He hated admitting that he was human. He hated that he didn't anticipate this happening. This night had gone completely wrong.
They had been overwhelmed with cases. He took on more than he could manage, throwing himself into his work. That night, Sherlock had gone undercover for one of his cases while John went to gather information from a family whose son had suspiciously and suddenly died.
Sherlock's cover was blown.
The drug dealers who discovered Sherlock's true identity sent out a hit on John Watson after Sherlock managed to escape from their grasp. They knew that John was Sherlock's weak spot. It seemed like EVERYONE knew that John was Sherlock's weak spot. It drove Sherlock mad to know that criminals could easily manipulate him – even with Moriarty long gone, it's like the mad man told everyone he could about how easy it was to take down the world's only consulting detective. Sherlock believed that if anything happened to John, it would probably be Sherlock's fault. He realized it probably made him a bit protective, but he couldn't live with himself if anything happened to John. Bit he supposed that was the whole point.
None of that mattered now.
Sherlock had tried to get to John as fast as he could to warn him. He cursed at the unfortunate cabbie that picked him up that night. He had tried calling and texting John on his mobile, however John hadn't responded.
He went to the house where John was supposed to be interviewing the family. The door's lock had been broken and there was a light on in the kitchen. Sherlock rushed in. Ms. Richards, the mother of the boy who had died, was lying dead in the kitchen, having suffered a blow to the head probably causing a subdural hematoma. He continued checking each room. He went up the stairs and he realized he wasn't alone when he ran into a man, presumably the hit man as he was walking in the darkened upstairs hallway. Sherlock was overcome with a rage he'd never felt before. He quickly disarmed the man of his gun, repeatedly kicking and punching the man until he lay unconscious on the floor. It seemed to him that the lessons he'd learned while dismantling Moriarty's network were good for something after all.
He burst into the dark bedroom and flipped the light switch. There he was, lying on the floor, unconscious.
"John!" shouted Sherlock.
"John, can you hear me?"
John didn't move.
Sherlock placed his ear on John's chest to listen for anything, a breath or heartbeat. But it was silent. His eyes were roving over John's body, looking for trauma or injury of some sort, but he couldn't see any blood or other obvious signs of injury. He checked his pulse as well and immediately started performing CPR.
His thoughts raced.
This can't be happening, this can't be happening….
CPR – Cardio Pulmonary Resuscitation.
Place hands one over the other on the patient's chest, and press 30 times to move precious, oxygenated blood out of the patient's heart and to their vital organs.
Check that they are breathing… John most definitely was still not breathing…
Rescue breathing – Two gentle breaths are forced into the patient's lungs by the rescuer, either by mouth-to-mouth resuscitation or using a special mask.
A quick memory flashed through his thoughts of John's voice and the smell of chlorine.
"I'm glad no one saw that…" John said through heaving breaths.
"Hmm?"
"You ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool… people might talk."
"People do little else."
They'd smirked and chuckled, briefly alleviating the stress of the moment.
Sherlock wanted to ask John what he thought people would say now, Sherlock's lips pressed against his as he willed his air into John's lungs.
It was driving him crazy that he couldn't laugh this off with his best friend. There was no humor dark enough or twisted enough to lighten the mood. He started the chest compressions again.
"…16, 17, Come on, John… 21, 22, 23…" he whispered as he felt something wet drip onto his hand. Was the roof leaking?
Before he could finish the thought, paramedics burst into the room. Sherlock didn't even acknowledge them.
"Sir, please let us take over... Sir! Sir!" one paramedic shouted at him…
A paramedic put his hands on Sherlock to try to pry him away from John, but Sherlock turned around and tried to punch him in the face. The other paramedics intervened. A quick scuffle began but was ended quickly by an authoritarian presence that entered the room.
"Enough!" yelled Mycroft. "Sherlock let them work."
"No! Mycroft. Mycroft…"
Mycroft pulled him up off the floor where he had been busy trying to save John's life, and sat him down on the bed. Sherlock was sobbing. The paramedics were working on John, calling out vitals and shouting CLEAR as they attempted to bring John back.
It was too much. The light, the sounds, and the colors were all jumbling together. The adrenaline pumping through Sherlock's veins made him shake and made him feel like he needed to do something productive, after all, this was his fault. He squeezed his eyes closed and placed his elbows on his knees, sinking his head into his hands.
"Sherlock, pull yourself together."
Sherlock's eyes shot up angrily at his brother. "SHUT. UP. You don't understand this!" Sherlock shouted.
"What don't I understand?" Mycroft quizzically inquired, calm as ever.
"This is MY. FAULT. If John dies here tonight, I can promise you that you will never see me again. If he goes, I go. There is no life worth living without John in it, especially if I was the one that drove him out of it. So just SHUT UP for once in your life!" he barely choked out the words, but still managed them at a break neck speed. He looked away, tears filling his eyes once again.
Mycroft looked at his brother. He'd always tried to monitor him, tried to protect him. Sherlock had a difficult childhood. He struggled to make friends and suffered from hypersensitivity and Autism. Today he may be considered high functioning, but the symptoms of Autism are clear, even to an untrained professional. He still struggles in social situations. When he gets agitated or frustrated, he taps, rocks, paces, and even pretends to play the violin in his left hand, tapping out rhythms against his thumb and fingers, as if his thumb were the fingerboard. His intelligence worked in his favor though – he taught himself how to manage his more telling atypical behaviors, thanks to their mother. She never put the responsibility on Mycroft, but being the eldest brother, Mycroft felt he should also protect his brother, from bullies, from drugs, from criminals… But their mother had a gentle patience with him that no one else seemed to have.
That is, until John Watson started hanging around. Mycroft had searched his background and reputation. At first, Mycroft didn't trust him…but then… Sherlock started to change. He started to care. Mycroft was worried that John was going to get him into trouble… and at times, he did. But John also cared. He was there for Sherlock on the bad days. So, Mycroft allowed the friendship. John filled a void for Sherlock…
If John were to die now, Mycroft wasn't sure that Sherlock would be ok. He didn't know if he would survive it, and that was even before his most recent declaration.
"Sherlock…" Mycroft whispered. "We will get through this. I have been there for you before… I will always be there for you…"
"Sir?" Said a paramedic to the Holmes brothers.
"Yes?" responded Mycroft, looking up from his brother.
"We got him back. He's breathing."
"Oh thank God," sighed Sherlock.
"Thank you" said Mycroft.
They stood and watched as John was taken on a stretcher to the ambulance.
"Sherlock, you need to take a break from these cases. The police will manage without you." Mycroft said.
Sherlock looked at his brother, tears in his eyes.
"I need to get to the hospital." Sherlock said, grabbing his coat.
"Go." Said Mycroft.
Author's note: Thanks for reading! I'm not sure where this story is going to end up. I have a general outline, but it's taken me while to get this first chapter to a place where I feel like it is shareable. Please comment on or favorite the story and let me know what you think!