disclaimer: Sadly, I don't own Sherlock.
This story contains massive spoilers for His Last Vow.
I loved the episode but felt that something was missing after Sherlock collapsed in 221B, a notion which was shared by a friend and probably many others,
so here goes. I'm not a native English speakers, so I apologize for any mistakes.
Update January 14:
Okay, err... somehow, this story wasn't finished, and now it's evolved into a little fic with several parts (three, so far). It starts after the shooting and the original one-shot is now part 2. Sorry if I'm confusing you!
Enjoy!
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For Prothoe
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Their Best Man
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Part 1: After the Shooting
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...no...
...no. Didn't...
...something...
...tired. Eyes too, wouldn't open...
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Something was weighing him down. Sherlock became aware that this had bothered him for a while, yet there hadn't been any apparent shift from sleeping to being awake. He was bone-tired, and something seemed to be lying across his body. Redbeard, probably, although he wasn't allowed in the bed. Didn't matter, Sherlock decided, he was glad that his dog was with him. He didn't even realize that his eyes were closing again.
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Gradually, he registered things; a hand clutching his own, warm, dry, papery. His dad. There was a noise which he eventually recognized as his own name being said, and the voice confirmed his first assumption: it was his dad who was there. Why? He didn't know. He was ever so tired.
Sherlock.
The voice wouldn't give up. With an effort, he blinked his eyes open; his father's outline was blurry at first.
"Sherlock," he said, and then his hand was on Sherlock's face. He was trembling, heaven knew why, as was his voice. "Can you hear me?"
Stupid question.
"Of course," was what he meant to say, though it came out as a croak because his throat was unpleasantly dry.
"Are you in pain?"
Interesting. Something must have happened, something other than an overdose, because there was no reproval in his father's tone, only concern.
"No," he managed and wanted to ask for something to drink, but funnily enough, his eyes couldn't be bothered to stay open. With a sigh, he allowed them to close again; he really was very tired.
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The next time he awoke, the thirst was overwhelming. There was no hand, but he could sense someone else's presence before he had opened his eyes, which was much easier than before.
It was John who was with him, looking tired and unkempt but also relieved.
Sherlock couldn't get out a single sound and John fortunately had the common sense to offer him some water before trying to talk to him.
Sherlock regarded him, still feeling woozy but remembering now, recalling what had happened. He must be high on morphine, because he didn't feel any pain; floaty, more likely. Was that a word? He'd ask... no. Was unimportant. John was important. Lovely, loyal John who apparently had not gone home in the meantime, and of course he didn't know what had transpired. Mary. Sherlock needed to talk to her, tell her he'd help her. John needed to know, needed to see that Mary hadn't had another choice. Sherlock knew how that felt, thank you very much, Jim from IT. He would have saluted him, he thought giddily, if he had felt like he could move. Hm... on second thought, maybe there was more than just morphine in that drip. Really, he felt rather floaty. Now, was that a word at all? Focus, he told himself.
"Mary," he croaked, noting with satisfaction that his voice was much stronger than before. Now what was he going to say?"
John looked amused: "Had some sweet dreams?" he asked, obviously not following but drawing some entirely wrong conclusions. Well, there wasn't much to follow yet, Sherlock had to concede. And John had never been that quick on the uptake anyway. He was looking at the machine next to Sherlock's bed now: "Readings are looking good," he said, "you'll be back on your feet in no time."
Why was he talking about feet? Sherlock couldn't even feel his feet right then because of all the... floatiness. Best to close his eyes for a bit, probably.
Within seconds, he was asleep again.
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Once he was able to stay awake for longer and the medication wasn't addling his mind as badly (nor were his parents around any longer) he felt not only exhausted but battered; John had reluctantly told him that he had in fact been subjected to cardiopulmonary resuscitation as a direct result of his heart having stopped. The very fact was more difficult to grasp than he'd expected. It was good that John had been there, because he understood what was going on in Sherlock's mind, how it felt to know how close a shave it had been.
Sherlock had decided not to tell him about Mary; if he did, John was very likely to go and do something he'd later regret. No, there had to be another way, a way which ensured John'd understand, make him forgive his wife... with a shaking hand, Sherlock reached for the regulation of his morphine drip. He needed to think.
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To Be Continued
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