This story is rated M for future chapters. It is Johnlock, m/m Slash, there will be sexy times. Be warned. If Slash isn't your cup of tea, look elsewhere!
This is the first story I have written that I have had the nerves to post for the public to see. Please read and review. I have additional chapters ready to publish, let me know if you are interested! I will try to respond to all reviews.
I do not own these characters, this world, or a yacht. I simply bow at the feet of Moffat/Gatiss.
I sighed and flopped onto the couch. "Bored!" I shouted. "BORED!" My only answer was silence. Raising my head a bit, I peered about the study. Dust floated lazily in the pale sunlight entering through the twin windows. The fridge hummed steadily in the kitchen. Below, I could faintly make out the sound of Mrs Hudson's kitchen cabinets closing softly.
"John!" Silence. I rolled my eyes and huffed. I pushed my head firmly back against the couch pillows and glared at the ceiling. Dull. Everything is so dull. I ran through a list of activities to pass the dull, boring minutes until something slightly less dull should happen. Violin? I opened my left eye slightly and gazed across the room to where the violin case rested beneath the window. No. Too far away. Computer? No. The sodding computer is even further than the violin!
I sighed again and opened my eyes to resume my staring match with the ceiling. I pulled my dressing gown tightly around my chest and wriggled my bare toes under the cushions near my feet. I was midway through deducing each tiny crack and ridge in the ceiling when my phone assaulted my ears. My head snapped to the left and I glared maliciously at the device.
"John! John, my phone is ringing!" Again, there was only silence. "John, it's clear over by the fireplace!" I whined. The phone persisted in its racket. I sighed once again and sprang to my feet. I walked across the coffee table and retrieved my phone from next to my armchair. Mycroft Holmes the screen read. The phone ceased ringing. Good, I thought and was about to toss the device onto the seat of the chair when the noise resumed. Upon seeing the name Lestrade, I immediately answered.
"Lestrade. Do you have a case? Text me the details, I'll be there straight away!" I began to shrug out of my dressing gown as I headed to my bedroom to change. A case! A sure cure for this dull and drab afternoon. I was about to hang up when Lestrade began to speak.
"Sherlock. Did Mycroft reach you yet?" I detected a bit of panic in his voice.
"No, is everything alright?" I began assembling a list of situations that could cause Lestrade to panic. Not a routine murder, no. He'd handled too many of those by this point in his career. Was his flat on fire? No, Mycroft wouldn't have phoned. I ran through ten more theories before Lestrade continued speaking.
"It's John. There's been an accident. He's at Bart's." I stopped in the darkened hallway just outside my bedroom door. I couldn't breathe. My heart was pounding in my ears. John's been hurt. How? Where? A knife? Shot? Plane crash? No, he wasn't due to travel anywhere. Or was he? Was Dublin this week? No, that was months ago. Wasn't it?
"Sherlock? Are you still there? Sherlock?"
I took a deep breath. "Yes, I'm here. What's happened? Is he alright?"
"He's stable but in Intensive Care. He was in a cab. Another car, it ran a light and hit John's cab. The cabbie… he didn't make it. John's arm is broken and he's badly bruised. He… he's asking for you, when he's awake. Will you come?"
"Yes. Yes, I'm on my way now. Thank you." I disconnected the call and rushed into my room. I threw open my wardrobe and snatched a shirt and a pair of trousers off the hangers. Hooking the last button on my shirt, I leaned down to tie my shoes. A drop of water landed on the back of my hand. Curious. Was there a leak somewhere up on John's floor of the flat? I looked towards the ceiling and my vision blurred. I blinked furiously and more water slid down my cheeks and onto my neck. I wiped at my eyes with the back of my hand. Tears. Was I crying? I don't cry. Sometimes for a case, in order to make a point, but I certainly don't cry because of emotions.
Was I having emotions? Lestrade clearly said that John is stable. A broken arm. Those heal. He's stable, I repeated to myself. He'll be fine. I blinked away the couple more tears and finished tying my shoes. I all but sprinted through the flat, down the stairs and out onto the sidewalk. Along the way I had snagged my coat from the hook and swirled it onto my shoulders
I stared blankly into the street. I was about to hail a cab when I remembered Mrs Hudson. I fumbled with my key in the lock and after an agonizingly long three seconds, the lock gave way.
"Mrs Hudson!" I shouted from the foyer. "Mrs Hudson!" She opened her door and gave me a puzzled look.
"What is it, Sherlock? Why are you shouting?"
"John. He's… car crash. I…" Blast. More tears rolled down my face. Mrs Hudson rushed towards me.
"Sherlock, dear," she folded me into a hug. "Tell me what's wrong. Is he alright?"
I took a shuddering breath, trying to steady myself, as more of those sodding tears fell into her hair. "Lestrade says he is stable. Broken arm. A lot of bruising. He's in and out of consciousness. I'm… on my way there now."
"Good, yes," she relaxed her grip on me slightly and leaned back to look upon my face. "Dear, you hurry on to the hospital. I'll prepare you a nice meal. I'll put it in your fridge. Be sure to give him my love, yes?" She released me fully and gestured to the front door. "On your way, now!"
"Yes. Right. Thank you, Mrs Hudson," I hurried back out to the street and hailed myself a cab.
A half an hour later saw me arriving in front of Saint Bartholomew's Hospital. After paying the cabbie, I stood in front of the building for a moment to collect myself. The cab ride across London had been terrifying. Terror. Another emotion? Why, after so many years, was I feeling emotions now? I had found myself looking frantically in all directions at every intersection. Had the cabbie seen the car coming? Had John?
I fished my phone out of my coat pocket and reviewed the text Lestrade had sent at some point during my journey. I memorized John's room number and forced my feet to carry me inside.
