L.I.E.S.
"I need you to put everything aside and listen."
It hurt to talk. It hurt to breathe, even, but there were things that he needed to do. There were things that they needed to do. He had to push through the pain, because John - and Mary - needed him right now. They needed him more than he needed pain control right now.
John didn't reply.
Sherlock could hear him breathing on the other side of the phone, though, so he pushed forward. "I don't have time to explain. I need you. John?" he prompted, leaning heavily against the wall. His heartbeat was throbbing in his ears, pounding in time to the beat of silence until
"Where?" John asked emotionlessly.
Sherlock closed his eyes briefly. Good, John was making connections. He had to have an inkling, at the very least. Sherlock appreciated the lack of health questions; he didn't feel like inventing any more lies at the moment. "Leinster Gardens. Twenty-three and twenty-four. Time is of the essence."
"On my way," John replied, and then the line went dead.
Sherlock sighed, dropping his head back against the wall. He forced his mobile back to eye level, sending out a text to Billy. The pieces were falling into place. He needed John, and then he needed Mary. And then he would need morphine. One step at a time.
He met John at the door, gesturing him inside with a feeble wave of the hand. He closed the door firmly behind him and turned around to meet John's gaze. Calculating, clinical, and tinging with concern, now that he was looking at Sherlock.
"You should be in hospital," John said shortly, although he made no move to steady him or drag him back out the door. He just looked up at him evenly, shoulders back, chin raised.
Sherlock nodded once in assent. That he did, and it would be the first place he went after his plan was initiated. "Come with me," he said, instead of speaking anymore about his overall state of health, and unsteadily led the way down the hallway.
John followed silently, dogging his footsteps without making inquiries. Sherlock gestured for him to sit; John sat. If his posture weren't so tense, if his body language wasn't all wrong, Sherlock might have thought it funny.
"You're going to pretend to be me," he said. "You don't need to say anything, I'll be doing the talking. Just sit here," he reached for the collar of John's coat, flipping it up, "and don't move. I'm going to kill the lights, so you'll be a decent silhouette for the purpose." He looked down at him. "Do not move. Whatever you hear, whatever you see," he said slowly, "... don't react."
John looked up emotionlessly. "It's Mary, isn't it?"
Better; John was making the right connections. To be fair, Sherlock had it all laid out for him, tiny pieces that he could click into place in his mind if he allowed himself to entertain the thought. John making those connections, filling in the puzzle pieces, and accepting what was placed in front of him would make this go smoother. Not easier; never easier, Sherlock suspected. But smoother. That was the best that Sherlock could offer right now.
"Watch and listen," he said in lieu of a response. He moved to turn away and then narrowed his eyes, reaching back to push his fingers through John's hair. He only got the tiniest bit of a frown out of his friend for the motion, but Sherlock nodded and took a step back. He would do.
His phone chirped in the silence, the text from Billy stating Mary had just driven up. Sherlock looked back at John again before turning away, retreating to the entrance. His fingers brushed over the switch for the lights, ice cold against his shaking fingers. He looked down the hallway at John, awaiting the second all clear from Billy. John stared back at him blankly. Sherlock would have tried to make it better if he had the energy, explain more, offer support. But he couldn't dredge up the will to do any of it, and as his phone chirped again between his fingers, he simply nodded slightly to him.
John acknowledged with a miniscule nod of his own, stock-still and expression locked.
Sherlock closed his eyes for a millisecond and took a breath. He pressed the speed dial for the burner that Mary had been given, and pushed on the light switch as he raised the phone to his ear.
There was no going back now.
Having spent the latter half of the week and weekend rewatching the entire three series for my birthday, I decided I needed to write a ficlet for this scene. I would have love to seen it played out on screen, but alas. Fanfiction is my refuge.
I do not own Sherlock. Thanks for reading!