The acrid stench of smoldering timber, plaster as well as phosphorus and other chemicals filled the smokey air as Dr. John Watson was brought back to consciousness as laid in the pile of the rubble and debris that was once an abandoned asylum. An intense ringing in his ears had left him almost entirely deafened as his blurry vision steadily cleared.
The room was filled with gray smoke from unseen burning fires and the stirred ancient dust. Large portions of the walls, the ceiling and even a part of the floor had been broken open as a result of the massive explosion.
Heavy fallen beams that once supported the walls and ceiling had fallen away and now trapped the good doctor's legs under the smothering weight of the broken structure.
Small splinters of shattered wood had cut through the air and embedded themselves all up and down Watson's arms creating superficial but painful wounds that wept blood through his clothing. Additional blood matted his light colored hair to his forehead in an uncomfortable, sticky mass.
Watson realized he was laying on his back with one arm draped over his chest and pinned under a long wooden beam, and his other arm was to his side and completely free of the debris. Pressing his free hand against the edge of the piece of lumber Watson pushed with as much strength as he could muster from his shoulders until it slipped to the side and at last freed his pinned legs.
Coughing up the collected smoke from his lungs Watson sat upright on the floor and looked about, trying to find any clue as to where Sherlock could be. The two had tracked down a dangerous hacker to the asylum and had spotted him on the top floor when the madman panicked and detonated a bomb located in the basement. They had been side by side when the explosion occurred, but now there was no sign of his colleague.
"Sh-Sherlock?" Watson choked out as he slowly stood upright, his legs shaking and the ringing in his early slowly dissipating. "Sherlock? Answer me!"
As he began stepping very carefully over the numerous obstructions that littered the floor as massive piles of smoldering debris Watson carefully pulled the largest of the wooden splinters from his arm and continued to call out for his friend.
"Sherlock?" Pausing only to wince and cough as the smoke irritated his lungs. "Sherlock! Where are you? Answer me if you-" Watson stopped short as his eyes laid upon a grim sight that made his voice catch in his throat. A figure was buried under the debris. Blood was all around it. "SHERLOCK!"
Laying on the ground buried under layers of plaster and wooden beams was Sherlock Holmes. The only portions of his body not completely buried beneath the debris was from his chest upward. A puddle of blood was beginning to form under his body as a trail of blood trickled down from the corner of his mouth. His rapidly rising and falling chest that accompanied his panting breaths frightened Watson beyond anything he had felt in the past.
"Sherlock?! Can you hear me?" Watson hurried over, nearly tripping as he gracefully leapt over the cumbersome mess and knelt beside the pile of debris. Despite seeing the gasping breaths shuddering Sherlock's chest Watson pressed his ear to his friend's chest to listen for a heartbeat, needing to hear the sound as if it was the only thing to acknowledge that Sherlock still lived. It was there. Rapid and irregular, but a heartbeat all the same. Resting back on his heels, fresh blood now staining the side of his face, Watson placed his fingers firmly against the side Sherlock's neck to gauge his rapid pulse. Too fast. Thready. Substantial blood loss. "Sherlock, please answer me."
The battered detective remained disturbingly silent save for his hasty gasping breaths. The once bright blue eyes were now dull and glazed as they stared unfocused beyond Watson and into the perpetual nothingness of the hazy world around him.
"Sherlock?" Watson carefully lifted up the large slab of plaster that was draped over his abdomen and slid it to the side of Sherlock's body. "Sher-" The sight of the massive blood stain that covered his torn open abdomen sickened Watson to a degree he hadn't felt since the war. "Sherlock..."
Diligently Watson picked up the edges of the torn fabric of Sherlock's shirt and pulled them away from the gaping wound to expose it fully. The flesh and muscle of Sherlock's abdomen had been devastated by the explosion; his abdominal wall had been compromised and Watson could now see multiple blood vessels bleeding profusely throughout his abdominal cavity.
Watson tore his eyes from the horrific injury and stared down at Sherlock's pale, lifeless face. A sickly gray hue was setting in throughout the unnaturally white pallor which often accompanied impending death.
"Sherlock," Watson moved his hands over to Sherlock's hand and held it tightly in a shaking grip. "if you can hear me I need you to squeeze my hand!"
Sherlock's unsettling cold and pale hand remained limp in Watson's grip.
"Come on! Squeeze my hand!" Still no response. "Please Sherlock! Squeeze my hand!"
Begrudgingly Watson sat Sherlock's hand back down on the floor as he returned his focus to the near-fatal injury.
"Okay, I'm going to get you through this." Watson stated calmly, his voice managing to conceal the fear that threatened to steal away his words. "Just stay with me, Sherlock. That's all I ask."
Thinking quickly Watson unbuttoned his jacket and wiped off his dirty, blood hands on his clean shirt underneath. Slipping his jacket off entirely he set it to the side as he rolled up his long sleeves and dared to place his hands directly inside Sherlock's abdomen to isolate the damage blood vessels to stop the bleeding.
Ever resourceful Watson reached down to his own shoe with one hand and untied the lace, slipping it away from the eyelets efficiently. Using the lace Watson carefully used the makeshift binding to tie off the numerous bleeding vessels in a temporary but secure tourniquet.
"There we are. Almost finished." Watson stated in a low tone. He knew there was little chance that Sherlock could hear his voice, let alone understand it, but he was still compelled to speak to his friend all the same. "Just need to pack the wound."
Untucking his shirt Watson tore at the hem of the fabric to create thin strips of bandages to absorb the excess blood while stemming off any other bleeding vessels that Watson couldn't locate in the poor lighting.
As Watson draped his jacket over Sherlock's body to protect the wound from any falling debris that might rain down from the ceiling he fished his cell phone from the pocket and dialed 9-9-9 for help.
"Fortunately Lestrade knows where we are," Watson reminded Sherlock as he pressed 'dial'. "once I make the call we should have help here in a matter of minutes!"
A gurgling breath made Watson jump as he realized there was a pool of blood collecting in the back of Sherlock's throat. As he informed emergency services of the situation; relaying their current location, the circumstances regarding the bomb and most importantly of Sherlock's condition, Watson wedged the phone between his ear and his shoulder; the blood on the side of his face smeared on the screen in the process, in order to free both hands long enough to place his grip beneath Sherlock's shoulders and neck to turn him to his side just enough to let the collected blood drain from the corner of his mouth in a crimson trickle at Watson's shoes.
"Help is on the way." Watson told Sherlock as he gently rolled him onto his back. Setting the phone on the pile of rubble at his side he continued to hold the line with emergency operators as he observed Sherlock's fading condition. Returning his fingers to Sherlock's neck to monitor the downed man's pulse, he placed his other hand over Sherlock's forehead and absentmindedly ran his thumb through Sherlock's dark locks of hair. "Just hold on a bit longer. Help is on the way..."
A sharp gasp for breath followed by a drawn out exhale sent a shiver on Watson's spine. The racing pulse beneath his fingers began to flutter before finally slowing and stopping altogether.
"Sherlock?" Watson pressed his fingers down firmly against Sherlock's neck but couldn't detect even the faintest of pulses. Lowering his ear down to Sherlock's mouth and nose he failed to hear or feel any breaths entering or exiting the detective's decimated body. Fear induced adrenaline rushed through Watson's veins as he reacted quickly to the situation. "No. You're not dying on me. Not like this!"
Shifting his position so he could slip his arms under Sherlock's shoulders Watson dragged the deadweight of his friend away from the pile to lay him down as flat as possible at the nearest clearing. Straightening Sherlock's neck and tilting his head back slightly Watson pinched Sherlock's nose and forced two breaths into the dying man's lungs.
"Breathe for me. Come on!" Watson pleaded as took a kneeling position at Sherlock's left side. Placing one hand over top the other Watson laced his fingers together to create a single strong fist and placed it down in the center of Sherlock's chest. Using controlled strength Watson began compressing downward against Sherlock's ribcage and sternum. With each compression Watson counted until he reached fifteen then gave Sherlock two more breaths. "Breathe! Please!"
Stopping only for a few seconds to check for a pulse and still finding none Watson reeled one hand back and brought it down in a tight fist against Sherlock's chest in an attempt to jumpstart Sherlock's stopped heart. Another pulse check confirmed no change.
"No! You're not dying on me!" Watson all but shouted as he began a second round of compressions. Just as Watson counted to twelve a shuddering gasp for breath followed by a violent cough that spattered blood from Sherlock's mouth to the side of Watson's face made the doctor freeze. "Sherlock?" Resting his hands on Sherlock's chest he could feel the detective's racing heart pounding away under his palms. "It's about bloody time!"
Ringing settled in his ears once again as the adrenaline began to wear off. Watson's entire body began to tremble from the excitement and physical exertion that had just been display.
Adjusting his legs he sat on the floor beside Sherlock, his hand returning to his neck to monitor his pulse while his other hand picked up Sherlock's pale, cold, limp hand from the floor. "Squeeze my hand Sherlock. If you can hear me, squeeze my hand. Please."
Just as before Sherlock's grip remained limp in Watson's hand.
"Alright then... Maybe later. Just... promise me you won't die."
Watson closed his eyes and turned his face away from his friend as a horrifically vivid memory from his time as a solider crept in. The sight of seeing his men, his friends, bloodied and battered in the battlefield. The sounds of non-stop gunfire, of screams of anger and terror, vehicles racing about frantically. The smell of gunpowder and blood. The pain in his leg and shoulder from where the bullets struck his body.
It was the muffled voice of the emergency operator on the phone that managed to bring Watson back into reality. Forcing the memory from his mind he opened his eyes and looked down at Sherlock once again.
"Soon. We'll be out of here soon. I know it."
Sirens filled the air outside as squad cars, a fire engine and an ambulance raced to the scene of the smoldering asylum. Flashing red and blue lights were barely visible in the distance but became brighter as the vehicles approached at a rapid speed.
"See? There we are." Watson forced feigned confidence to his voice as he addressed Sherlock once again. "Help is right out there."
Sherlock's glazed eyes remained unfocused as his eyelids slowly began to droop close. With every passing second Sherlock was still losing blood. With every passing second he getting closer and closer to death.
A voice shouted from the first floor and echoed loudly through the abandoned and hollowed out asylum. It was Lestrade.
"Up here!" Watson replied in a shout that rivaled Lestrade's own. "Sherlock is hurt! Send the medics!"
"Up where? Which floor?"
"Top floor!"
"On our way up!"
"Hurry!" Watson shouted again before his voice cracked and fell much quieter as his shoulders sagged heavily. "He can't wait much longer..."
It was all a blur as emergency responders charged through filthy corridors of the ruined asylum. Voices barking orders and the crackling of radios relaying communications gradually grew louder and louder as the rescue team ventured ever closer to the top floor where Watson and Sherlock were awaiting their arrival.
Large chunks of debris was thrown aside to clear a path to the top floor as the elevator in the building would no longer run, leaving only the stairwell as the remaining connection between floors.
"Watson?" Lestrade's voice called out as he and two medics around the entryway into the largest room on the top floor barricaded by debris. Shining his light between the pieces of debris and into the still somewhat smokey and dim room he could see a figure kneeling on the ground beside a large chunk of rubble. "Are you in there?"
Watson put his hand over his eyes to shield them from the intense light being shone over his face as he responded firmly. "Yes. We're here!"
"We'll clear this out of the way!" Lestrade stated as he and medics began pulling away at the barricade to uncover the path. "Are you hurt?"
"I'm fine, but Sherlock needs medical attention! Now!"
One of the medics, a female with a small frame of body, spoke up quickly. "I can slip through and get to him." As swiftly as she volunteered the medic managed to squeeze through the obstructive wall of debris and make her way over to where Watson and Sherlock were awaiting their rescue. One look at Sherlock's face told the medic all she needed to know. "Send up the gurney! He won't be able to walk out of here."
"Gurney?" Lestrade stupidly questioned as he and second medic continued to break down the barricade. "It won't be able to maneuver through the stairwell."
"We have no choice!" The medic called back as she handed the stethoscope from her medical bag over to Watson. "Find a way!"
Watson accepted the stethoscope and used it to listen to Sherlock's shuddering chest. The sound of his frantic irregular heartbeat formed a knot in his stomach. His shallow, pained breaths were just as alarming.
"He needs blood." Watson told the medic and he fished through her medical kit and found the blood pressure cuff. "And we have to stabilize his neck. We can't risk possibly exacerbating an unseen injury during transport."
"Right. We'll add a collar once the gurney arrives." She was taking down Sherlock's vital signs while also studying Watson curiously, specifically the large stain of blood on the left side of his face. "You don't look so well yourself."
Watson wiped some of the blood from his face with his fingers then wiped it off onto his pant leg with an abject grimace. "Not mine."
Everything around Watson seemed to be moving in slow motion with incredible detail settling into his mind's eye instantly, and permanently. Standing aside as the two paramedics carefully lifted Sherlock's mangled, limp body up from the overwhelming pile of debris and resting him on the top of the gurney made Watson feel utterly useless. Blood dripped down from Sherlock's sides, onto the gurney and over the edge onto the floor in a steady, rhythmic fall. Watson's jacket that had once been draped over his bleeding abdomen was now drenched, forever stained crimson in his best friend's blood.
Kicking aside the ruined jacket Watson stared at the freshly applied white bandages that were quickly turning various shades of deep red as the blood began soaking into the protective layers at an unsettling rate of speed.
As the female paramedic slipped a transparent oxygen mask over Sherlock's face she looked to her partner with a haunting stare before ordering the team to move Sherlock out of the building.
Watson made a step forward to follow after the gurney only to feel a strong but gentle hand on his arm stopping him in his tracks. The unacknowledged emotion in Lestrade's eyes spoke volumes as he empathized with the pained doctor. "He'll pull through, you'll see."
Uncertain of his friend's fate he could only watch as the gurney was rushed down the littered corridor and toward the stairwell to begin the awkward descent to the ambulance waiting outside.
"We're talking about Sherlock 'bloody' Holmes." Lestrade reaffirmed with a faux grin of confidence. "The bastard is too damn stubborn to just keel over on us."
Pushing Lestrade's grip from his arm Watson responded with a doubtful tone as he walked briskly after the gurney with his best friend in tow. "But even the most stubborn of men can't elude Death. I've seen it before..."
It was a race against time as the two paramedics hurried the gurney into the back of the ambulance without jostling their patient during the process. Watson and Lestrade exited the smoldering asylum side by side. The fire brigade had managed to douse the fire in the basement and were now tending the embers still burning within the rubble. Deep black smoke billowed out of the basement like a haunting cloud that surrounded those who dared to venture onto the property.
"Get him in the back." The female paramedic ordered as she and her partner hefted the gurney up and into the back of the ambulance. Lestrade didn't try to stop Watson from joining his friend; not only because he was close to Sherlock and a doctor, but because he was worried that Watson was concealing an injury of his own. "Come on. You can ride back here with us since you're a doctor."
"Right..."
Watson was only partially listening to the voices around him. His attention was solely on Sherlock's condition. The bleeding had slowed considerably but it still wasn't enough. Sherlock's pallor had paled further and his eyes had closed fully. The frantic breaths that once caused his chest to rise and fall rapidly had slowed in part to the oxygen mask and from his own weakness making the effort a chore.
Putting his hand on Sherlock's arm Watson sat on the bench at his friend's side and watched him with bated breath. "Almost there. Stay with us."
The ambulance sped off to St. Bart's Hospital several miles away with all of its required passengers secured inside. While the female paramedic pressed the bell of the stethoscope to Sherlock's chest to listen to his heart and to his breathing her partner tore open what was left of his shirt to expose his pale chest. As he attached the leads to his chest the cardiac monitor buzzed to life showing a rapid but weak heartbeat on the display.
"Hypovolemic Tachycardia." Watson diagnosed as he studied the heart rate instinctively. "He's going into shock."
"Start an I.V." The female paramedic instructed as she wrapped the blood pressure cuff around Sherlock's bicep to take a reading. As the numbers registered she frowned and issued a new order. "He's down to ninety over sixty. Start a line of Ringer's lactate to stop the bleeding."
A sudden spike on the monitor accompanied by a high pitched screech signaled that Sherlock's rapidly beating heart had fallen into a dangerous arrhythmia.
"Sherlock?!" Watson's handed subconsciously tightened his grip in fear for his friend's life. "Sherlock? Don't do this! We're almost to hospital! You can't give up on us now!"
"Ventricular fibrillation." The male paramedic announced as he prepared the defibrillator to three-hundred and sixty Joules.
The female paramedic placed protective defib pads on the center and apex of Sherlock's chest.
"Charged." The male paramedic announced as he placed the paddles down on the defib pads and prepared to deliver the designated electrical shock. "Clear?"
"Clear." The female paramedic confirmed before turning to Watson. "Dr. Watson, you must let go of his arm!"
"I..." Watson reluctantly pulled his hand back from Sherlock's arm as he inwardly winced at the sight he was about to witness. "Clear."
"Clear!" The male paramedic repeated as he let loose the shock into Sherlock's chest.
In response to the powerful volt of electricity Sherlock's body tensed, his back arching just enough to cause his body to rise upward off the gurney as far as the safety straps would allow him to move. As his body fell back down to the gurney the same frightening screech on the cardiac monitor sounded off.
"No conversion." The female paramedic stated with waning confidence. "Hit him again."
The male paramedic did as he was instructed and charged the defibrillator a second time. Just as before he placed the paddles down against the pads on Sherlock's chest and announced the potential danger. "Clear?"
"Clear." His partner confirmed with a nod.
"Clear!"
Once again Sherlock's body reacted with a physical response that nauseated Watson. As he body relaxed on the gurney the display on the cardiac monitor showed a sinus rhythm, but it was far from normal. His heart was still beating far too fast for its own good.
"He's back." The female paramedic confirmed as she returned the stethoscope to Sherlock's chest. Slapping her hand against the compartment wall that separated the back of the ambulance from the driver's cab up front she yelled to the driver in a commanding voice. "Make contact with the hospital. Tell them he's quickly going downhill!"
Watson's hand found its way back to Sherlock's arm he silently watched his friend pitifully clinging to life. The frantic alarm from the cardiac monitor was still blaring in his ears, his memory. The terrifying sight of seeing Sherlock subjected to such a crude but necessary life saving technique was almost too unbearable a sight for him to withstand.
The rear compartment doors of the ambulance burst open as the responding team of doctors and nurses met the ambulance outside. Completely lost in thought Watson was unaware that the ambulance had even stopped and the jerking motion of the doors opened caused Watson to jump in his seat. In a flash the gurney was lowered from the back of the ambulance, Watson's hand torn away from Sherlock's arm in the process, as two doctors hovered over his pale body asking questions and barking orders to the nurses and orderlies who were assisting.
The two paramedics who responded to the scene hopped down out of the ambulance, the female of the duo pulling on Watson's hand to get him to do the same. The male paramedic joined the doctor's and relayed the vitals that had been recorded during transit while the female kept her eye on Watson.
As the gurney passed through the emergency doors Watson heard a nurse call out in alarm to the rest of the team, her words haunting his thoughts in an instant. "He's gone into cardiac arrest!"
Upon hearing those words Watson attempted to rush into the hospital to assist in resuscitating Sherlock as he lay dying, but an intense ringing in his ears as well as a wave of overwhelming dizziness washed over him. Pausing mid stride Watson put a hand to his head as his vision began to darken and his legs began to buckle.
"Dr. Watson!" The female paramedic responded expertly and caught the good doctor as he collapsed into a dead faint in the parking lot outside the hospital. "Get another doctor out here, now!"
Watson's eyes glazed over as his ears continued to ring and the world steadily grew dark. His last conscious memory was that of the kind face of the paramedic leaning over him as she held his head against her arm.
A rhythmic beeping pierced through the darkness as Watson slowly regained consciousness. Opening his heavy eyelids he gazed about the room as his blurry vision cleared. Believing that he was still trapped inside the asylum, still believing that Sherlock was in mortal danger, Watson tried to bolt upright and get to his feet in a panic. The beeping became louder and more frantic as he fully came to his senses only to feel strong hands pushing down on his shoulders to force him to lay back in the bed.
"Take it easy, doctor!" Lestrade commanded as he and a nurse held him back. "You took a nasty blow to the head! Don't move about!"
"Lestrade?" Watson began to relax a little as he stopped resisting. "Where's Sherlock? Where is he?"
"Look." Lestrade motioned toward his right and stepped back from the bed where Watson was laying. "He's right over there."
Watson's head whipped around, the sudden movement causing a dizzy spell and brought a nauseous pit back to his stomach. Breathing deeply to quell his uneasiness Watson leaned forward slightly and looked at the very still figure laying in the bed next to his own.
Sherlock was still disturbing pale. His eyes were closed with dark circles beneath. A tube was running down his throat to aid his breathing as the respirator beside the bed hummed softly. The cardiac monitor displaying his vitals showed a weak but normal sinus rhythm as he heart continued to beat on its own. Sherlock's blood pressure had improved but was still a little low. I.V. bags containing blood, saline and antibiotics ran into the cephalic vein in his left arm. His abdomen was wrapped securely beneath fresh white gauze that showed only minor bleeding still yet lingered from the sutures that had been used to mend his flesh after the surgery to remove debris from his exposed abdomen.
"Sherlock... Is he...?"
"He's in a coma, doctor." Lestrade stated somberly as the nurse picked up Watson's wrist to check his pulse. "They aren't sure if he's suffered any permanent damage. Not yet."
"How... How bad is it?" Watson turned to the nurse and put his hand over her own in a pleading manner. "Please. I must know."
The nurse gave Watson a wary look before gently pulling her hand away. "I'll get the doctor for you."
"How long?" Watson asked as he returned his gaze to Sherlock. Despite seeing his friend still amongst the living a heavy dread still lingered in his heart.
"How long, what?" Lestrade replied as he looked to Watson with confusion.
"How long was he on the table? And how long was I unconscious?"
"Well, they wheeled him right into the operating theater as soon as the doctors got ahold of him. They were patching him up for six, maybe seven hours. You were out longer than that."
"I was... concussed." Watson realized as he put his fingers to his head and felt the thick white gauze wrapped around his hairline. "I didn't even..."
"Not surprised." The doctor commented as he strolled into the room to check on his two star patients. "You suffered two fractures to your skull as a result of the explosion. No sign of intracranial hemorrhage or aneurysm, although there is mild swelling to your brain. It's a wonder you're even awake and as lucid as you are."
"I..." Watson was at a loss for words as the doctor shone a light into his eyes to check his pupils. "I don't understand. How did I get up?"
"Adrenaline would be my guess." The doctor responded as he returned the light to his lab coat pocket. "What's more astounding is how you handled yourself in the heart of the disaster and gave Mr. Holmes very effective, though unorthodox, treatment. Good show."
"What are you talking about?"
"The shoelace to tie off the bleeding vessels, and the swatches of your shirt to pack off the rest of the damage. Very clever for someone in your scenario with very limited resources."
"He lost so much blood." Watson lamented openly as he watched his friend motionless next to him in the neighboring bed. "How serious was the damage?"
"Ruptured his spleen, I'm afraid." The doctor proceeded to explain the gruesome details of Sherlock's injuries to Watson as he strolled to the foot of Sherlock's bed to glance through the downed detective's medical chart. "His left kidney also took some damage. While we couldn't repair his spleen we were able to save the kidney. Fortunately most of the debris from the explosion missed a majority of anything vital; embedding in his muscles and skin as opposed to his organs. It took us several hours to remove all of the debris and clean out his abdominal cavity, but he pulled through without any complications."
"When will he wake up?"
"We cannot say for sure. The anesthesia will have worn off within the hour, but he is still weak from blood loss and will need time to recover from the trauma of the surgery itself. I wouldn't expect him to open his eyes for at least two days."
"Two days..." Watson leaned back in his head against the soft pillow and closed his eyes. "That's so long."
"You know as well as I that waiting is the most difficult part of any injury." The doctor put his hand on Watson's shoulder as a sign of good faith and camaraderie. "Try to be patient, and get some rest."
"Patient." Watson sighed as he tried to calm his nerves and push the horrible images from his mind. Unable to keep his eyes shut he turned his head slightly against the pillow so he could watch Sherlock's chest rising and falling as the respirator breathed for him. "Right..."
Lestrade folded his arms behind his back awkwardly as he took a step back to the opened door of the room. "If it's any consolation that hacker you and Holmes were chasing had been blown up by his own bomb. His body was found in the basement."
"...Sure. Sounds great." Watson replied coldly. "Death and destruction. How grand."
Feeling a tad out of place Lestrade decided to take his leave. "Right then. I'll leave you two to rest."
The doctor joined Lestrade as he exited the room leaving Watson alone with Sherlock in their shared room. The good doctor was too overwhelmed by the day's events to remain conscious. Slowly his eyes began to glaze over as sleep consumed his mind.
The night was slow, quiet and uneventful as Watson struggled between consciousness and the deep desire to sleep. His head was pounding from the concussion and his entire body was exhausted from the physical exertion that he had endured from both the explosion and the efforts of performing C.P.R. on Sherlock after he had slipped into cardiac arrest.
Sherlock's pallor had improved slightly, his face was no longer showing hues of a deathly gray but only a sickly paleness. The display of the cardiac monitor indicated that his blood pressure was improving which was a good sign as it meant he was no longer bleeding and his body was beginning to heal.
The tube had been removed from his throat earlier that morning when the doctor examined Sherlock's chest and found that his lungs were strong enough to breathe properly. When Sherlock took his first unassisted breath of oxygen Watson and the doctor both felt a tremendous weight light from their shoulders. A nasal cannula was placed under his nose to provide additional oxygen during his recovery.
As morning fell over the hospital Watson climbed out of his bed, his head still swimming in fog with a relentless headache gnawing at him, and walked over to the chair on the opposite side of the room positioned near the side of Sherlock's bed. Sitting down slowly Watson lightly put his hand on Sherlock's right arm.
"You made it through the night." Watson whispered to Sherlock in a low, dreary tone. "Let's make sure you make it through the next day, huh? I want to see you awake by tomorrow afternoon."
Sherlock remained as silent as ever. His body failed to show even the slightest hint that he was conscious or coherent.
"Lestrade found the body of our elusive hacker in the basement of the asylum. While I know it's seldom that someone's death proves more valuable than their life, I think in the case of this disturbed technology terrorist London will be far better off with him."
The detective remained quiet in the bed.
"And I know for certain that London would fare horribly without you. You must wake up Sherlock, the game is still afoot."
Trying to push the thought of losing Sherlock to the rage of a paranoid madman's bomb Watson continued to speak to his friend as if Sherlock could still somehow hear his voice, understand his words, like they were having a normal conversation.
"Mrs. Hudson has promised to not touch your mold experiment in the icebox until you've returned. The woman shows more courage than I do, I won't even do near the bloody kitchen when you begin a new experiment."
The good-humored comment seemingly fell on deaf ears, not that Watson was expecting an response from Sherlock in general.
"I know you can hear me." Watson sighed despondently as rested his hand down on the bed next to Sherlock's arm. "You don't have to answer, but I need you to do one thing for me." Carefully Watson picked up Sherlock's limp hand and held it in his own in a firm, but not tight grip. "I need you to squeeze my hand."
Sherlock's hand remained limp and cold despite Watson's pleas.
"Come on, Sherlock. I know you can hear me." Tightening his grip on Sherlock's hand he leaned closer to Sherlock's ear and spoke louder with a far more stern tone of voice. "Squeeze my hand."
Still no response.
"Sherlock Holmes. Squeeze my hand." Watson shook his head as if he could dissuade any negative thoughts from settling in. "Come on, squeeze my hand. You can do it."
Watson bowed his head in defeat and rested it against Sherlock's arm while keeping his hand clenched around Sherlock's own hand. As a lone tear formed in his eye Watson suddenly felt something weak wrap around his hand and begin to squeeze.
Lifting his head up from Sherlock's arm Watson's eyes darted over to his hand and he watched as Sherlock's fingers slowly closed around his hand.
"That's it!" Watson chuckled in relief as the tear of sadness in his eyes quickly turned to tears of joy. "That's it! I knew you could do it!"
Sherlock's head lolled slightly against his pillow toward Watson's direction. "...Watson?"
The weak baritone voice was a welcomed sound that Watson had longed to hear since he had found his friend buried in the rubble at the asylum. "Sherlock!" Tightening his own grip around Sherlock's hand Watson expressed his immense joy at seeing his friend conscious at last. "You're finally awake! How do you feel?"
There was a brief pause as Sherlock licked his drip lips before answering. "...Like a piece of kindling."
"You remember what happened?"
"I remember tracking down the suspect to the abandoned asylum." His voice grew in bass as he began to fully regain his senses. His glazed over blue eyes began to brighten and clear with every word he spoke. "We entered the asylum. There was an electronic signal on the top floor."
"Yes. And after that?"
Sherlock shook his head slightly. "I cannot recall."
"We went to the top floor to investigate. That's when the bomb went off."
"Bomb?" Sherlock's brow furrowed as he began piecing together the bits and pieces of his memory to what Watson had just said. "It was located in the basement. The fool lured us as far away from the bomb as possible while remaining inside the asylum before detonating it."
"Perhaps he miscalculated the strength of the explosion."
"Unlikely." Sherlock replied curtly. "His arrogance had proven itself more enduring than his intellect. He believed that the bomb would be enough to level the building, but he failed to anticipate the failure of the timer on the bomb before he could also escape. Poetic I suppose. The bomb maker killed by his own bomb."
"How did-" Watson gave Sherlock a momentarily perplexed stare. "How did you know that the hacker had been killed in the explosion?"
"My dear Watson," Sherlock's gaze remain steadfast and focused. "you had already told me."
-The End