Bring back my memories
It was an accident.
Just stupid accident.
That stupid stupid man who had followed him to their home and tried to kill him.
And John, dear John had done what every soldier do, stepped forward to stop it.
Sherlock closed his eyes.
He could still see it.
The images how John was tripped the man behind, how they had struggled over the gun and the man had pushed John, pushed so hard that John had fell backward, still holding tightly onto a man's hand, pulling him as well with them. A shot had made Sherlock's ears ring. John and the man were gone through the open door to the other side. Sherlock had rushed forward in terror when he realized that they were standing at the top of the staircase. When he got to the door, those two idiots were lying motionless at the lower end of the staircase, John partly below the other man.
Slowly he had descended the stairs, noticing that John was still breathing but the other wasn't.
The man had broken his neck.
Died in instant.
And John had taken the bullet to his left thigh.
"My God!" Mrs Hudson had screamed when she had become to look what was the matter and Sherlock had ordered her to call the ambulance and Lestrade. He had pushed the man coldly away from John.
"John? Can you hear me? Wake up. John!"
And John had opened his eyes and looked him.
"Hurt."
"I know. Be still, and stay awake."
"Can't… move."
Sherlock carefully pushed his blue scarf against the wound. He couldn't know if there was more damage done. It could be that John had damaged his back and worse. But his first worry was the bullet wound.
"You're loosing too much blood John. It maybe hit your artery. Where the hell is that ambulance! MRS HUDSON!"
"Shhh… It's okay…" John had whispered and reached to touch his cheek.
"John?"
John's eyes were empty, so empty that it had frightened Sherlock more than anything ever had. His touch was light, tender. It was as if he was saying good-bye. Then his eyes were closed and the hand was dropped.
Sherlock only remembered that he had screamed John's name.
Then it was just a chaos all over.
The ambulance and the medic.
Lestrade asking questions.
Sherlock buried his head to his knees, covering himself with his hands, but he couldn't go his mind palace now. He wished that he would escape there, forget all this, waiting news from John.
"Sherlock."
Mycroft.
"Go away." He hissed back and felt how his brother retreat but not left the waiting room. He heard him speaking to someone, but couldn't care less whom else there was. Maybe Harry. Of course they had informed the only living relative of John. Maybe Lestrade was still there. Sherlock though that maybe they didn't dare to leave him alone. Maybe it was a wise decision.
Time passed.
Someone tapped his shoulder and he looked up.
"He's out." Mycroft said and Sherlock blinked and slowly rose from the floor.
"Is he… Is he alright?"
"He lost much blood but other than that it seems to be alright. They though that he would wake up by the afternoon."
Sherlock turned to look the clock. Five am. So early yet.
"Can I see him?"
"Ms Watson is now there but after that you can stay. I make sure of it." Mycroft promised. Sherlock just nodded.
He met Harry when she came out of John's room.
They looked each others and again Sherlock though how siblings can be so different. John, caring warm John and this cold woman. But something in her eyes was different now. Something soft.
"Take care of him, will you?" She asked.
"Always."
She rolled her eyes when she left Sherlock alone, his hand on the door handle and he hesitated. He could still feel John's light touch, hear his soft voice and suddenly he realized that he was trembling. He pushed the door open and stepped in and looked John, John who was hooked in the heart monitor. Laying still, only his chest rising slowly.
Sherlock walked closer and took the chair beside the bed and sat.
He looked the hand what had touched him so lightly. How he had for a moment though that this was it, he would be alone again, every waking day.
"You chanced me John. I never though that…"
He took a hold of the hand, wrapping his fingers to his fingers.
"I though I lost you there John."
Love.
Sherlock closed his eyes.
Love and John.
It sounded simple.
It never was.
John would never love him like the way Sherlock wanted it. John who had already lost his love of life. Mary, whose picture stood on the bedside table.
The only thing which Sherlock had never asked anything from John. Thing that he didn't want to know. And John never spoke after the first time.
But Sherlock was happy on his own way.
John lived again in Baker Street with him and that was enough to Sherlock. He didn't want to lose John over something like love.
He freed his hand, pulled away, pushed his feelings, his love, again back to his mind palace. He looked his friend softly.
"Please, wake up soon, will you John?"
And he waited.