A/N: OK, first Johnlock fanfic, so here it goes! Lots of feels will ensue. Moffat has turned me into a monster, and since joining this fandom, I will never be the same. This hiatus has done things to me...
The flat at 221B Baker Street had been awfully quiet all day. John was a tad concern, although part of him did enjoy it. Sherlock had gone "out" and wouldn't be too long. In Sherlock terms, that basically meant 13.6 hours until it was useful to check in on him. John had spent the day sipping tea and just relaxing. There was not a case to be solved, so he expected his flatmate to want to get out and just do something. Boredom is never good. John casually glances at the bullet holes in the wall and rolls his eyes.
It was past midnight, and John had not heard a word since this morning. Not even a text bragging that he is superior to the boring minds of humans. He picked up his phone.
12:07 Are you finished rubbing it in Anderson's face how much smarter than you are?
John smirked. He loved messing with Sherlock. It's only been about 8 months living with the genius, but John had enjoyed the companionship. They had been through hell and back with cases, both the murderous ones and cases that involved this new concept to Sherlock called housekeeping. Mrs. Hudson still refuses to be called their housekeeper, but every once and a while, she leaves assortments of biscuits and cakes for her boys. God bless that woman.
Whenever Sherlock would leave John to go do God knows what, he would come back with some bruise or laceration, infuriating the doctor.
"You have got to be more careful! I thought we talked about taking precations! You're not invincible!"
"Oh, shut up." Every now and then, John would catch Sherlock wince, but the ego would not allow him to complain. He was Sherlock Holmes. He can handle anything!
It got somewhat disturbing when the consulting detective was not as light on his feet as normal. He laid around more than usual, actually going to bed by 3:00 A.M. John couldn't help but wonder what was wrong. The movements were more calculated and cautious...as if Sherlock was made of porcelain.
Granted, he was getting much more rest, which the man needed to do for a while. Something was off.
"Sherlock..." John had asked one day at random.
"Hmm?" Squinted eyes were observing something under the microscope.
"Are you alright?" Not getting any initial reaction, John continued. "I mean, last night, you went to bed shortly after 2:00 in the morning. I thought you were suffering from insomnia...I-"
"John, I'm fine." It was short, curt.
John hadn't addressed his growing concern since.
12:43
No reply. John had to remind himself that there was no need to worry because this is Sherlock Holmes he was trying to communicate with, and he was not the best at his social skills. Etiquette was not a part of the "Mind Palace" apparently. Still, John was getting a little nervous. He didn't even know if Sherlock was with Lestrade and the others or not. Surely if it was a case, he would've been invited. He'd been dragged to them when he refused, so what was going on?
1:00
John, being very mindful of Mrs. Hudson asleep, threw on his coat and fled out the door.
1:02 Sherlock, where the bloody hell are you? I know it's late, but I haven't heard a peep out of you. Is everything alright?
He didn't even bother hailing a taxi. After "A Study in Pink," John was still kind of wary about getting in a cab by himself. He was armed, of course. So he felt more confident walking down the dark streets of London where the field was open. No one was in control of the environment, and being a soldier, he preferred it this way.
Not much was going on, since it was a Sunday night and some of the pubs were further in the opposite direction of Baker Street. John was relieved he did not have to deal with a bunch of drunks tumbling out in a brawl. The only light was the moon and a few streetlamps here and there. And it was quiet. John just kept walking, checking his phone every thirty seconds or so, becoming more and more anxious.
Please just be doing something stupid that won't get you killed.
He kept telling himself this when his mobile started to ring. Not looking at the Caller ID, he answered, "I'm going to kill you Sher-"
"John? It's Lestrade."
"Oh. Hello. Um, is Sherlock with you by any chance?"
There was a pause. "He is now."
John could tell something was up. "W-what's wrong?"
He could here Lestrade take a deep breath. Oh God. "Meet me at St. Thomas'..."
"..."
"John?"
"..." John closed his eyes in dread. "Is he alright?"
"He's in surgery."
"Give me ten minutes." John hung up and sprinted. The idiot, he went and did something stupid.
It was about midnight, and Sherlock was high as a kite. Not with drugs, he swore to John and Mrs. Hudson those days were over. But his adrenaline gave him this sensation he craved. The thrill of the chase. There's nothing like it. A stupid and extremely predictable car-jacker was running away from the owner of a mini van, knowing he was in trouble. It was really one of Lestrade's interns undercover patrolling the streets, and when he showed his badge, the crook ran for it. Sherlock heard a trash can get knocked over and saw a figure running like hell to get away.
He laughed. He knew something was going to happen tonight. And he was catching up to him. He dialed Lestrade, knowing he was in the office doing paper work.
"Lestrade! Meet me at Westminister Bridge by the hospital. I've got a present for you!" He hung up, not caring in the least for any potential protests.
"Sherl-" Lestrade hung up irritated. "That's not my division..." He whined. But knowing Sherlock hates every other member of Scotland Yard, he knew he would just be letting another criminal get away. He grabbed his coat. "To hell with paperwork."
The suspect was approaching the bridge. He kept looking back at Sherlock, who was closing in. He reached into his pocket, pulling out a device that started beeping and dropped it behind him. The second Sherlock knew what it was, he tried to stop himself, but the momentum was too much.
BOOM!
He was thrown back about six feet. He twisted in the air to try to catch himself on his hands and knees, but a piece of concrete hit his temple and he lost consciousness as he landed with a thud, his head pounding against the pavement like a child's ball.
"I'm gonna kill him." John was in the parking lot of the hospital. "He's going to make me cater to him hand and foot and he'll be bored and what did I do to deserve this?" The mouthing to himself ceased as soon as he entered through the sliding doors of the entrance. It was just common courtesy to not go into a hospital acting like a raging lunatic.
The staff was limited as the hour was late, and thankfully, not as many patients. John asked for a "Holmes" and the receptionist asked for ID, which John patiently gave him. He just wanted to make sure John was ok.
"Fifth floor, Doctor Watson. Room 546." John thanked her and went up in the elevator. What he found made his heart jump into his throat. Lestrade was pacing back and forth, running his fingers through his grey hair.
"Lestrade?" John asked quietly, not wanting to startle him.
The inspector jerked his head up, and John could tell something was wrong. "The doctor is coming out any minute now."
That "any minute now," although it was 3.48 minutes, felt like an eternity. The doctor came out and John and Lestrade looked like puppies waiting to be told to do a trick for a treat.
"How is he?"
The doctor took his glasses off. "Well..." Oh, that's never good. "Surgery saved his life. He's asleep right now. Won't be expected to wake up for a day or two. We ran some tests, took x-rays, and are waiting on the results, which should come in the next three days."
"What happened?"
"The explosion on the bridge threw him back and he landed on his left temple after being hit by debris on his right. There are lacerations that we stitched up, but the damage cannot be determined until we get the results back."
"What do you think?" John was clenching his jaw, not liking the sound of any of this.
"I will let you know. Now, if you will excuse me, I have other patients I have to attend to."
Three days later of hospital food, John noticed Lestrade sit next to him in the waiting room for families and loved ones. John never left, for fear of not being the first to hear the news on Sherlock.
The doctor appeared. "He's awake, if you want to see him."
John didn't miss a beat as he followed the doctor, Lestrade close behind. "Well?" They approached Sherlock's room he had been in since after surgery. John couldn't help but cut his eyes to the mini window made into the thick wooden door.
"I have made a diagnosis. And this is rare." Pause. "Has Sherlock been acting strange lately? As far as his motor skills."
Come to think of it, John had noticed Sherlock moving more tediously as if in constant pain. But he didn't want to bruise the ego of his flatmate, so he let it be. "Actually, yes. But this was before the explosion, following a couple of minor but far too repetitive injuries he would come home with."
The doctor paused. Paused. That's not good. "I'm afraid it's possibly..." John held his breath. "Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis (ALS)."
White noise. John heard nothing else. The doctor must have dumbed down the terms so Lestrade could understand...just like Sherlock would do for me to understand...but John had heard of this horrid disease named after some athlete he didn't care to think about at the moment.
"Come." The doctor opened the door, and John held his breath.
Van...used...kids...Couple...young...suspect...inexperienced...dull...chasing...bridge...explosion...pain...pain...darkness...
Sherlock heard a click, then blinked. He was blinded by white. A hospital. John was going to have his head. He was propped up with huge white pillows in a hospital gown with an IV in his right arm. He could feel a bandage on his temple, then the pit of his stomach dropped for a moment. He ran through the last thing he remembered, and calmed down. He was going to be fine. He was going to be fine. He...
John.
The poor bloke was hurt, probably emotionally more than he was physically.
"Sherlock?"
"Hello, John." He tried to smile, but couldn't. Odd.
"How are you feeling, Mr. Holmes?" Sherlock didn't acknowledge the doctor, but started assessing himself.
"Splitting headache, fatigued, parched..." John immediately went for a cup of ice cubes and carefully placed it in his roommate's mouth. Sherlock sucked on it for a moment as everyone waited patiently. "Burns are minor, just sore all over."
The doctor nodded. Lestrade was silent, staring at the corner of the room opposite of himself. John never left his side, knelt next to the bed.
"Well, I have your results."
Sherlock stiffened. John gently took his hand, which Sherlock grabbed.
"You have Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis, also known as-"
"Lou Gehrig's Disease." Sherlock swallowed. "I've heard of it. But...I..." He could feel John stroking his hand with his thumb, trying to comfort him. "What about the brain?" He tears up.
John takes in a sharp breath.