Sherlock's eyes fluttered open to the artificial, fluttering brightness of fluorescent lighting on cold, grey concrete. His eyes swept slowly over his surroundings, taking in every detail of the large, empty room, dusty from years of disuse and abominably cold. He had on nothing more than his suit trousers and a silk dress shirt; no shoes, socks, or jacket to protect him from the bitter February chill, one of the coldest London had seen in ages. He had already begun to shiver, and by looks of the sun, he had already been here a while.
It had been mid-morning, just gone 9:30, when he had sauntered down the stairs to open the door for what he assumed would be Rosie's new prospective babysitter ringing to be let in for her interview. Thankfully, John had left the interviewing and choosing of said babysitter to him. He opened the door to find not the short, young, blonde woman he'd been expecting, but the barrel of a gun. Before he'd had even the slightest chance to recover his shock and disarm the man, another arm snaked around and jabbed him in the thigh with a syringe. It hadn't taken longer than a minute for him to become nearly unconscious and unsteady on his feet. All they'd had to do was pick him up and toss him in the back of the awaiting van. Then he'd woken up here.
Wherever here . . . was.
He was disoriented from the drug and the cold and without any sounds or smells to identify. Even without the disorientation, he likely wouldn't be able to deduce his location or signal for help, much to his chagrin. It appeared from the slivers of light through the cracks in the plywood that it was past noon by then.
With no evidence to deduce his location and no way to move, as his hands were handcuffed and chained over a pipe and his legs were tied together tightly, he retreated to his mind palace for what minimal entertainment it could offer. Many minutes later a metallic slam broke him from his reverie and his head shot up to see a very large man, a blanket of dark, sinister tattoos covering most of his visible skin, stomping in.
His bald head shone in the harsh white light; his eyes glistened black onyx, hard and cold. He stepped forward towards Sherlock's huddled, shivering figure on the ground and pulled a gun out from his waistband. Despite his vulnerable position, Sherlock glared at him from the floor as if daring him to come closer, a dare the man gladly ignored. He towered over Sherlock, eyes shadowed darkly with the light behind him, and peered down his nose at his hostage.
"Welcome, Mr. Holmes, to your grave."
John paced, back and forth, back and forth. Incessantly. He hadn't kept still for longer than a few seconds since he'd arrived in Lestrade's office, Rosie perched on his hip, breathless with anxiety and exertion. He'd stormed into the room without knocking and just stood there breathing heavily for a moment while Greg stared at him with wide eyes.
"John. John! What's wrong?" John didn't respond. "John." Lestrade spoke slowly, deliberately. "What. Is. Wrong?"
"Sherlock. Sherlock's gone," he'd whispered, voice breaking.
"What do you mean gone? John? You need to tell me what's happened." Lestrade got up and tried to lead John to the seat before the desk, but the second his hand made contact with John's arm it seemed to jolt him back into action and he started pacing the floor.
"I got a call from Rosie's school while I was at work! Sherlock hadn't picked her up from school! They'd called him, and when he didn't pick up, they called me. I got off and picked her up and went back to Baker street. Empty! Not a soul in sight! You know Sherlock, he's religious about getting her from school, hasn't missed a day, not even when he had that flu and could hardly leave the sofa. I called and called and called but no answer. It's like he's disappeared and I am this close to calling his brother." He'd grown hysterical in his retelling of the day, his face becoming increasingly red and voice pitching steadily higher.
"How long's it been since you called him, John? I'm sure he's fine, probably just got distracted by a private case. Let's try him again." Greg was concerned, but he had to keep face for John and Rosie's sake. The tyke had been silent since they'd arrived, sucking her thumb eagerly and taking in the new scenery, but she had an air about her, like she could sense the tension and knew to be calm.
Greg pulled out his cell phone and opened Sherlock's contact. "Let's just see if he answers. Okay? If he doesn't, then we'll call Mycroft." He tapped the call button and held the phone out on speaker so the whole room could hear the tinny ring waiting for Sherlock to answer. It rang and rang. Then there was a click and it stopped mid-ring.
"Hello?" sung out a rich baritone.
"Hey! Sherlock! You alright?"
"Yes. Of course. Why wouldn't I be?" he drawled.
"You didn't get Rosie from school. When John tried to call you to find where you were you didn't respond. He was scared shitless. Where are you?"
"I got distracted in an experiment and couldn't see the time. I've only just managed to extricate myself."
"So, everything is fine?"
"Yes. Everything is fine, Greg."
"Alright." He hung up the phone and turned to John, whose face was creased with concern, mirroring Greg's own. "John." He nodded stiffly, eyes turned towards the ground. He'd turned even paler and his mouth was clamped shut; he looked like he'd be sick. "He called me by name." He clenched his eyes shut and and nodded his head emphatically.
"Yeah. Greg. Yup. That he did," he whispered haltingly. "Jesus."
"You think he meant it like a code? A distress signal?"
"Why else would he do it? He never just does something. There is always a reason, no matter how stupid it might seem." John sat down in the chair in front of the desk, finally, his shoulders slumped and head lolling wearily. "Something has to have happened to him."
"I -" Greg started.
"He's fine, boss. I'm sure of it. He's just playing around, making everybody worried so he can make his dramatic entrance later and save the day! Just being melodramatic! Like. Always," Sally spat out from the corner. Her jaw was set tight with irritation, eyes glinting a steely dark brown.
"Sally. Really? You think so?" Greg said suspiciously.
Before she could respond, Anderson called out from his side of the room. "Boss. Greg -" he said defeatedly, guilt lacing his voice and overtaking his face. "Remember what happened last time we doubted Sherlock Holmes?"
Both Greg's and Sally's mouths fell open in shocked O's and John turned even paler. His head shot up to stare at Anderson. "Oh. Christ." Greg breathed out low. A moment passed and then both Greg and John jumped into action: Greg to his desk phone, simultaneously making frantic phone calls and typing furiously on his computer in an attempt to find any idea of where Sherlock might be; John jumped out of his chair and quickly passed off Rosie to Sally, who was still frozen in shock at the words of her colleague. John pulled his coat on just as Greg hung up the phone and they both hurtled out of the room with hardly a word between them, leaving behind an eerily calm, silent office.
Sherlock tapped the end button and tossed the phone up where it was quickly snatched away by the man towering above him, whose gun was still pressed firmly to his temple. He stuffed the phone into his pocket and, with a pointed look at Sherlock, backed away and returned the gun to his waist.
"So, Mr. Holmes -" he growled, "I suppose you're wondering what you're doing here. That is . . . unless you've deduced it," he intoned sarcastically. "Well, in case you and your massive intellect -" Sherlock flinched at the reminder of John - "haven't puzzled it out, I'll just have to spell it out for you." The man chuckled low and deep in his throat and his eyes narrowed slightly. "You put my brother in jail for a crime he did not commit. You said he murdered our sister. Lies!" the man hissed. "My brother would never do such a thing and now he is suffering at your hand," he seethed, pacing the floor angrily.
Ah. Okay. Now it makes sense. Sherlock said to himself. The man who had kidnapped him was kin to New Scotland Yard's then most recent apprehension: A man had slit the throat of his sister in cold blood after he found out she'd been handing information to the police relating to the "family business" - namely, an international drug smuggling ring and infamous London mob, known for its violent execution of anybody who stood in its way. With that revelation out of the way, Sherlock could get a better clue of where he was, not that it would do him much good, as he had no way to tell anybody even if he wasn't being watched by his kidnapper.
"I am sorry to inform you, Mr. Howard, but I'm afraid your brother did kill your sister. The evidence was overwhelming. We didn't even have to dust for prints and the case was almost airtight. Obviously the killer was someone she recognized because there was no sign of forced entry; he left several hairs that were extremely similar to those of your sister; someone saw a man fitting his description leaving the crime scene at approximately the time of death with his hair mussed and acting spooked; the modus operandi was a picture perfect copy of murders associated with your organization; and she was a known police informant against that very same organization. He couldn't have made the case more obvious if he'd left a note." Sherlock scoffed just recalling the simplicity of it. The case had been tiringly simple, but he'd had to oblige Lestrade due to the state their previous acquisition had been returned to the yard in. "Frankly, your brother is an idiot and his idiocy would have caused the downfall of your organization, so you really should be thanking me for getting him out of your way," Sherlock said nonchalantly.
He'd barely gotten the last words out of his mouth when suddenly the steel barrel of the pistol was hurtling towards him. He didn't have so much as a moment to dodge it before it made devastating impact with his temple. A loud cracking sound resonated off of the concrete walls, echoing distantly through Sherlock's pounding head. The world spun before his eyes and blood poured down his face from where the gun had hit him. His thoughts spun more wildly than the room had though.
Oh god, oh god, oh god! I am going to die here. This man, this crazy man is going to kill me and I'll never see John again. I never even told him that I loved him. I told myself over and over when I got back to him I would tell him everything and I didn't because I'm a coward! I spent months being tortured in a freezing cold Serbian cell, starving and exhausted beyond limits, and every day I thought of him, how I missed him. He has no idea how important he is to me! God John! John! All I ever wanted was for you to come save me and bring me home, but I had to keep you safe - I have to keep you safe. I would die for you, thrice over! Anything to keep you safe. Even I didn't realize the true extent of my attachment to you until I had to leave to keep you safe. You have to stay safe! I'll be gone for real this time and I won't be able to save you, to protect you. I know you don't feel the same way, you're straight; but John, I love you. I love you so much and I am so sorry to leave you. I don't want to. I've never wanted to leave you. But I don't really have a choice this time because this thug is going to kill me and you aren't here to save me because you are safe at home at Baker Street with Mrs. Hudson and sweet baby Rosie. Oh god, Rosie! I love you sweetheart! I love you so much. Yes, your Papa Sherlock loves you, even more than he loves your Daddy. Keep him safe love, I won't be able to any more. This time I'm -
"Goddammit just . . . SHUT THE FUCK UP!" the man, Mr. Howard, roared, cutting off Sherlock's dazed musings. He had been mumbling incoherently for quite awhile, it seemed, and Mr. Howard had had quite enough. Unfortunately, Sherlock was far too out of it to take in the demand and simply continued to mumble distressedly. "Mr. Holmes, I swear if you don't shut up I'm going to blow your brains out," he said, unnaturally calm as he pulled out the pistol once more and pressed it firmly to the center of Sherlock's forehead.
Sherlock's eyes widened and he froze, staring up the barrel of the gun pressed between his eyes, which crossed almost comically. Almost immediately he began to grow frantic and tried to pull away from the gun, scrabbling fruitlessly against the smooth cement, but his head was already pushed tightly between the concrete wall and the unyielding steel of the gun.
"No. No. No. No. No. NO! Get away! Get Away! John. John! JOHN, SAVE ME, PLEASE!" Tears poured down his face, mixing with the still wet pour of blood on his cheeks, turning the tears a watery red where they landed on his shirt. "John! John, PLEASE! Oh god, let me live! Dear God, please let me live! I've got to get back to John! John and Rosie and - oh PLEASE! I don't," he hiccoughed through the sobs, "I'm not ready to die! John has to save me! He has to! I've got to tell him that I love him. Please!" He shut his eyes tight and sobbed, hiccoughing and snivelling, still pressing his head back to try and get away.
He continued to mutter under his breath through the sobs and it seemed Mr. Howard had had enough. Sherlock hadn't even a second of warning before Mr. Howard flicked the gun to the left and pulled the trigger. The shot was ear-shattering, but it was nothing compared to the unearthly, blood-curdling cry of agony that escaped from Sherlock as the bullet tore through layer upon layer of muscle, nerve, ligament, and sinew; ricocheting off the bone and ripping through the other side of his right arm, embedding itself in the concrete behind him. He heard just the vaguest echo of the hair-raising cry as darkness overtook his vision and he slumped to the floor.
John and Greg had been in the car for hours, searching every possible location for Sherlock they could find. Mycroft had periodically texted them locations to check, but their efforts had so far been fruitless. The sun was beginning to set and the temperature was plummeting. If whoever had Sherlock wasn't keeping him warm, then it was a race against time to find him before the cold got him, or before the kidnappers did. Mycroft had just sent them another location to try, one he was fairly certain was where they were hiding Sherlock. Once Mycroft had managed to figure out who was behind the capture, it narrowed their search dramatically.
"John, my men are on their way, but you are closer. These people are extremely dangerous. Take care and wait for my men before you enter the building. God knows how many there are, and you've seen firsthand their skill set."
"Yes. Mycroft. We will. We're nearly there; I can see the building."
"Good luck, John. Take care, and bring my brother home." He hung up as Greg parked haphazardly on the deserted street. They pulled on their jackets and grabbed their respective weapons just as two large, black, nondescript vans with tinted windows pulled up in front of them. As they were getting out of their car, Greg and John watched as five heavily armored men poured out of the back of each van, each carrying a large, military-grade assault weapon. Their commander strode up to John and greeted him succinctly with a firm handshake.
"Captain Watson. I'm Captain Wilson. My team and I have already been through the layout of the building and have a tentative plan in place. Two men will take each floor and clear it. Any hostile forces will be dealt with however necessary. We will alternate entrances to prevent any escaping and two more men and myself will patrol the perimeter in the case someone does manage to get out of the building. If any come across Mr. Holmes, we are to quickly disengage any hostile forces around him and guard him until the premises have been cleared. Any physical injury will be assessed upon his discovery and appropriate medical action will be pursued. You and DI Lestrade can take the basement. Enter through the back door. Lewis. Cooper. You two take the first floor. Take the east side door. Warde. Parker. You take the second floor. Enter through the main entrance and take the north side stairs. Lawrence. Bradley. Third floor. You two take the west entrance. Rowe. Slater. You two will take the fourth floor. Enter through the delivery port on the south side. Franklin. Coles. You two and myself will patrol the perimeter. Alright boys. Let's move!" He handed them both walkie talkies and off they went into the building.
John swiftly took the lead as he and Greg approached the back entrance to what appeared to have once been a very old office building, but it was many years out of use. The inside was drafty and dusty, their every footstep bringing up a sizeable cloud of dirt and debris. Many of the walls were either completely collapsed or very near it, sagging under the weight of years of built up mold and mildew. The wind blew freely through the building, whistling through the many cracks and crevices, crying out eerily through the cold, dreary silence of the bitter winter night.
They crept quietly down the dark, echoey stairwell, shoes whispering across the concrete and shuffling small mounds of debris and refuse. Huge caricatures of graffiti peered down at them as they slipped through the heavy metal door and into the basement. It was almost pitch black when they shut the door silently behind them, so they grabbed their torches and switched them on. John led the way down the single, narrow corridor. It was even colder here than it had been on the street and he shivered, the hair on his neck standing up. Eventually they came to a turn in the hallway and, after a quick check for any hostiles, they turned the corner and followed to where they could see a faint glow at the next fork in the corridor.
As they drew closer they heard a deep voice speaking angrily to someone, though only one voice could be heard. When they approached the split John peeked around the corner to see a door slightly ajar, blue-white light pouring out from the opening. They watched for a moment and soon a man passed quickly across the opening, pacing as he spoke on his mobile, words still indecipherable as he was speaking low. A minute passed and John and Greg listened for any other movement in the room to indicate a second presence but found none. The man hung up the phone with a click and when he passed the door again his palms were pressed hard into his eyes. Just as John and Greg were preparing to enter the room and take down the man, they both heard a rustling and they froze, listening intently.
A moment passed and the rustling stilled. Again, just as they were going to make their move, an almost indistinguishable, anguished moan reverberated from the room. A moan that sounded suspiciously like, "Jooohhnnn."
Then John noticed the steadily growing puddle of red that was just barely visible past the door jamb. Before Greg could stop him, John had jumped from their perch and sprinted towards the door.
Sherlock's eye fluttered open and he watched through blurry vision as his captor paced, agitated. His left eye was swollen and pasted shut with dried blood and tears. His whole body throbbed and he was vaguely aware that the shivering had stopped, thankfully. The movement would surely jostle him and increase the already unbearable pain in his head and arm.
John. I want John. He's a doctor, he'll fix me up. He'll bandage my head and my arm and make everything better. John. Lovely John. Where is John? He swept his eye around, searching for the all-too-familiar face of his blogger, in his cuddly woolen jumpers and with his swoopy, silver-blonde hair. Rosie will kiss my boo boos and make them all better, just like John and I do for her. John. Where is John? I need John. He's got to take me home.
Sherlock tried to call out for John, but hardly any sound came out and he feared John wouldn't hear. But then, John always heard. He always came when Sherlock called, always cleaned him up with a firm yet loving touch. He had to make sure, though, that John would hear him and come fix him up. He tried to turn his head to call out for John again, but the movement sent ribbons of shooting, burning, excruciating pain through every synapse in his body. His vision whited out and he called out in pain.
Just as he was blacking out again, he thought he saw John burst through the door near him.
John. John always comes.
John flung open the door and came almost face to face with the bald man they'd seen talking on the phone. He had almost a foot on John, but John had the advantage of catching him off guard. Before the man could so much as twitch towards the gun in his belt, John had delivered a swift shot to his outer thigh. The man had dropped like a stone and yelped out a stiff cry of pain. He quickly attempted to clutch at the gaping wound as Lestrade burst in just a second too late. John ignored the injured man writhing on the cold floor, leaving him to Lestrade, in exchange for collapsing into the pool of blood beside his friend.
Sherlock had slumped down, obviously just lost consciousness again. His hair was matted across his forehead with blood that had crusted across the entire left side of his face. His eye was swollen to massive proportions and already turning various shades of black and inky violet. The rest of his face was deathly pale and his lips were blue. When John reached out to check his pulse, tearing off his gloves and throwing them aside, not only did he find his pulse slow and thready, but the skin there was hardly warm, almost cool to the touch. After checking his pulse and inspecting his head wound, John quickly searched for the source of the rather large puddle of blood forming around them. It didn't take long to find the gaping hole in his arm where blood obviously had been pouring out, but now barely trickled.
His anxiety was at an epic level, but the adrenaline and worry were fortunately manifesting as an intense focus. He called for Greg to signal the rest of the team that Sherlock had been located and they needed an ambulance ASAP. He held up his watch and counted the slow, weak rises and falls of Sherlock's chest.
He ran his hands over the smooth metal digging into the skin of Sherlock's wrists, hoping to find an alternate method of unlocking them in case the key couldn't be found. Sherlock's hands were pale and his fingertips almost to the first knuckle had turned a deep cyanotic blue, both from the cold and the loss of circulation from the handcuffs. He attempted to put pressure on the wound in Sherlock's arm, but the angle was too odd with his arms still suspended awkwardly from the pipe the handcuffs were wrapped around.
Just as he became desperate to undo Sherlock's hands before any more permanent damage could be done, Greg's hand appeared before him holding a small silver key. He quickly snatched the implement from Greg's gloved hand and moved to unlock Sherlock's hands. He motioned for Greg to hold up the limp detective, but when John released his hands from the cuffs, he still fell remarkably fast, Greg not prepared for the full weight of the man. They managed to lay him down gently on the floor and John moved to the injured arm to inspect it more thoroughly.
"He's been shot. Through and through. I see some bone. I can't say for sure what he hit, but he's been bleeding for a while and if we don't get him to hospital quickly and stop the bleeding, he's going to die," John said to Greg. "I'm going to use my belt like a tourniquet, then I'll wrap my jacket around it as a bandage. He's hypothermic, Greg; we've got to warm him up. Don't jostle him, but take off as many layers as you can and put them over his torso. Put the ones closest to your body closest to his so he'll get the body heat."
They both went to work. After John tightened his belt tourniquet and wrapped his thinner hoodie around the wound, he pressed his knee into the wound and leaned on it with as much weight as he dared. As they worked Sherlock started to mumble deliriously. Few of the words could be understood, except John. He kept repeating it over and over again. "John. John. John."
Neither John nor Greg said a word as they hovered around Sherlock waiting for the paramedics to arrive. John's nerves threatened to overwhelm him if he tried to speak, but he had to stay calm if he wanted Sherlock to survive, so he stayed silent.
Several long minutes had passed when the paramedics finally bustled in, gurney between them carrying their bag of supplies. John supplied them with Sherlock's basic medical information - age, weight, and a basic overview of his condition, which wasn't exactly good. They attached electrodes and a finger monitor and took his temperature. His pulse and blood pressure were worryingly low and his temperature dangerously so, 28°C, just on the verge of severe hypothermia.
They loaded him onto the gurney swiftly, covered his face with an oxygen mask, and layered him with blankets. As soon as he was settled and strapped in, they began to make the slow, arduous trip back up the stairs to the first floor. John watched intently as he followed behind but Sherlock did not stir at all. He simply laid limp and unmoving beneath the mountain of blankets.
They exited the building through a corridor of Mycroft's men, each standing stoically at parade rest, mouths turned down in slight frowns. Captain Wilson stood at the end of the line and as John passed he laid his hand briefly on John's shoulder and gave him a solemn nod of encouragement. John gave him a brief half-smile in return and continued on to the ambulance where they had begun loading Sherlock. Another ambulance pulled in as John was pulling himself in behind them. He paused and watched for a moment as the two medics hurried in to get the kidnapper. He grimaced, then pulled himself in fully and shut the doors behind him.
He buckled himself in as the ambulance pulled away from the curb and listened to the slow, rhythmic beep of Sherlock's pulse from the monitor, the only thing keeping him from completely breaking down. He watched as one medic worked on staunching the blood from Sherlock's arm and cleaned the wound before wrapping it firmly in clean, white gauze. The other took to working on his head. Both were working diligently when suddenly the slow beep of Sherlock's pulse stopped, before being replaced with a high-pitched, constant monotone.
Immediately they abandoned his wounds and began to unbury his torso from the blankets. One called out to the driver as she stood up to start CPR. John could only watch in abject horror as Sherlock's ribs caved beneath her fists in an attempt to restart his heart.
A minute passed.
Two minutes.
John was frantic. Babbling to Sherlock's unconscious figure as two supplementary breaths were supplied before the medic started compressions again.
"Dear god Sherlock, you cannot die again. I couldn't deal with the heartbreak, not again. Rosie couldn't deal with the heartbreak. She loves you just like a daughter would a father. She would be heartbroken. You can't do that to her. To us! To Greg, your brother, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, everyone else who loves you because goddammit Sherlock, you are loved! More than you have ever thought you were. Mrs. Hudson loves you, Greg loves you, Mycroft loves you! Dammit Sherlock, I love you! I love you, I love you, I love you, and you cannot do this to me again!" He was yelling the words but hardly any sound came out past the tears. He was losing it. Finally they arrived at the hospital. Several medical personnel came out to meet them as they careened into the ambulance bay. The doors were open before the vehicle had completely stopped and they were tearing the stretcher from the cab, medic still perched precariously on Sherlock's stomach as they wheeled him away.
A nurse stayed behind and unbuckled John's belt. He hadn't moved a muscle, just frozen with shock. He allowed himself to be guided to the front desk by a firm yet gentle hand. They asked him his name and some other personal details, but when they asked his relationship to Sherlock, he was unsure how to respond. He simply stood there dumbly until the nurse took pity on him and led him to sit in a hard plastic chair. She shoved a paper cup of steaming tea into his hands and left him to his own devices with a succinct and completely unheard murmur of well wishes.
He hadn't any idea how long he sat there when Greg rushed in alongside another gurney. He left the medics with the other officer when he saw John sitting there staring blankly, undrunk tea held loosely on his lap, long since gone cold. He spotted him and ran over, his face gone deathly pale.
"Jesus, John! You look like shit!" He paused, looked away a moment to steel himself. "Is he okay? He's not . . ." He trailed off and ran his fingers through his hair, distraught.
"No. At least, I don't think so. His heart stopped, Greg. Dear god, his heart stopped and I've no idea if he's alright." His voice broke on the last word, tears welling in his eyes so he squeezed them shut to quell them. Greg shuffled closer and wrapped a warm arm around John's shoulders, squeezing gently in an attempt to comfort him. John brought his hands to his eyes, pressing them in tightly to stem the tears that breached his meager, failing defenses.
They sat there for a long few minutes, silent as they attempted to control the emotions attempting to overwhelm them. When both men had gotten a hold of themselves, they released their solid embrace and shuffled back awkwardly to lean back in the unyielding, blinding white hospital chairs.
10 minutes passed.
30 minutes.
An hour.
John grew antsy and anxious. Eventually he got up and began to pace across the waiting room in quick, tight circles. Finally, a doctor, ruffled and tired looking but otherwise calm, entered the room. John pounced on the woman, rushing eagerly but silently to stand before her so she could speak. Greg followed not far behind him.
"I am very glad to say that Mr. Holmes is stable. We are currently in the process of bringing his temperature back up to safe levels. We will continue warming him up and monitor him closely throughout the night. Once he is warm and stable we will run some tests to ensure there hasn't been any permanent brain or heart damage from the cardiac arrest or from what I have seen is likely a very severe concussion. His arm will likely need surgery to repair the bone, but currently our top priority is getting his temperature stable. He should be fine, though; he is a fighter, Dr. Watson. Thank you very much for waiting patiently. You are welcome to see him now, although he is still undergoing rewarming and a blood transfusion and is unconscious. If you'll just follow me."
She turned and gestured for Greg and John to follow her towards an A&E room. When they arrived the doctor opened the door and stepped away to let John in first. He entered the room, and immediately his whole body visibly relaxed and he seemed to shrink three centimeters, despite the troubling sight before him.
Sherlock was unconscious on the bed, large tubes coming from his mouth from intubation, his upper arm and his head both covered in bandages, his arm in a sling. His whole body was cocooned in a contraption almost like a pool lounger wrapped around him1. The room was a bit cool, but if Sherlock were conscious, it would probably have been horribly warm. An IV was snaking out across the plastic from his arm that lead to a small machine, which led to the plethora of medicine bags feeding him medication, fluids, and donor blood, warming up all of the fluids going into his body in an attempt to bring his failing core temperature back up.
The cacophony of all the machines was breathtaking, and Greg stopped short when it hit him, but John, after taking in the dreadful sight, immediately went to Sherlock's side and sat in the cushioned yet still mildly uncomfortable chair. He blocked out everything around him except Sherlock. He looked him over with a practiced eye and clutched at the pile of bandages that vaguely resembled Sherlock's hand, grasping it as tightly as he could without causing pain, despite the fact that obviously Sherlock couldn't feel it. Greg stood by the door awkwardly beside the doctor, who watched on with a soft smile and warm eyes.
"Alright, well. Now that I know he's alright, I've gotta go check over Howard and get his statement. Let me know how he's doing and if anything changes. I'll come back later when I'm done dealing with that sack of shit." He frowned when he got no response; John was completely absorbed with Sherlock. Greg sighed, a laugh hiding behind the breath. "I swear, those two," he muttered, and he turned around and left with a nod to the doctor.
The doctor checked Sherlock's vitals quickly and then she too retreated. John sat there, holding Sherlock's hand, for several long moments before his face crumpled and he hid his face in his elbow to shield the tears from invisible eyes. "Jesus Christ Sherlock. Jesus fucking Christ! You scared the shit out of me. The everloving shit, Sherlock. I thought I was going to have to watch you die again! All over again watch the tension leave your body as your heart stopped and your lungs stopped functioning, and I would never have the chance to fucking hold you again. To be near you again. I couldn't have survived it. Not this time. I would have buried myself even further into the bottle than I did last time and I would have drunken myself to death. Poor Rosie would have been an orphan because you had to go and bloody die. Again. And I couldn't live through the pain a second time." He chuckled a bit through the tears and his jumper.
"Jesus, I'm an idiot. It took you dying, twice over for me to realize just how much I bloody love you. All the shit we've been through; all the pain, the grief, the loss, the emotional torture of the years since we met one another and I still love you. Have since the beginning now that I think about it. 'Cept I didn't bloody realize until I almost lost you again." He laughed, a breathless, humourless chuckle.
"Bloody hell. How do you tell your best friend of five years that you've been in love with him since the start? Especially one who doesn't seem to feel any kind of real attraction to anyone? Jesus, I'm really fucked, aren't I? Well and truly fucked." He stuffed his face further into the crook of his arm, his back shivering with either laughs, or tears, or both, it's hard to tell.
"No, Dr. Watson. I should think you are not in as dire of a situation as you seem to believe," a voice called from the doorway.
John's head shot up and he quickly turned toward the door. Red, tear-stained face and crumpled jumper, his eyes scanned over where Mycroft stood, prim and posh as ever. He maintained his firm grip on Sherlock's hand despite the shock. "What?" he asked incredulously, and slightly flustered at the sudden intrusion, as well as the words that'd just been uttered. His face was flushed and his eyebrows scrunched together. He leaned forward almost as if to hear Mycroft better, despite having heard him just fine.
"I said -" Mycroft said pompously - "I don't believe your situation is as dire as you seem to think it is," he drawled, as if spelling it out to a five-year old.
"What situation?" John replied, hoping against hope Mycroft hadn't heard his confession, as he wiped away his tears with his sleeve.
"You think that my brother will not, or should I say does not, return your affections. I must say, you are quite sorely mistaken, Doctor, if I am being honest." He paused a moment for dramatic effect. Always a Holmes. "Sherlock has been quite smitten with you, for longer than I'd think he'd care for me to admit." He stopped, thoughtful for a moment. "Longer than I think even he'd care to admit," he said, his voice low. He paused, frowning, a deep sadness writ across his face.
"How long, Mycroft?" John whispered, tension creeping into his voice.
"Since the beginning, John. Since the very beginning," Mycroft said sadly.
John reeled back like he'd been punched. "You mean, since before he jumped?"
"Yes, John. Since, I believe, the day you two met at St. Bart's Hospital." Mycroft spoke in that same low, sad tone, as if his words carried a heavier weight than the air around them could bear. John's face fell.
"Dear God. Mycroft. Jesus," he said breathlessly. "I called him a machine and then he jumped off a building for me. When he came back I broke his nose. Punched him. Refused to listen to a word he said. Just clung on to my soon to be traitorous wife and walked away for him to suffer. I got married. God. I married Mary and he practically planned the whole thing! Spoke about how much he cared for me in front of that whole crowd. Told us we were going to have a baby and then she shot him. She shot him and then he sent me running back to forgive her. When Mary left he comforted me and took care of Rosie. Dear God, how did I never see it before. He's put himself through hell, Mycroft. Why? Why would he do that for me?"
"Because, John. He loves you. Believe me, I am as surprised as any, but I understand it. You are the only person on this planet that has ever truly cared for him. You have offered him a form of companionship I could never offer him. That our parents could surely never offer him. That any of his peers throughout the years never could have or would have offered him. You opened up your heart to him, John Watson. You gave it to him to hold and protect, whether you realized it or not, at that very first crime scene all those years ago. Nobody has ever done that. You caught him up, stumped him by doing that. You, trusting a man who has never really been trusted except for areas of intellect, despite having some trust and detachment issues yourself . . . He found he had to protect the heart you had so quickly placed in his hands, however sharp or bristly those very hands were from years of emotional detachment and emotional abuse from everyone around him. Your trust could not be betrayed. Many people couldn't truly understand him or see the man behind the armour he had spent so long building. It hurt him dearly. You broke right through it, John, broke right through a seemingly impenetrable wall years in the making; appealed to emotions long since hidden away. You are the only person Sherlock has ever truly loved, mostly because he has never allowed himself to. He feels so deeply, such strong emotions that he has learned to hide them away behind a prickly exterior for fear his heart would break, or worse, that his heart would break him. The amount of love and caring he feels for you is not something that could be replicated; the roots run too deep, I fear. I can promise you, John Watson, without a single doubt, that when you tell him all of the things that you said when I walked in, he will not disappoint."
And with that massive revelation, he turned on his heel and left, leaving behind John, slack-jawed and far too stunned to move. After getting a hold of himself, John turned back to Sherlock, rested his chin on his forearm, and fell asleep with a soft, calm smile and a promise that when Sherlock woke up, he'd tell him everything.
John awoke some hours later to a tapping on the back of his hand. Still trapped in the depths of deep sleep, it took him a moment to recognize there was a rhythm to the tapping. Tap. Tap tap tap. Tap tap tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. It took him even longer to realize what the pattern was. Morse code.
J-O-H-N. J-O-H-N. Over and over on his hand.He looked up and was met with Sherlock's piercing verdigris eyes, sharp even when fuzzy with drugs, sleep, exhaustion, and pain, peering down at him amidst the vast number of wires and tubes coming from his person. He was still buried beneath the blow-up contraption, although the blood bag had been taken away and his other bags changed. His bandages had been done up a bit better, likely replaced by a nurse who had a bit more time to work with than the paramedics had. Their eyes met and they held one another's gaze for a long moment. It took John a moment to realize the rhythm on his hand had changed.
Tap tap. Pause. Tap. Tap. Tap tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap tap tap. Tap. Tap. Pause. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap tap. Tap.
Over and over again.
I-L-O-V-E-Y-O-U.