Blow Away The Cobwebs

This might be dark and upsetting, but then get better. I wanted to use my knowledge of what happened to my nan to use. This will contain lots of Johnlock. And I mean a lot. M for a reason, WOOHOO.

I do not own Sherlock or any of its characters; it all belongs to the BBC, Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat, and Sir ACD.

1

John. -SH

John, hello? -SH

John, come home now. -SH

Why? I'm busy at the moment. JW

I need you at home.- SH

I'm sure you can manage a few hours without me. JW

John, I really need your help. -SH

Oh, what could be so bloody important Sherlock? JW

I've broken my leg. -SH

...

"Oh god, Sherlock, how the bloody hell did you get yourself into this mess?" John was pacing the area next to the ambulance.

"Well, I didn't do this on purpose, John," Sherlock sounded irritated. "Lestrade had just text me some details about a crime that sounded particularly interesting, and as you were out and swore that you would break my phone if I shot the wall again, I got a little excited and ran out of our flat. Little did I know you had put a package at the top of the stairs."

"Hey, don't you dare blame this on me!" John retorted. "I told you that there was a package for you at the top of the stairs, I told you three times to move it or to take it in – to do something with it. But no, you didn't. Of course you didn't." John laughed sarcastically before shaking his head and looking at the ground.

"John, I'm just saying that if you had – "

"No, Sherlock! This is your fault, accept it! I'm not fucking clearing up for you this time. You've ruined my evening once again, and now you're blaming this whole situation on me! Well, you're on your own this time mate." John turned on the spot and walking down Baker Street, heading nowhere. He didn't want to leave Sherlock like that, but the arrogant git had annoyed him for the last time.

Sherlock stared wide eyes at John, his mouth falling open a little, trying to form words into a beautiful sentence like he is used to doing every day. But nothing came out. Only a small groan that sounded a little like "I'm sorry, John..."

...

The air was cold as John walked down street after street. His breath formed a little cloud of condensation as he breathed out heavily every now and then. He glanced around the area, checking to see if there was anything vaguely familiar to him, to try and see if he knew where he was. Nothing. Shops, cafés, pub and restaurants, a park bench with a scruffy homeless man laying on it. Same old London John thought to himself.

He thought about Sherlock, he thought about how he shouted in his face. How he'd left him alone, without looking back. He didn't even travel in the ambulance with him. His only friend had walked away from him, and he was only trying to explain.

Oh, for fucks sake, John thought to himself. He ran to the nearest road and waved over a taxi. He hopped in the back of it quickly to escape the cold.

"St Bart's Hospital, please, mate," he almost shouted to the cabbie.

Lights flashed past, occasionally being enhanced by the rain droplets that scattered the windows. Every traffic light seemed to be against him, causing each minutes to pass by agonisingly slow.

The cab pulled up outside the hospital and John threw a bunch of notes at the driver, not bothering for the change. He rushed through the doors, bumping into doctors who were trying to make their way through the busy reception.

When John made it to the desk, he almost shouted at the receptionist. "Holmes! Please," he remembered to add. The woman flicked a stand of the hair behind her shoulder and typed away on the keyboard, her brow furrowing slightly.

"He's in the ITU. Go upstairs, turn left and keep walking."

"Thanks," he started walking away, when something clicked. ITU. Intensive Care Unit. But Sherlock had only broken his leg? He stormed back up to the desk. "Sorry, um, my friend only broke his leg, what the hell is he doing in ITU?"

"I'm sorry, sir, I don't know. You'll have to ask them when you get there."

John huffed in aggravation before running to the stairs. He took them two at a time, dodging people as they appears. He burst through the doors, and turned left, all the while horrible images of Sherlock unconscious with tubes sticking out of him swam in his mind.

Still running down the corridor, he looked at the names appearing on plaques above his head; CHRONIC PAIN UNIT, HIGH DEPENDENCY UNIT, EAR NOSE AND MOUTH CARE, INTENSIVE CARE UNIT. John halted and stared at the door ahead of him. He made his way cautiously, adrenaline pumping throughout his body.

He squirted a fair amount of the sanitizer on his hands. He was a doctor for God's sake, he knew what to do. Ringing the bell, he stood awkwardly for a few seconds waiting for someone to answer.

"Laura speaking, how may I help you?" a chirpy voice came through the speaker.

"Ah yes, this is John Watson, I'm here to see my friend Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes."

"Of course, come right through."

John pushed on the door with a little more force that what was necessary, hurrying through and walking up to the desk.

"Where is he?" he asked impatiently.

"He's in a side room sir, just over there," the young woman pointed behind John. "You can go in in a second, but you need to put and apron and a pair of gloves on."

John spun round and grabbed a yellow apron from a tray, and well as some gloves and breathed deeply.

"Pull yourself together John," he whispered.

With a shaky breath, he pushed on the door and made his way in. He looked up and all the air from his body was exhaled immediately.

"Oh Sherlock," he said, before bursting into tears.

Thanks for reading, mean a lot. Review if you want!

-Sherly xo