Lights will guide you home. And ignite your bones. And I will try to fix you.
"Sherlock, why do you go and get yourself into trouble constantly?"
John was fixing up the detective's arm where it had somehow come in contact with a knife.
Sherlock looked at him, a small smile forming on his lips.
"Because I know I'll always have my doctor to protect me."
John watched as they loaded the man onto the stretcher. He was paler than he ever had been before, black curls matted to his head from the blood, hand hanging limp. As the doctor watched, he began to fear that this would be his last memory of Sherlock Holmes.
"John?"
He didn't move. Or, he couldn't move. He didn't know which. He felt a hand on his arm, pulling him over to the side walk.
"John, come on."
It was Mycroft. How could he be so incredibly calm? John suddenly felt anger and he yanked his arm away from the older Holmes brother.
"That's your brother! That's your own brother lying on that stretcher!"
He was crying now, but he didn't care. Then, he was running. Running toward where they were loading Sherlock into the ambulance.
"Sherlock!"
It came out as more of a strangled cry than an actual name.
Mycroft made his way over, taking hold of John's arm and dragging him back.
"Sherlock!" John yelled again.
"Why do you care so much what I do? It's my body!"
John snatched the needle away from him.
"Because I care about you!"
The silence between them was almost unsettling.
"We'll meet them at the hospital. We can't do anything standing here," Mycroft said.
John let the man take him to the sleek black car. They both climbed into the back, neither of them saying a word.
When they arrived at the hospital, they were sent to the waiting room. Mycroft sat down while John paced. How could Sherlock do this to him? How could he just go and get himself hurt like this?
"Sherlock, I made you some tea."
John walked carefully into the detective's room.
"John?"
"Yeah, it's me."
The doctor felt his forehead. It was warm and rather sticky
"Go away," Sherlock mumbled.
"I have to take care of you.
"You'll get sick."
John put a cool cloth over Sherlock's forehead.
"Don't worry about me."
"But I do worry about you. . ."
"Why?"
"Because. . .I care for you. . ."
John sat down, face in his hands. He couldn't stop picturing Sherlock on that stretcher. What if Sherlock didn't make it? What would John do then? The thought brought on sobs that wracked his body. Mycroft looked over, concern clear on his face for just a moment, but he quickly hid it. He honestly didn't know if his brother would make it. That scared him more than anything. He thought he should comfort John, but he wasn't one to make false promises and he would probably just end up upsetting the good doctor even more. Instead, he just went over and put his hand on John's arm, not saying a word.
Hours passed and finally a doctor came out, looking grim. John's heart sank.
"He's not doing well," Mycroft said.
The doctor shook his head.
"We're doing everything we can."
"I understand. . . Thank you, doctor."
Mycroft looked at John.
"I'll take you home."
John looked up, desperation in his eyes.
"What? I can't just leave him here!"
"You need to get some sleep. I'll pick you up in the morning and we can come back and see if he's doing any better."
John let out a heavy sigh and closed his eyes. He was exhausted and Mycroft had a point. He opened his eyes and nodded.
"Okay . . ."
He followed the older brother to the car once more.
"Why did you do that, John?"
Sherlock was shouting at him, but holding him close at the same time.
John chuckled and winced in pain.
"Because I'm supposed to protect you. Now, unless you feel like taking me to the hospital and explaining why I've been beaten, you should take me home."
One thing John learned from that experience is never go searching for a drug dealer and tell him to stop dealing to one of his customers.
221 B was silent. It was strange not to hear Sherlock muttering about some case or the clicking of keys while he texted. John gazed over at the violin. He would actually be thrilled to come down at 4 in the morning to have Sherlock be sitting there playing. He may even jump for joy. He sat down on the couch, the silence becoming deafening.
"I was supposed to protect you. . . Nothing like this was ever supposed to happen. . ."
Again, he saw the detective lying cold on that stretcher. . . that damned stretcher. . .
"I should have gone up there with you. . ."
"John, I have to see the overview. I have to see if there is any possible way that someone could have been easily picked out of a crowd from there."
"Alright. I'll stay down here ."
"Good idea. I'll see if I can pick you out of the crowd of people."
John walked back and forth along the street, going with different crowds of civilians, glancing up at Sherlock every now and again.
The one time he looked away, someone screamed. He looked around and then he saw him. Sherlock was falling. . . It was at least a 70ft drop from the top of the building to the ground and John could not do anything to stop it.
"NO!"
"NO!"
John bolted upright, nearly falling off the couch. He hadn't realized he had fallen asleep. Sunlight was streaming through the windows. He looked at his phone. Nothing from Mycroft yet. He opened it and sent a text.
Any news?
JW
Heading over now.
Mycroft Holmes
John stood and made his way downstairs to wait. When the black car pulled up, John climbed in the back. Mycroft looked very pale and very tired, and John felt guilty for shouting at him the day before.
"Mycroft I-"
"No need to apologize, Dr. Watson. Your reaction was perfectly understandable."
John opened his eyes. He was lying on the couch with Sherlock. Both men had evidently fallen asleep there and neither had bothered to move. He smiled softly and put an arm around the detective's waist, pulling him closer before drifting off once more.
The hospital was fairly empty. There were a few visitors here and there, but it was mostly just doctors and nurses who made their way through the halls. John and Mycroft went to the front desk.
"We're here to see Sherlock Holmes," Mycroft said.
The nurse checked the list then looked up at the two men.
"Room 304. . ." She replied hesitantly.
"Thank you."
Mycroft took John gently by the arm and led him down the hall. Nothing prepared John for what he saw when he stepped into the room. Sherlock was always so strong. Never vulnerable or weak. But now. . . Lying there on the bed, tubes hooked up everywhere. . . He looked so fragile.
"I will pick you up when you're ready. . ." Mycroft said.
He couldn't bear to see his brother like this and he knew if he didn't leave soon he might actually lose his composure he always fought so hard to hold.
"I'll send a text," John replied.
He didn't ask why Mycroft was leaving. Somehow, he knew.
When he was gone, John went and sat in one of the chairs next to the bed.
"I'm sorry, Sherlock. . . I'm sorry that I didn't go up there with you. . . I'm sorry I couldn't save you. . ." John's voice broke and he swallowed hard, reaching for the detective's hand. He held onto it and brought his forehead down to rest on the cool skin as he cried.
"I missed you last night. . . I-I don't know how to do this without you. . . you're all I have! Nothing can replace you!" John's voice sounded strange even to his own ears. It was high pitched and almost whiney, but still he kept talking.
"I can't let you go. . . I-I just can't. . ."
He was sobbing again, unable to form words.
Sherlock's hand twitched slightly, but John didn't notice. The detective's eyes fluttered open and he looked around, seeing John sobbing, holding his hand.
"J-John?" He croaked.
John snapped his head up, tears still streaming down his face.
"Sherlock!" He choked out.
Sherlock smiled slightly and put a hand gently on the side of John's face.
"Don't cry John. . . I'll fix it. . ."