So, this is my first ever attempt at a collaboration with another author and I have to say that I'm glad that author was Tamuril2. Here is our post-Reichenbach story. I'm not a doctor - I can't speak for Tam in this sense - and I have very little medical knowledge so if anything is incorrect, apologies.
As always, sorry for any mistakes.
Look Both Ways
John couldn't lie. The very last thing that he had expected to happen that day was to find himself standing over a body that looked remarkably like his dead best friend. Except, this curly raven haired man was certainly alive and breathing (wonderful, considering that he had just been sent skidding across the wet road by a taxicab) and now John was gritting his teeth, checking his injuries and planning his murder.
Couldn't have bloody told me, he growled inwardly as he knelt down on the rain sodden road and picked up his friend's limp wrist, ignoring the screaming people pressing in. No, just had to bloody do it yourself. Just had to show off. Sherlock couldn't stand not being the centre of attention. Not ever. So, John simply stepped into the background and supported him from the shadows. And then the man had gone and killed himself…or not, seeing as John was right next to him. Worse, the bloody showboat didn't even have the decency to be awake to face John that, John found himself pleading softly with his pale friend. "Please, don't be dead. Just, please, don't be dead."
I don't think I can handle it again.
SH-SH-SH-SH
Hovering in the waiting room of the hospital, John ran his palm over his face before burying his fingers in his mussed hair once again, a habit he seemed to have picked up from the detective. Sherlock was currently being checked over by the nurses and, from what they had told John, it wasn't necessarily good. They had informed him that his injuries from the accident were superficial; bruised ribs and a concussion, but they had found some blemishes that they wished to investigate further.
John loathed being kept in the dark.
"Wh-what do you mean, blemishes?" John choked out, his mouth suddenly dry. The grey walls of the waiting room loomed in closer, as if eager to hear the morbid news as well. John hated them even more for it, even though he knew it was only his imagination and worry causing the effect. Still, was it just him or had the room gone a little quieter since the nurse had mentioned the word 'blemishes'. Stop worrying about that and focus on Sherlock, he admonished himself and then tried to wheedle more information out of the nurse. "Please, he's a good friend."
The blonde haired nurse gave him a sympathetic look and glanced down at the chart in her hands. John had the sudden urge to yank it out of her grasp and read it himself, but he held himself back and waited impatiently for her to explain. She scanned the papers and checked the back of one.
"It's not conclusive and the doctor won't give more than that right now but," her brown eyes came up to meet his, "and you didn't hear this from me, one of the other nurses in there said there was some heavy lacerations and cuts to your friend's back, as well as severe malnutrition."
John swallowed hard. "Is…is he going to be all right?"
"I'm sorry sir, but that's all I know at this time." She flashed him a reassuring smile. "I'll be sure to come and tell you if that changes though."
John watched her go, his heart clenched tight in his chest. Lacerations? Cuts? Malnutrition…okay, that one didn't surprise John as much. Sherlock always forgot he needed to eat unless Mrs. Hudson or he told the man. But the others…just what had Sherlock been up to during these six months?
John's left leg was aching as he fought to stop his right from bouncing anxiously. He was perched tentatively on the edge of the uncomfortable hospital chair, his head in his hands, ready to stand whenever somebody wearing hospital scrubs passed by. But no-one seemed to possess any information on his friend's current condition other than the vague comments every so often by nurses who seemed to wish to be anywhere else.
And then, as if the world had universally decided that today's trials just hadn't been enough, a black brolly entered his view. Only one man owned a brolly and would come to see John at most inopportune moment. John gritted his teeth, his hands curling into fists. Of all the…No, don't let him get to you. .
Not again. He'd fallen for the man's tricks too often in the past, something which Sherlock had always teased him about, but not now. Not today. Right now, Captain John Watson was going to control his temper. He was going to calmly stand and speak to Sherlock's older brother. He would ask him if he knew how Sherlock was doing, since the nurses didn't seem to want to be helpful in that regard.
He was certainly not going to throttle the government agent beside him. Although punching is not off the menu just yet…
John slowly raised his head, the incessant tapping of metal tip of said umbrella really beginning to grate on his already fraying nerves. Mycroft was standing a few centimetres away from the chair he was sitting in, casually tapping his umbrella on the floor repeatedly. It was as though he was purposely attempting to annoy the already fraught doctor.
"Doctor Watson," He greeted with what could only be described as a condescending smile the second their eyes met, "it's been so very long since we last saw one another, hasn't it?"
At this, John rolled his eyes, pushing himself into a standing position so that the British Government wasn't looking down on him. Well, no more than usual at least.
Blast his height. John scowled up at the man and felt his arms tremble from resisting the urge to slug Mycroft. "You knew."
It wasn't a question.
Mycroft had the audacity to sniff and tilt his head. "Of course."
The trembling in John's arms got worse. "And the torture?"
"An unfortunate side effect. He did so love to antagonize–"
Mycroft didn't get any farther than that. John's fist in his nose put a pretty permanent stop to whatever stupid words the man was planning on delivering. It also prompted at least one person in the waiting room to scream and a whole slew of secret service men to suddenly appear. John let them restrain him, cause honestly he didn't know if he could stop himself now that he'd hit Mycroft once.
The bloody…he'd known! Known Sherlock was being tortured and hunted and on his own. Known and had the audacity to blame Sherlock for it. As if he deserved to be hurt like that. As if…John growled.
"Let me go," he spat at the men holding his arms. "I'm over it."
The man to his left raised an eyebrow, but Mycroft waved an indifferent hand. "Do as he says."
John jerked himself out of the grips and marched right up to Mycroft. "I ever see you near Sherlock, I'll shoot you."
Mycroft had the decency to look a bit shocked and ashamed, but he nodded. John narrowed his eyes as he watched the man turn to leave. Just before the older Holmes disappeared around the corner, he glanced back. "John, regardless of any hurt my brother may have caused you, he…he does care for you and…losing your friendship would…devastate him."
John blinked. He actually thinks I'd…? He took a deep breathe in. "Leave. Right now, Mycroft. Before I forget I'm "over it"."
Mycroft dipped his head and disappeared, along with his men.
As he watched Sherlock's meddling older brother leave the antiseptic scented hospital ward he allowed a frown to knit his eyebrows together. How could Mycroft even entertain the idea that John would discard his friendship with Sherlock? Was it not clear enough for the seemingly omnipresent man to realise that the initial loss of his best friend tore him to shreds and shattered him? Of course he wouldn't risk losing him again.
"Party for Mr. Holmes?" A male voice asked.
John whirled around, spotting the young man instantly, and marched up. "Here."
The nurse – Jack, his coat said – glanced at his chart and John had a brief flash of wonder at why all nurses seemed to do that. It only served to annoy or worry those who waited, so why do it at all? Was it to prolong the awkward conversations that seemed to ensue? Did they just forget the information on their papers the instant their eyes left it? John wracked his brain to try and remember if he'd ever done this, but all that came up was Sherlock's battered form and the former nurse's words of warning. Lacerations and cuts. Malnutrition.
Right then. John straightened. "Is he all right?"
The look on Jack's face told John all he needed to know. If there was one thing he had learned from the currently unwell detective it was how to read people. If there was one thing he had learned from being a fully functioning human, it was how to read expressions. There was something wrong with Sherlock and Jack didn't know how to tell him.
"I'm a doctor." He heard himself saying. When in doubt, John fell back on that, as it seemed to make people think him more able to accept hard things. That, and being told he was a former soldier of Her Majesty's army. Sherlock had always snorted at, what he called, the bizarre nature of simple people's minds. 'What does it matter if you're a doctor or soldier, John? There's plenty of proof showing that they cannot handle things as well.'
Too true, Sherlock, but let's have him believe the lie a while longer.
Jack swallowed and nodded. "Of course, doctor. It seems that there were a few complications, due to the impact of the car."
Complications was never a good word to hear coming out of a nurse or doctor's mouth. Complications meant things were bad enough that the doctor didn't want to commit to any one diagnosis. Complications meant that it was bad enough that the patient might need surgery. John swallowed hard.
"What kind are we talking about? Surgery? MRIs?"
"His liver was found to be bleeding out, so the doctor had to operate and remove part of it. Due to that, they also found some other internal bleeding from the bruises to his lower back."
"What type of bruises?" John asked, his throat thick with apprehension. He could think of only one thing that might lead to such a phenomenon.
Jack flicked him a look. "Doctor Heyman said beatings over the course of a few months. Not all at the same time and most likely not by the same person."
Jack, apparently deciding that was all that needed to be said, apologised to John and left to inform some other unfortunate families about their friend/sibling/child. John slowly lowered himself into his seat as his legs grew weak. He repeated his earlier action of running his hand over his face before covering it completely with both.
Sherlock had been beaten. Over and over again. How? John thought, choosing to try and apply some of Sherlock's own techniques. Lacerations, the doctors had said. So Sherlock had been struck repetitively by some kind of weapon. Had Sherlock starved himself? John knew what he was like when he was working. Or had someone purposely starved him?
Just what had been going on while he'd been 'dead'?
Oh Sherlock. John swallowed as Dr. Heyman led him into the room and he got his first good look at his best friend. Funny how the lies and months left mourning over an empty coffin didn't mean a thing anymore. Not with Sherlock laying there whiter than the blankets covering him. Not when Dr. Heyman said that he'd been lucky to live through the surgery – 'the bleed was extensive, John' – and was still at risk, thus in the ICU.
All these months alone and look where it got you, you bloody idiot. John barely registered Dr. Heyman leaving the room as he pulled over a chair and sat down. Just when are you going to start trusting me to help you?
SH-SH-SH-SH
John couldn't tell you how long he'd been sitting by the detective's bedside but he was certain of one thing. The uncomfortable ache in his chest that stemmed from the worry he was feeling for his best friend hadn't faded since he had realised that it was the consulting detective lying on the hard concrete.
It was bad enough when he was 'dead', but now… John stretched arms and felt his back pop a bit. It did nothing to alleviate the hurt in his heart or the annoying stress that each minute brought. This is why John thrived on action. He could do things, help people. This, sitting in hospitals, waiting for friends to wake, was almost unbearable. It made his fingers twitch to hit something – that one punch to Mycroft didn't cover it by far.
"It usually doesn't," a soft, baritone voice said.
John's head shot to the side so fast that he was surprised that didn't give himself whiplash. His eyes widened a fraction when he saw those familiar, yet bloodshot, kaleidoscope eyes. There was something different about his eyes this time. They had lost their sparkle. That usual, mischievous glint had been beaten out of him. His Sherlock - his best friend - was broken. And John hated that he didn't know how to fix him.
"Sherlock…" John whispered and then failed to come up with anything else to say. What could he say? So much had happened and yet so little of it involved John.
Sherlock was alive, but John didn't know why. No, he'd been left to mourn his friend as Sherlock went who-knows-where doing who-knows-what. And, by the looks of it, the tall man had needed his help.
Where was Mycroft in all this? John grit his teeth. If he ever found out the older brother had done anything more to do with Sherlock's death – as if confiding all of his young brother's secrets wasn't bad enough – John would seriously consider making him disappear.
"Don't you…" Sherlock winced as he shifted towards John more, "think that's rather extreme, John?"
"Stay out of my head." John hissed and then closed his eyes. He didn't mean to snap like that and certainly not when Sherlock was so vulnerable. Later, when Sherlock was better and out of here, John would sit him down and they'd have a nice, long chat about what friends do and don't do to each other. A very, long chat.
As the silence stretched on, John opened his eyes again. "Sorry, mate, I…"
"No," Sherlock interjected. "It is…I was…"
John's heart clenched as his normally stoic friend stuttered and avoided his eyes.
If the fact that he was currently lying, looking unbelievably tiny, on a white hospital bed wasn't enough to convince anyone who saw him that he was not the Sherlock they know and love, his speech certainly did. The suddenly developed stammer, the uncertainty behind his words - they were all signs that Sherlock had been stripped of his confidence.
Well, let's take this bull by the horns, shall we?
"Sherlock, I –"
"John, you –"
Sherlock, John thought, looked rather like fish as he floundered on what to do now that they'd both spoken at the same time. It caused a smile to play at the corner of his mouth, but he forced himself to remain a bit stern. A smile would only throw his socially inept friend off. Instead, John scooted a bit closer and leaned his elbows on his knees.
"You first," he said.
Sherlock flicked a glance at him, then his hands, and finally seemed to decide on a spot just over John's shoulder. "You are…no doubt, you are wondering at my reappearance."
A little of John's resentment and hurt flared back up, but he shoved it back down and nodded. "A bit."
"I…Moriarty…" Sherlock trailed off. "This is harder than I thought it would be."
"Telling the truth after a lie usually is."
John saw Sherlock visibly wince as the words left his lips. His eyes slid closed and he turned his head away from John, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. John figured that he should apologise, but he couldn't bring himself to. Not for showing the hurt he felt as a result of Sherlock's lying.
His timing on the other hand. He was always complaining at Sherlock for his timing. At least he was before he "died". The least he could do was apologise for his lack of tact.
"Listen, Sherlock," John spoke softly, reaching out to place a comforting hand on his shoulder and feeling something squeeze his heart when Sherlock flinched at the contact. Suddenly, John didn't know what to say.
Had Sherlock flinched because of what John had said about lying or because of what had been done to him during his 'death'?
Am I a horrid person for hoping the latter? Probably. John felt dirty for even thinking that. How could he hope that his friend was afraid because he'd been beaten too often? John slumped. Because he was selfish. He wanted Sherlock to still trust him, to still want him around. Even if it was only in a hospital. Cause he showed me rather spectacularly that he doesn't want me otherwise.
"Don't be Anderson, John."
"What?"
"Don't jump to conclusions without evidence."
John pulled his hand off Sherlock's shoulder and looked away before his friend could see the anger and hurt he was sure played in his eyes. "I would think there was plenty of evidence."
"Hardly." Sherlock sniped. "Did you not listen to the tape-recording I left?"
John frowned and searched his memories, but no tape-recorder came up. He looked to his friend. "Sherlock, there was no tape-recorder."
Now, John's worry escalated. Sherlock was remembering things that hadn't happened. Had there been brain damage that the doctors missed? Maybe he should go get a nurse, have them order a few tests. Maybe… But a growl from Sherlock distracted him from those morbid thoughts.
"Sherlock?"
"Mycroft." Sherlock snapped, his hands clenched into fists. "He must have…John, there was a tape recording of my last conversation with Moriarty. On the rooftop. He…there were snipers. Three. If…If I didn't jump…I…Mycroft was supposed to show you all that tape!"
Oh. Oh, John was going to kill that man.
The glare in John's eyes became murderous and Sherlock felt himself shrinking back into the admittedly cardboard-like hospital pillow. He'd seen that look far too many times before and he certainly didn't want to be on the receiving end of what came out of it.
"John, I," Sherlock began to defend, "I promise...I didn't...Mycroft..."
And then John reached out and everything blurred into one and nothing.
The room suddenly became wet and musty, filled with the drip-drip sound of that rusty water pipe and the hoarse wheeze of his interrogator – Nenad he'd introduced himself as – dusted off his desert clothing. The sand wafted over and Sherlock shivered in anticipation. Stretched out as he was, hands high above his head, chest and feet bare, Sherlock had no hope of stopping this. No backup. Mycroft wouldn't even think to look for him for another two days.
"Три дана и још нема звука. Ви импресионирати мене, Енглеза. Ако само једва. (Three days and yet no sound. You impress me, Englishman. If only just barely.)" The man signalled his brawny companion with the short beard and thin cut above his left eye to round Sherlock until the other man stopped just out his line of sight, until he stopped behind him. Sherlock shivered, though he couldn't tell at this point if it was fear, lack of sleep, or the cold that made it happen. The first man snapped his fingers in front of Sherlock's face to get his attention back.
"Питам се колико дуго можете да одоли Саву? Он може бити прилично убедљив ..., ја сам рекао. (But I wonder how much longer you can resist Sava? He can be quite...persuasive, I am told.)" The man grabbed a handful of Sherlock's matted hair and yanked it back. "Ви ћете се изјасни са мном да ми каже своје тајне, Енглеза. (You will plead with me to tell me your secrets, Englishman.)"
"Не држите ... ... твој ... дах (Don't...hold...your...breath)" Sherlock gasped out. Where the rebellious statement came from, Sherlock couldn't be sure. It certainly wouldn't help his predicament. It did nothing but insight his captors. The growl and narrowed eyes of the man in front of him indicated that quite well. As did the sharp nod to the man behind him.
Sherlock braced himself. Not again. Please, not again. But he had to. For John and his ridiculous jumpers and warm friendship. For Greg and his stupidity and open trust. For dear Mrs. Hudson and her busy-bodying and baked goods. For all of them, he had to hold out. He had to hold his tongue and take it.
But, by George, if he wasn't tempted just a little to give in. Especially now, when the braided whip struck against his tender back and knocked the breath out from him. As Nenad grinned, holding his hair back so he could watch all the myriad of emotions that flashed across Sherlock's face. As the water pipe….
"Sherlock, snap out of it, mate."
Drip. Drip. The water came. Snap. Snap. The whip came.
"Sherlock, mate, come on, listen to me."
The man in front of Sherlock blurred as someone else appeared over his shoulder. A short man, well-built, with blonde hair. A man with a warm, worried smile and a cane. A man with hideous jumpers.
John.
"John…" Sherlock whispered as the whip hit again. "John, please."
"Sherlock, listen to me. Can you do that?"
"John."
"None of this is real. It's a flashback, Sherlock, a nightmare."
Sherlock blinked hard, but the dark, basement room stubbornly refused to fade completely. It mixed with an ugly white ceiling and hard…bed? Why was he on a bed? There were no beds in Serbia. There were no…oh…oh then John was right. This wasn't real. This…Sherlock heaved his mind forward and abruptly found himself shaking in John's strong arms.
Tears pooled in his eyes as his back screamed and his brain whited out. Too much, his mind palace informed him. He needed to defrag and reboot. He needed to build up the walls Moriarty and his web had succeeded in tearing down these past few months. He needed…John. John, with his unmasking friendship and honest words. John, with his free advice and snarky jokes. John, with his trusty gun, ready to back him up.
"John," Sherlock whispered.
"Sherlock," John called, watching as his dazed eyes slowly flickered around the hospital, his reactions slow, "Sherlock, come back to me." He called, pulling back from the embrace, reaching out and carefully placing his hand under Sherlock's chin to guide his eyes in the right direction. "Sherlock?" He repeated, watching as the detective's eyes finally connected with his and he blinked slowly.
"John?" Sherlock whispered once more.
"Yes, Sherlock," John nodded softly, "it's me."
And there is it. Not only my first collaboration, but the longest story to be posted in my Sherlock collection.
I hope you enjoyed it.
Since it is my first attempt at co-writing a story, it would be great if you could review and let both myself and Tam know what you thought.
Signed;
ibelieveinguardianangels and Tamuril2