"Sherlock? Sherlock wake up!" John's voice was panicked and confused as he dropped beside his best friends limp form, shaking him. They had got back from the yard only a few minutes ago, the case had been cracked, the little girl found and returned to her overly thankful parents.
Sherlock hadn't said anything the entire way home, which was unusual for the both of them. They were usually bursting with excitement and exhilaration, the least amount of time taken on the case, the better. This one had took little over a week and John had assumed that the reason Sherlock had been so subdued on the way back had been the simple reason that Sherlock hadn't met his personal quota, his expectations. He often bullied himself mentally for not getting it done quick enough and John was always the one to convince him otherwise, that without him, the idiots at Scotland Yard (discounting Greg of course) would never have found the killer, solved the crime, found the missing person etc. Sherlock, for the most part seemed to listen to him.
He found his heart thumping in his chest and his stomach heaving unnecessarily as he quickly ran his skilled eyes over Sherlock's body. The shock began to leave and his doctoring instincts kicked in as he dialled 911 with one hand. The other hand had found Sherlock's pulse. John pressed his fingers against the side of his neck and counted in his head, asking the ambulance to come to 221B Baker Street as soon as was humanely possible. He hung up and gave up on counting, the pulse was too weak and thready to be able to count.
John put his hands either side of Sherlock's head and lightly brushed some dark curls out of the man's face. He instantly noted the feverish flush of his normally pale cheeks, the heat coming from him, the shallowness of his breathing.
"Oh Sherlock." He whispered. His chest tightened and he grasped his hand, Sherlock's long pale fingers clenched tightly in his own.
He sat like that for ten agonising minutes, his eyes staring fixedly at Sherlock's face, his chest, back to his face. His hand was going numb from holding on too tightly and as the sound of sirens got louder, he called down to Mrs Hudson, refusing to let go of his hand. "Let them in! It's Sherlock!" He called, trying to keep his voice steady.
The paramedics peeled him away and Mrs Hudson put a hand on his shoulder. "What's the silly sod done now." She said with a weak smile on her face, though she sounded oddly close to tears. John just looked blankly at the doctors swarming around him, 'Please let him be okay.' He thought to himself, 'Oh please let him be okay.'
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
John sat in the waiting room, a cold cup of coffee on the floor beside his feet. The door to the hospital opened and Lestrade strode in, heading straight for John.
"I just got a call from Molly, What on earth happened John?"
John rubbed his eyes, a sigh falling from his lips, "I don't know. He just…collapsed, I don't know how. I was making tea and then I just heard a crash." He said quietly and pinched the bridge of his nose with a heavy sigh.
"I'm sure it's nothing." Greg tried his best to soothe John. He knew how close him and Sherlock were, they seemed to slot together like two pieces of a jigsaw. It was pretty extraordinary how well they worked together. John seemed to be the only one that could make Sherlock feel better, the only one who could make Sherlock listen to him when he would listen to no one else. He would force him to eat, to sleep. He had to physically shove food at him and coax him into bed with the promise of John working while he slept. And here he was now, he had obviously not been watching close enough. Because Sherlock could be like a little kid sometimes, John had to constantly watch out for him. When it was in the lab or the mortuary or somewhere where Sherlcok was in his element than he was fine but when it came down to things that Sherlock classed as irrelevant or unimportant, such as eating, walking out in front of cars, taking unknown pills for an experiment, then John had to baby him almost, keep an eye on him constantly. So what had he done wrong? What hadn't he watched? What had he missed?
Feeling utterly miserable, John pushed his hands through his sandy blonde hair and shook his head. Slowly with hesitance filling his features, Lestrade reached over and patted John on the back.
"You watch he'll be right as rain in no time, pissing us all off no doubt." He chuckled throatily and withdrew his hand, nodding slightly.
"Thank you for coming." John tried to smile. He felt a little perturbed at Lestrade's gesture of comfort.
"That's okay John."
John had just drifted off, leaning forward, his head on his knees when a male voice spoke and Lestrade nudged his shoulder.
"Doctor Watson?" the doctor spoke, inclining his head into a room. "He's asleep but stable. You can go in if you would like." He flashed a small, embarrassed smile and headed off down the corridor.
John stood up, rubbing his eyes and quickly headed into the room. His first thought and action was to sit beside the bed that Sherlock was in and to take a hold of his hand. He held it gently, just revelling in the fact that he was alive.
The sounds of the room slowly came to register in his lethargic mind, he was exhausted after days without sleep. At the beeping sound, he looked up from Sherlock and at the machines and tubes.
Dropping Sherlock's hand, John walked to the foot of the bed and picked up the clipboard hanging off the railing. His eyes skimmed the pages, his brow creasing. Sherlock's body had begun to shut down. Malnutrition, dehydration, exhaustion. Jesus Christ. John really couldn't take Sherlock's word for it could he? All week he had been swearing up and down to John that he had been eating, had in fact been sleeping when John had been. He was going to have to literally watch him like a hawk, the bastard. The stupid, lying bastard. He knew how he got during a case, It became all consuming, he wouldn't let his mind enter anything that he deemed unnecessary to the case. But John had been doing his usual prompting all week, all his pushing to ensure that something like this didn't happen to Sherlock. Yet here they were.
"You're a fucking bastard you know that Sherlock? When you wake up I am going to kick your lying ass all the way to the Thames!" He growled.
He stared at the unresponsive figure for a few minutes and returned to the seat by the bed, his anger ebbing away as he watched the dark matted curls on the man's head, stared at the pale pallor of his best friends body. He shook his head sadly and sometime between watching Sherlock breathing and curling up awkwardly on the chair, he fell asleep.
Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
"John?" A croaky voice invaded his dream. Something poked him in the shoulder and he complained sleepily, batting at the hand. A throaty chuckle met his resistance and his eyelids flew open. He jerked upright, wincing as his muscles ached in protest.
"Sherlock!" John cried and then closed his mouth tightly at the smile that crossed the man's lips.
"Hello John." Sherlock said matter of factly, looking down disdainfully at the wires sprouting from his arms. He quirked an eyebrow and placed his long slender fingers on one of the larger tubes, they tightened around it and just as he began to pull, John was standing over him in a flash, his hand over Sherlock's.
"Don't. You. Dare. Sherlock." His voice was low and husky, just barely containing the anger he was feeling. Each word was enunciated carefully, his teeth gritted together. Even Sherlock didn't dare argue with him. He slowly slid his hand out from under John's and gave a tight nod. "Fine." Completely unlike Sherlock. He really must have been feeling like crap to agree with him.
Once john was sure that the equipment was going to be left in the rightful place, he sat down in his usual position; sitting straight, not just straight, but the straightness one only achieves by years in the army. His hands were clasped together and rested in his lap.
They sat in an awkward silence before Sherlock cleared his throat and sat up, his face screwing up.
"Umph." He huffed as the hospital gown he was wearing made a crunching sound. He looked up at John quizzically, for the first time in his life looking genuinely confused. He looked as if he had finally realised where he was.
"John…" He said slowly, "What am I doing here?" He scanned his brain, entered into his short term memory, ruling out the possibility of poison, any kind of head injury and being shot. His only pain was a dull and occasional shooting pain in his stomach and the pressure at the back of his eyes which suggested a migraine was on its way. Amazed that he hadn't already checked he flexed his limbs, all seemed fine so he focused on the pain in his abdomen.
The pain seemed to be emanating from each of his sides, just under his ribcage. So his kidneys then. How strange. Before Sherlock could continue with his self-evaluation, John spoke.
"You're a bastard you know that Sherlock?" His voice was resigned and just plain tired.
"I'm aware John." He said dryly. "But what exactly did I do this time to emit such profanity from you?" If he hadn't have known any better, he would of said that he sounded vaguely upset.
John simply threw him the clipboard and sank back in his seat. He watched Sherlock's face as he ran his eyes down the page, his lips flattening into a grim expression. "You know how I get John." His voice was almost pleading as he chucked the clipboard to the end of the bed.
"Yes I do Sherlock." His voice was strained. "But I had no idea you were a liar." He realised he had said the wrong thing when Sherlock's face actually spasmed and pain flickered through his moss coloured eyes. He recovered quickly, shrugging lightly.
"I am not a liar John. I have no idea what y…" He was cut off as John groaned exasperatedly, "You haven't been eating Sherlock! Despite you swearing up and down you had!" John's face had become flushed with anger and his knuckles were white from clenching so hard on his knees.
"John please." Sherlock said mournfully as he reached out and unclenched John's hand from his leg and held it in his own, leaning forward earnestly.
"John I swear I have been eating and sleeping. I only do it for you for christs sake!" He looked at John's face, letting his emotions colour his own.
John studied his face for a couple of minutes and nodded finally. "I believe you Sherlock." He gently squeezed his hand and watched as Sherlock lay back in the bed, his eyes shutting as he stifled a yawn.
The door opened and in walked Mycroft, umbrella hitting the floor with each step.
"John." He said curtly and nodded, shaking his hand as John stood up. He flashed a smirk at Sherlock's figure, "Psychopath."
"Why are you here Mycroft? " Sherlock replied tiredly, "Putting on the weight again are we?"
John left to avoid the sibling rivalry. To his shock, Lestrade was still sitting outside. He stood up as John basically stumbled out the room, rubbing his eyes.
"Want me to take you home John?" Lestrade looked sympathetic.
"Please." John whispered.
John awoke from his slumber to his phone vibrating on the table beside him. He rubbed his eyes and squinted hatefully at the device juddering about. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and glanced at the glowing dots on his beside clock. 5 am. He had been asleep for little over three hours. Lestrade had driven him home and hadn't even crossed the threshold into 221B. He had excused himself and John had thanked him sullenly, dragging his exhausted body into the kitchen. He had crawled into his bed, unable to drift off. His mind just kept churning until he had eventually drifted into a fitful sleep.
He picked up his phone and stared down at the caller ID. Mycroft. But of course it would be the elder Holmes brother calling him when the sane people of the world were asleep.
"What?" John's voice was unusually hostile but could anybody blame the man?
"John." Mycroft said in his usual scathing monotone, although it the tension was clear and he could almost hear him clenching his teeth over the line.
John dragged a hand through his sandy hair and sat up. When he spoke the exhaustion was clear. He sighed heavily, "What do you want?"
"I need you to make your way out the house and into the car waiting outside. This conversation would be easier face to face." And with that he hung up.
"God dammit!" John shouted and walked into the bathroom. He ran the tap and splashed cold water over his face and eyes, blinking through the water. Walking back to his bedroom, he changed swiftly into a clean pair of jeans and a jumper.
Entering the black car that was outside, he nodded curtly at Anthea and sat back in his seat, staring out the window as the car took off.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
John stepped out just as the car had stopped and looked up into a mansion like building. Actually… No like about it. The place was freaking huge. At any other time, John Watson probably could of appreciated the huge house and all the money that must have been poured into it. But right now all he wanted was his bed and a cup of tea. Was that really so much to ask for?
Evidently the answer was yes as he was lead into the back of the house, his feet dragging slowly. He walked into a room and the door was shut beside him. Without waiting for an invitation he sank into a seat across from Sherlock's brother.
"John." Mycroft twiddled his thumb over the handle of his umbrella as he placed against his chair. "We have a few things to discuss don't you agree doctor?"
John almost growled, "Mycroft just tell me why the hell you dragged me here this early in the morning!"
"John please." The retort was not only scathing but…pleading?
John sat back, pressing a hand to his temples. He could feel a migraine pulsing behind his eyes. He nodded swiftly, "This is about Sherlock right?"
Something unintelligible flashed in Mycroft's eyes and he himself nodded curtly. "I always promised my mother and myself that I would keep Sherlock safe." The words seemed almost painful. It was obvious that Mycroft didn't want to be admitting this to John but that he had to. "And the first time I failed. Truly failed I didn't know what to do with myself. I was only eighteen. My father was absent in some far away land, my mother was in her room constantly. And I, for the first time in my life failed to notice what was going on right in front of my eyes. When I got the call from the hospital, I was utterly confused." He took a deep breath as if discussing all of this was such a feat for him. "Sherlock had overdosed on Heroin. He assured me that he was not trying to kill himself and that he had simply been bored. Bored, who overdoses out of boredom? That John, was the moment I knew that something was wrong with my brother." He shook his head and sat back, his eyes weary.
"I don't see where this is going..." John said finally, rubbing his eyes with a fist.
"It means that you have to look after him john. I have failed and besides," He paused, his smile amused and quizzical. "Sherlock never did and never will listen to me. But you're different John. He will listen to you and that is why you have to protect him. Even if he is…"
"An insufferable git." John cut in as he stood.
"Exactly." Mycroft's face was flushed and he ran a hand down his suit, flattening out the non-existent wrinkles in the fabric. He shook John's hand firmly and John was left to find his own way out. The conversation ran round his head as well as a hint of annoyance. Did Mycroft really have to have dragged him out of bed? Really? He looked down at his phone and saw a new messaged.
' John please get down to St Bart's right away. I made a nurse cry and now the doctor is threatening a psych ward. He won't seem to listen to me when I tell him that I'm not crazy. He's just angry because his wife is cheating on him with another doctor. A woman might I add.
SH'
Dragging a hand over his eyes, almost able to imagine the whine Sherlock would have given had he have been able to say the words. He sighed heavily and pocketed his phone, heading to the hospital to sort out the mess his best friend had made.
Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
He stood with Molly in the lab, a cup of coffee clutched in his hands. He was content to just watch Molly potter around. He knew he couldn't go home. Sherlock wouldn't allow him to leave the confines of the hospital in case he needed him for something else. The problem with the crying nurse and doctor had taken an awful long time to sort out and another hour had passed before he had left Sherlock in the hands of the staff.
He had bumped into Molly Hooper and she had taken one look at his fatigue etched face and had dragged him into the lab, thrusting a hot coffee in his hands.
Molly pulled off a pair of gloves and came to stand beside him, her face delicately flushed as she smiled kindly. John felt his own lips twitch in response. Molly was always so nice to him, to everyone. Even Sherlock and he was a complete ass to her.
Placing his empty cup on the side he pushed himself up. "I guess I better…" The sentence trailed off and John's steps faltered, the corners of his vision darkening.
"John?" Molly asked and quickly put an arm around him, guiding him to the floor and placing his head between his knees. She may work mostly in the lab or the mortuary but she had training to become a doctor. Molly ran a reassuring hand down his back, her face etched with worry. They stayed like that for a long time until John lifted his head and the room stayed mostly where it should have been.
Molly gently ran a finger over the bruises underneath the man's eyes. "Jesus John. What are you doing to yourself?"
John was simply so exhausted that he didn't flinch away from the fingers, he didn't say anything, just watched Molly with his slightly feverish gaze. His eyes were red rimmed and watery, his head pounding in time with his pulse.
His phone buzzed and a groan escaped his lips. He pulled it out of his pocket and glanced down at the screen.
"Lestrade?" John spoke quietly, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"John we need you to come to the yard. Please? "
John heard whispers and the sounds of sirens in the background.
"Can't you come here and ask Sherlock? I was going to go to bed.."
"John please. We're in way over our heads here."
At Lestrade's pained voice John nodded and sighed into the phone. "I'll be right there."
"Thank you John."
John stood slowly, Molly holding onto his arm. All her bumbling nervousness was gone and genuine concern had clouded any other emotion. "John please go home. Lestrade can wait." Her voice was pleading and John shook his head, trying to smile reassuringly. "What would Sherlock do?" Sherlock would push aside his exhaustion, the pain ripping through his skull. He would put a case and everything else before himself. Jesus. What was it coming to? John was now identifying with the man just seven hours earlier he had been furious with.
He nodded and smiled at Molly, walking out of the lab and walking briskly to Sherlock's ward. He popped his head around the curtain and found Sherlock sitting up in the bed, his fingers steepled underneath his chin. His face was stormy though his lips were shaped into a pout. "John!" He cried as he saw the blonde head.
"I can't stay for long. Lestrade wants me at the yard."
If possible, Sherlock's pout grew. "How come you get to go have fun and I don't?"
" Because I didn't near damn starve myself."
"That was a complete accident John and you know that." He scoffed.
"I'm fully aware Sherlock." He said dryly, running a hand over his blood shot eyes.
"But John I'm bored." Sherlock harrumphed, sitting back against the railings of the bed.
"I have to go." He said wearily. Sherlock's eyes narrowed and he ran his eyes up and down John. "You haven't slept in… " He counted his fingers, remembering the last time he himself had slept. "Four days? Five? Apart from a few hours here and there. Your clothes have been thrown on, you were rushed getting ready… You..."
"Sherlock stop trying to deduct me. I have to go."
"Fine John." Sherlock fixed him with a glare and John walked out of the hospital, dragging in a large breath of air.
John arrived at the yard swiftly, heading straight into the doors. They slammed shut behind him and he winced loudly, rubbing his temples with his fingers. Lestrade strode out, his face pinched and flushed. He looked tired.
"John." He clapped his shoulder and flashed him a grim smile. "I'm sorry to have had to bring you out. I know you were at the hospital."
Donovan and Anderson were mumbling over by the doors but thankfully stayed out of John's way. It was a good idea.
"A job is a job Lestrade." John said gruffly, "Someone has to fill in for the daft git."
Nodding, Lestrade took him by the arm and lead him into the cool outside. "How is he?" He looked a little out of his comfort zone so John nodded briskly. "Good. Begging to get out. Mopey. Pouty." He said quickly, shrugging. "How about this job then?"
Lestrade smiled gratefully and leant against the wall. "Yes. We've had a call from a house not too far from here. Mother found dead, no sign of forced entry, nothing stolen, the daughter and husband are alive, they were both knocked out and locked in the girls bedroom."
"I don't see the... ah... problem Lestrade. Have you interviewed the daughter? The husband? Asked for any enemies? Anything that could have gotten them into trouble? Debt?"
"Of course we did John. We found nothing. That's why we need you to come to the crime scene. Perhaps you can… deduce something that we have not." He scoffed slightly. "We have officers at the scene."
"Okay, okay. But I'm no flipping Sherlock." He grumbled and rubbed his eyes, pushing off from the wall. Exactly like earlier, he felt the edges of his vision blur and his knees collapse from beneath him. A strong hand grabbed him by the waist and lowered him gently to the floor. He blinked a few seconds later to find Lestrade hovering beside him. "Are you alright mate?" The concern in his voice was genuine as he noted the slight tremor running through the man's body.
"I'm fine. I'm fine." John shook his head and sighed deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"You look fucking terrible." He laughed shakily and held out his hand to haul the shorter guy up.
John dusted himself off and blinked a few times. "Let's not keep them waiting ay?" He slid into the passenger seat of the police car, furtively ignoring the concerned and worried glances being thrown at him.
After an exhausting hour of wondering around every single room of the house, his mind firmly locked in 'Sherlock' mode he had found that the woman had been having an affair. There we not letters but he could tell from the way the bedroom had been set up. Classic state for a marriage on the rocks. He also found a piece of paper in the bin with at least ten lips printed on it in a range of colours. Who tries out new lipstick when you have been married for over fifteen years? Those things don't matter anymore to most people. He was sure that Sherlock could have done a hell of a lot better. John knew that he himself could have done better had his head not been pounding and his vision blurring every couple of minutes.
He headed down the stairs and reeled off his findings to Lestrade, including the name of the man who believed could be behind it. Stupid woman not locking her computer.
Lestrade thanked him and quickly got onto his phone sending out a report for a man called 'Luke Ryans'. He turned back to John just in time to find the man on his knees, his body trembling softly.
"John?" He knelt beside him, a hand on his shoulder, his eyes flashing with worry. "What is going on? Can I call someone? Molly? A doctor?"
John slowly lifted his head, his face creased and pained. His eyes were watering and his face was deadly pale. "I just need sleep. Please take me home." He whispered, no energy left what so ever.
Lestrade wrapped an arm around him and stood up slowly, guiding him into the passenger seat of the car. "I'll be right back." He mumbled and headed back into the house. He moaned softly and raked a hand over his forehead, wincing softly. He looked out of the windscreen and he squinted. He could see a man, about five eight, black hair, jeans, jumper. As he peered closer he noticed spots of red on the man's hands as he made his way from the back of his house. It was entirely possible that he was just one of the detectives but the furtive glances and panicky expression told otherwise. It was him. Luke Ryans. He had been in the house the whole time. The thought made John shudder and he looked towards the front door as the man slid into a car across the street.
Within seconds john had jumped into the driver's seat and had started the car, waiting for the man to pull away before following.
The man in front of him began to speed up, it was obvious that John was following him, he wasn't even attempting to conceal the fact. And so he sped up himself. John was so close to him by now, almost touching the man's bumper.
The car slowed a fraction as a wave of dizziness made john swerve to the left slightly. He recovered quickly and pushed it away, determined to hold onto his consciousness. He could do this. For Sherlock, for Lestrade. He could catch the freaking murderer in front of him.
That was until he near damn passed out, his vision blacking out completely. By the time he had blinked, only a few seconds had passed but that was all it took for the car to skid off the side of the road. The car hit the bank at exactly the wrong angle and it flipped. It finally came to a crashing stop at the bottom on the bank, the car lay on its side, utterly destroyed, smoke pouring from the mangled vehicle.
Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
John could hear noises. A metallic scratching. Scrabbling around him. Was somebody calling his name? His eyes remained shut. He felt something sticky, could smell iron and smoke. It filled his nose and he spluttered weakly. Pain shot through his body.
"John! John wake up!" A males voice called out to him and he felt a heave and heard a creak as something was pulled off him. He sucked in a heaving breath, fighting not to cry against the pain. It was too much. Oh god it hurt. He couldn't take it. And then it was okay because he was drifting again, drifting into the dark as he heard Greg's pitiful shouts of his name.
"John!"
Sherlock looked up from his mobile. He had been texting John and had received no reply. He mumbled under his breath, his brows knitting together and he sat up, fingers steepled underneath his chin. It was terribly unlike John to ignore his messages.
The door flung open and Sherlock raised an eyebrow as Lestrade and Molly walked in. Molly? What on earth. He took them in in an instant. Molly looked teary, wet track marks down her cheek and her hands were shaking visibly. Lestrade looked pained and his eyes were watery, his hands clenched into fists.
Sherlock knew instantly. "What's happened to John?" He demanded, his gaze steely. "Where is he?" He asked as he stood up, swinging his legs off the bed. He held his own despite the pain in his stomach and he walked towards them, slowly, threateningly. "Where. Is. John." He repeated in a low voice.
Greg was the first to speak. "John was in an accident Sherlock. He..." He cleared his throat, flushing softly. "He lost control of the police car he was driving. I was behind him in another car when it happened. He was nearly there, could have cut him off easy but something happened." The image of John on his knees in the house. "He pretty much collapsed earlier, twice. I g…"
Beside him, Molly squeaked. "He came to see me earlier and I had to catch him when he stood up." She whispered softly. "I told him to go home but he wouldn't."
"Because I asked him to come." Lestrade groaned.
Sherlock watched them with a raised brow, pushing past the panic rising in his chest.
"So what are you saying Lestrade?" His voice was mono tone, giving nothing away.
"I guess he collapsed at the wheel. The car hit the bank and…" He gulped, wincing as the sounds of screeching and crashing filled his ears again.
"And he is alive yes?" His tone was threatening, it almost said that 'tell me John is dead and I will personally kill you myself'
"Yes." Molly's voice broke and she dabbed at the corner of her eye. "He's just gone into surgery. The car…"
Sherlock stepped back, tangling his fingers in his dark curls. He paced furiously, pushing past both Molly and Lestrade.
"Sher…" Lestrade began.
"Out!" Sherlock bellowed, pointing his finger at the door.
"But.." Molly squeaked.
"OUT!"
Molly scampered out without looking back and Lestrade said gruffly, "Don't push your friends away Sherlock." Before following the brown haired woman out the room.
Once they had gone, the door closed behind them, Sherlock flounced dramatically into the chair beside the bed. His mind whirring, her pressed to fingers to his lips, resting his legs on his knees. John would be quite alright, of course he would. Because he was John. Nobody else would put up with his insufferable habits, nobody else would tolerate the fingers in the bread bin, the head in the fridge. Nobody else would put up with his insomnia, playing violin in the early hours of the morning, his constant chatter or his abrupt silence. Nobody would understand Sherlock like John. And so John would be okay because if he wasn't Sherlock wasn't sure what he would do.
"Caring is not an advantage." He muttered quietly to himself. It had been his motto but recently John had increasingly begun to seem like an exception.
A couple of hours had passed and Lestrade had knocked on Sherlock's door. Sherlock had been pacing unrelentingly the whole time, hands clasped behind his back, brow furrowed.
"Sherlock. John's out of surgery now. Unconscious, induced coma. But you can see him. He's in ICU." He said gruffly before closing the door and walking off down the hall.
Pausing for a brief second, he tried to collect the thoughts whizzing around his brain like a racing car. He took one deep breath then another. He was alive, hadn't he said so? He had known. He slammed the door open and walked without hesitation to the ICU ward, pausing to ask a perky looking nurse where he was. He was directed into a room with. Only two people lay in beds. One was an elderly woman with a group of people around her, the other was John. His John.
His eyes scanned his best friend's body, adding a list of injuries up in his mind and labelling the list 'never again' before shoving it deep into the depths of his mind palace to never be opened again.
John's face was bruised, dark purple blotches down the entirety of the right side of his face. There was a jagged cut down one cheek but it hadn't needed stitches, his sandy hair was matted and bloody. The hospital gown he was wearing as well as the pathetically thin sheet, hid the rest of his injuries from view. He could however tell by the sheer mass of machines and tubes and the inane beeping coming from them that it was bad. Internal bleeding, broken ribs, punctured lung. He was however pleased to see that the ex-army doctor's head appeared relatively unharmed, no bandages, no serious brain damage.
Slowly, Sherlock sank into a chair beside the bed, sliding his long fingers into John's, clasping his hand gently, fully aware of the IV and other wires.
He sat there for god knows how long until he nurse came to tell him, full of apologies that he had to leave but could return the next day. He left the ward and discharged himself, wondering out of the doors and hailing a cab to 221B.
Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Arriving at the flat, he had to hang around for a few minutes telling Mrs Hudson what had happened, making sure she was okay before excusing himself on the pretence of being 'tired'
He looked at his watch, just after nine pm. He flounced into his armchair, fingers pressed against his lips, the rest of his fingers clasped together. He sat with his feet on the chair, staring at the smiley face he had shot in the wall. He felt a smile pull at the corner of his lips, it faded quickly. His mind drifted back, before as John called it on his blog 'The hounds of Baskerville' case. When he had been bored. So very bored, his mind racing with nothing to entertain him.
' I need some. Get me some.'
'No.' 'Get me some.' 'No. Cold turkey, we agreed. No matter what.'
John had then thrown the packet at him. He had thrown them back, saying now he had a case he didn't need them. How stupid of him. Mind you, his hiding places had not improved. It had taken him less than two minutes to find the packet (hidden in John's shoe)
He sat in his armchair, taking a deep drag of smoke. He exhaled, tipping back his head, letting the nicotine flush his system. It was good, oh yes it was very welcoming but… it wasn't enough. To quench the whirring of his mind, thoughts raced against each other, giving him a headache. And so help him he wanted to drown out the guilt.
Still inhaling deeply, he turned to his room and kicked a hole in the wall. He brought out a little box that Lestrade had been unable to find during his last 'drugs bust'.
He placed it on the bed and opened it, his arms itching, fingers reaching for the needle inside. It had been so long and he couldn't wait.
Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Part Two coming soon! Thank you for reading and I hope you are enjoying it R&R? :3