Title: The five times John Watson turned to God (and once where he didn't have to).
Rating: Kiddies! ~ish.
Pairing: Uhh… What's a pairing? :D Kay, serious, I wrote everything as a platonic thing, you know, cos Holmes and Watson is the ultimate bromance and I'm personally taken by such a deep, but non-sexual relationship. But, you know, take it which ever way floats yo boat.
Warning: Revelations about Christians. Besides that, none.
Spoilers: Um…YEAH. Dur. BOOM. But not really too explicit ones. Explicit spoilers mean I'm working with the canon rather than around it, and canon is only fun sometimes. If you want the actual canon you go watch the programme.
Word Count: 6,417 ish.
Disclaimer: Not the BBC
Summary: Five times in his life, John Watson found himself praying to a Christian God he wasn't sure he believed in. And once, he found it wasn't necessary.
A/N: Sorry, 2 people said I was wrong for my, and I quote, "vitriolic rant" about Dawkins. To be fair, I think I feel the same way about him, but I'm going to apologise for inflicting my opinions onto you lot rather than him. It was rude. Already said sorry to one, and though I don't think SallySue will be back, I would like to apologise for not apologising to her too. Which is what this is about. Sorry, SallySue!
1.
There were shouts from downstairs, and Harry could hear them as plain as day no matter how much she turned up the volume of her television, and she clenched her teeth together when she realised her little brother would be able to hear it all the more clearly from his room, as he was closer. She knew he'd be upset, and felt wretched for not thinking to look in on him before, because she knew there was no way that John would be able to sleep through the fight raging between their parents downstairs.
She peered into John's bedroom and found it hard to see for a moment as he had the lights off from when he went to bed a few hours earlier. But she didn't find him in his bed. Rather, when her eyes adjusted, she saw him kneeling on the floor, wrapped up in his warmest jumper, but shivering and clenching his hands close to himself.
Harry thought the boy was sick, or had had a fit or some other sort of physical manifestation of emotional instability due to the raging hormones and highly-strung feelings of a 13-year-old, and asked him what he was doing as she rushed towards him. John's eyes were clenched closed, and he didn't acknowledge her voice, but continue to shiver and teeth to chatter.
It was winter, three days to Christmas, and eleven o'clock at night, and Harry had no clue why John was still up. She wondered briefly that maybe he was sleeping, maybe he had managed to sleep walk and then follow his dream into a curled up position on the floor, and, worried this was the case, she went to shake him to attention.
She stopped abruptly when she was closer to him, leaning in to realise John was speaking, and that the tensing of his body feeling her so close signalled that he was awake, merely ignoring her. She felt slightly angry until the words became clear to her, and something inside of her made her feel irritated at her brother's foolishness, whilst something deeper made her feel sad at her brother's desperation.
She hugged him close to her mightily, and she didn't speak over him as his volume increase and his grief burst through now he had a comforting shoulder which to cry on, and cry he did though Harry hadn't seen him cry for years – the last time being when he cracked his head open by bashing it on a radiator when he was seven and a friend of his had been round and they had engaged in a tussle over John's toy trains.
"Please help them make up." He was saying into Harry's cardigan but not talking to her, sobbing through the words, his fists still balled together, and tucked tightly under his chin. "Please don't let them hurt each other. Help us, please. Help me."
And he couldn't even stutter out 'Amen' as he fell into uncontrollable gasps of misery and anguish and pain, and Harry could do nothing but rock him as if he were five again, whilst she tried to keep herself calm for him, and tried to convince herself that maybe God could help him.
2.
Clara was staying with John for the night, even though she knew it was an inconvenience to him, what due to his flying out to Afghanistan sometime in the next week. But John would forever say that having Clara over was nothing but a pleasure, and he understood that she needed somewhere close by to Harry so to have a refuge from the woman when times got bad, but also so Clara was still there in case things got really bad whilst she was away. She had friends and family, of course, but they were dotted all over the city, and that was too far away should Harry decide to ring her in urgent need of assistance. John's house was a good spot because John had picked the house for the very reason of Harry's being there. John may be the younger Watson, but he was always the more sensible, and definitely the protector, especially since their mother started drinking after their father walked out years ago.
Clara had gotten up and out of bed to get a cup of tea at about 1 o'clock, convinced John was sleeping, but Harry was on her mind and sleep just wouldn't come for her. She planned to sit by the phone, her mobile at hand just in case, and maybe put a film on, keep the volume low for John's sake. She snuck passed her kind brother-in-law's room, avoiding the creaky step on the stairs, and went through the living room towards the kitchen.
The door was propped open when she approached, and she stopped dead in the dark living room as she spotted light coming from the kitchen. She thought John would have gone to bed by now, but peered around just in case.
She was right to do so, as if she had burst in she would have surely startled him; he looked so engrossed in thought, eyes closed, knuckles to his lips, hands intertwined. He looked like he was merely napping, but Clara knew at once that John was praying. Clara knew the Watson's weren't religious, not even moderately. Neither John nor Harry had been baptised, and neither had been brought up on teachings of the church. While Clara had at least known some bible stories, the Watsons had just looked at her when she recited a moral, or a reference, as if she were speaking French. John didn't have a bible in his house, used the lord's name in vain enough for it to be blasphemous, and showed no signs of believing in, much less turning towards, God.
"She needs a guide." She heard him whisper, and Clara knew he was talking about Harry. "Because she can't help Harry through this on her own." Oh, no, John was praying for her, not Harry. Clara felt a little guilty, and a little angry, but mostly she was affectionate, because John had always helped her and now he was leaving and she knew he thought this could almost be taken as turning his back on his family. He was silent for a while, clearly still praying, but continuing his trail of pleas in his head, keeping his desperation between him and God.
"Amen." He said a bit awkwardly after a moment when he was finished, and rested his forehead against his still clenched fists, looking towards the table and not moving. Clara gave him a few moments before announcing her presence as if she'd just walked down the stairs, making him a cup of tea too and saying she was glad he was up, because she just couldn't sleep for the life of her.
It may have been selfish of her to keep John up all night, but she was going to miss him when he went away – everything from his smile to his quiet reassurance, from the security he offered and the peace he brought her, for with him here she knew Harry would always be protected. He took to Afghanistan that promise of a backup, of a stronghold, of a central base. She hugged him mightily when she left the next day, to make sure he knew that anything that could happen while he was gone was not his fault. He said he'd call later, and asked her to look after his sister for him.
3.
There were still bullets and explosions in the air as the Forward Base was attacked, and no clear pathway to safe refuge bar one somewhat risky route through hazardous territory which John couldn't travel alone with those injured. The fight was over on their side, with four of the team down on the floor, gasping with the pain, bodies shaking as the tears fell down usually unfazed faces, and John could not do anything whilst under such heavy fire. He called to the two men close enough to hear him over the chaos and they nodded with understanding as he jerked his head towards the wounded. One, a man named Pete who had been seriously injured in his right arm, saw John's intention and hoisted himself up in order to assist the others. John tried to yell to him, but there was no way the man would be deterred in this situation, his face stern with determination and set with fortitude. He was going to help someone else survive and damned if John could do anything to stop him.
"Come on," John said, hoisting a young man called Danny – hardly nineteen and still living with his mother – over his shoulder and asking if he could walk. Danny groaned lowly, looking on the verge of passing out, the blood pouring down from damage to his side. John was worried about where the bullet had hit the boy, but tried to reassure himself that if Danny was still conscious and able to shuffle his legs at a decent get-away pace then he was going to take it as a good sign. The other men followed his lead, and Pete managed to find someone whom he could support but who could help to support him back, somewhat. One of the men – about John's age called Stanley – had a man who was missing half his leg and unconscious.
Others saw their lead and started to help cover them as they retreated, John himself working to fire some rounds into enemy bodies and not feeling particularly guilty over doing it. They were ducking and weaving and throwing explosives and firing shots and trying to get to a vehicle or somewhere safe and enemy fire became heavier as they became more desperate to get away.
John felt the burn of a bullet smash into him from behind and stumbled forwards, hissing through his teeth at the pain. A soldier close by took John's human load off of the doctor in worry, shouting and asking if he was okay. John pulled him and Danny down, calling the man an idiot as a bullet zoomed overhead.
"You'll get killed if you try that one again!" He growled, but there was little time for anger and no time for shame on the battlefield, so the soldier just nodded and John took over his role as that of covering fire whilst the man assisted those in need. John did a quick assessment of his shoulder, but he couldn't see much of the damage. He was still breathing, he reasoned, so he didn't worry too much about it for the moment.
Their retreat became all the more hasty when the relentless attack of explosions and hails of metal doubled in its efforts to blow them to pieces, and while they were not out in record-breaking time, it was less than they had expected, and John personally thought it was over very quickly as he found himself safe and able to look over his patient's wounds.
Danny was his priority, due to his not knowing where he was hit, but it wasn't as bad as it looked and he stemmed the blood flow, told Danny he was alright, and allowed the boy to pass out.
All of them, it was soon found, would be alright, though some where in much better states than others. It was only after John knew everyone would survive when he remembered his own wound and suddenly felt the pain all at once. He stepped away from the men and allowed himself as much privacy as one could expect in the army, but no one was really paying him too much attention. He found he was thankful for this as he strained to look over his shoulder in order to accurately assess the damage, but still had to work his finger around and into the wound to really understand how bad his injury was. When he realised how truly dire the situation could be should he not get some medical attention soon he felt mildly sick and a little worried. He took a deep breath, and then stood to collect some equipment from nearby to pick out the bullet and tend to the hole left in its wake. The soldier from before, Harry his name was, glanced over and his eyes showed his worry. John tried to keep his blank face on and succeeded, but he was overwhelmed by the wish to be home, to see his Harry, because he had been away for so long and it was high time they stopped arguing and hating each other and bickering and bitching and now they should be adults and act like siblings and damn well love each other.
John found his hand was shaking and couldn't quite reach the bullet, and he couldn't see and the pain was growing. The adrenaline rush he'd been high on before had long since abated, and John knew he couldn't bring himself to do much but sit silently and panic.
He'd drawn some attention with his attempt to do his own medical procedure, and the people he knew and trusted gathered around him, scared for his safety but unsure what had happened or what they should do.
He felt a distant feeling of terror for his own survival, and his eyes started to droop on their own accord because his body had had enough of the strain John had put it through and just wanted to rest for a while.
John muttered under his breath, calling out for a God he still wasn't sure if he believed in, but he supposed he'd probably have his answer either way soon. He heard Harry call out for an ambulance, but John didn't want the hassle or the whirring sirens or the bustle of the medicals around him when he could do it himself. Just give him five minutes of silence, of some shut eye – just five minutes…
Harry knew John couldn't see him anymore, his eyes glazed and eyelids falling at glacial pace, and he wished he knew what he could do. The man had helped so many people, and probably saved his neck too, and all he wanted was to see the man through. He couldn't die, not yet. There had to be a way to save him.
Harry heard him whisper, and leant close to hear him telling everyone else to shut up, because it was in John's rights to be heard, whether he just thought it was his last words or whether they really were his last words.
But what John said wasn't directed at him, and Harry felt slight guilt in hearing what the MO said.
"Please," John was whispering without even being conscious of it. "Please, God, let me live."
4.
Lestrade found John on the sofa, lying across it in an almost parody of Sherlock's manner of sulk, eyes closed, hands clenched, looking as if he were attempting to imitate his flatmate, perhaps in order to follow the man's thoughts. John was muttering under breath, and Sally scoffed loudly as she saw the doctor they had all considered sane do his impression of the sociopathic genius. The noise startled John, as if he hadn't heard them loudly creak their merry way up the stairs, and John's head whipped round to stare at them.
"Finally got to you, has he?" Sally said, and John looked conflicted between replying and ignoring them. He closed his eyes again briefly, muttered some other words which were too low to hear, and then spun himself off the sofa to greet them properly.
"Tea?" He said, smiling and walking towards the kitchen. Lestrade sighed heavily.
"Sherlock not here, then?"
"Gone out." John said. "God knows where, about mid-afternoon."
"He didn't say anything?" Lestrade asked as Sally tutted and muttered, "Bloody typical."
"No." John replied as he flicked on the kettle. "Probably just doing it to piss off Mycroft. Why, do you have a case for him? I'm not an answering machine though, so don't try that one."
"Mycroft?" Lestrade asked, becoming briefly overwhelmed with the information which he knew already: that John really knew Sherlock much better than anyone else did, no matter how short a time period John had been engaged in his presence. John knew about someone Sherlock knew which Lestrade didn't, and though it shouldn't have come as a surprise to the DI, it hit him hard and fast with the wallop of surprise.
"Doesn't matter." John didn't elaborate. "Obviously, he's not here, and is blatantly not answering his texts. I assume you've rung him too, so either he's ignoring you or he doesn't have his phone. Likelihood is he's dropped it in the Thames. The amount of phones he has broken is unbelievable."
"You really are becoming like him." Sally gaped, as if this was news to her. "Is 'psychopath' a contagious disease?"
"Yeah." John said without hesitation, immerging with a mug for just himself, presuming that they weren't going to stay long enough for tea if Sherlock wasn't here. Lestrade, whilst pining for a nice cuppa, knew he didn't have the time. "But don't worry; it's rare to contract it without more than 24 hours a day of forcible flat-sharing."
"Well, when you find him tell him we're expecting him." Lestrade cut across as Sally opened her mouth to retort. "And, word of warning, the world cannot deal with more than one Sherlock Holmes."
John smiled genuinely for the first time around his mug of steaming tea. "I know." He said, sounding warm and honest, also for the first time during their brief encounter of the day. "I'm not him, and I don't want to be."
It was obvious they had caught him at a bad time, or interrupted something important, and Lestrade didn't quite know what he had been doing on the sofa when they had walked in, but if it were anyone else bar a hardened ex-army-surgeon who followed Sherlock Holmes like a lost puppy, Lestrade would have said he had been praying.
It was some time later when Sherlock burst on to the crime scene in a flurry of tail coats and curls, brain running at high speed, looking scandalised that Lestrade hadn't contacted him earlier, he has a phone and it's not his fault Lestrade doesn't know the number. It doesn't matter that it's a new one, Lestrade is a detective inspector for heaven's sake, it's not hard.
John was leaning over the body after Sherlock had finished with it, assessing his own cause of death, noticing little things about the body in medical terms that Sherlock nor the police had picked up on, because that was his job as a highly qualified, well-experienced army doctor. It's just what he did.
Soon after, Sherlock was scrolling through his new phone at top speed, and you could practically see the cogs whir inside the man's head at a pace no one could dream to keep up with. John stepped back as Sherlock flew about the body, standing in stride with Lestrade. Lestrade leaned over to whisper to him, and John met him part way so to hear him better.
"What were you praying for?" The man wondered, honestly curious as to what John would turn to God to help him with, and John smiled lightly, straightening himself back up again.
"Nothing important." He said whilst looking directly at Sherlock, the lie which spewed from his lips blatant, but the truth private.
5.
Help
The text was short but dreadful and Mycroft clenched the phone in his hands. Three hours ago Dr John Watson had dropped out of his radar, and about half an hour ago so had Sherlock. Now he had a text from Dr Watson, which Mycroft could trace, and he set his men on it instantly as Christina instantly called him over, a car waiting, which they were to use in their travels to help his brother.
Already she was on the phone to the police and had long since called an ambulance and then thrust the phone at Mycroft, not needing to tell him that it was now his job to tell the calm lady on the line where to point her paramedics. As soon Christina held out another mobile phone with an address in a text he rattled it off to the lady as Christina did the police and also the fire department that she'd similarly had on the line.
Mycroft, for all who would care to observe him, looked the picture of calm; aloof. His real emotions (which consisted of anger at his brother's idiocy, amazement at the skills required to drop out of his radar, and nerves because it was Sherlock involved) were hidden and if Christina saw anything other than that detached but interested look he was determined to keep as his mask of choice she didn't mention it.
"A large explosion not minutes ago." She said as she tapped away at her Blackberry, deep into political matters whilst tending to Mycroft's little issue at the same time. "Fire department, Detective Inspector Lestrade and an ambulance have been sent on their way. Of course, we sent some of our own operatives in the hospital so they will be here exactly on time and the traffic has been diverted for their comfort; certain routes cleared completely for maximum agility around the city. They will not be late."
"I fear we are already too late." Mycroft muttered pessimistically. Christina looked at him briefly from the corner of her eye, but nothing changed on her face.
"Possibly, sir." She agreed, because that was what she was paid to do. She didn't voice her real feelings, which were that of great hope in the circumstances – big explosion or not, the emergency services were soon to swarm in a record-breaking amount of time, so the young Mr Holmes and his friend Dr Watson who were on Grade 3, Active status and surveillance stood the largest chance of survival short of grazing your finger immediately outside a hospital. She typed away at lightning speed on her phone, helping her boss keep the country running as he decided it really wasn't worth it at the moment. He'd snap out of it once the drama was over, she knew. How long that would take was all just a matter of whether the two men in the explosion were dead already or not quite there yet.
It took them longer than the emergency services to arrive at the scene, and there were paramedics and firemen and police officers running around, forced to cooperate, mixing and matching uniforms and various amount of protective gear as they all ran inside looking for two men in particular. Mycroft panicked somewhat, in a mild kind of way, and drew out a handkerchief to hold in front of his face, possibly in order to not choke on the ashes falling around them and plaguing the air. Likewise, Christina held a manicured hand to her mouth and nose.
"Please go and talk to someone, Christina," Mycroft said through the cloth. "Preferably one who knows the status of the operation so far."
Christina nodded, putting her phone in her pocket immediately upon command and walking away to intimidate someone who would point her in the right direction. She didn't hear Mycroft's hurried footsteps over her own urgent clack of heels, and didn't see him dart towards the flaming leisure centre because she was determinately walking in the opposite direction, and could never imagine Mr Holmes doing such a stupid thing as run unprotected into an unstable, burning building in the first place, so felt no need to check up on her boss' well-being and current position of sanity.
Mycroft pushed past the debris, able to accurately calculate and measure the best trail to the inside pool due to blueprints of the building offered on the ride over by his assistant. He avoided the flames, held the handkerchief tighter to his face and winced in order to both narrow his focus and stop anything harmful damage his eyesight. He was aware what he was doing was ridiculous, but this was greater than any problem he had before faced, even the time where he had to stop three idiotic, albeit very clever, kids from taking complete control of the media and relocating every stupid individual on the planet to Canada. This was so much worse than that; this was Sherlock, his brother, his only remaining relative, the only reminder of Mummy, the only one he really cared about.
He found his way tentatively into the pool area and was forced to climb over everything – every fallen beam, every collapsed locker, every curtain rail, and every broken, slippery tile. It was dark, there was no noise bar the rippling of the water and the distant cry of the services who had not yet managed to wrestle their way into the smoky room, and it was getting harder for Mycroft to concentrate. This was a stupid idea, he kept on repeating in his head. He shouldn't have come. Whether he was here or not didn't matter – either Sherlock was dead or he was alive, and Mycroft's presence would not make any immediate difference.
He slipped suddenly, and grabbed a rail which jerked away from the wall violently, almost breaking off completely. Mycroft was relieved when it didn't, and raised the handkerchief to his mouth again, breathing through it heavily, heart pounding, wondering why Sherlock willingly put himself through similar experiences to these almost every night. It was stressful, not exhilarating. Mycroft made a mental note to get Sherlock a full psychological examination after this whole ordeal was done and dusted.
Scared to move too suddenly for the shaky structure surrounding him dangerously, Mycroft was loathe to even make a noise lest he somehow startle the building to full demolition and it collapse. He breathed slowly, quietly, eyes the only things darting around, looking, observing, and planning his way out. It was only because of this state of terrified but concentrated paralysis that he even heard anything at all.
Not a great distance away from him came a low noise, a whispered wheezing of someone unable to breathe, on their last breaths, soon to be gone. Mycroft, wishing it to be Sherlock just so he knew he was alive, called out as loud as he dared to the noise. It didn't reply to him, though there seemed to be an increase in speed and despair in the hushed tones, as if it were truly trying.
Carefully, Mycroft removed himself from his position, wary of his surroundings, hyperaware of the consequences of his actions should he decide to move in either one direction or another and it be the wrong move. With the vague and somewhat garbled feeling of being a pawn in an elaborate game of chess on an extremely messy board, he slowly approached it, peering around corners and through dangerous shrapnel and found just what he was looking for.
Wrapped around each other in a protective embrace, his brother and Dr Watson lay. Both seemed to be breathing, though not particularly well or overly easily, and Watson's chest was heaving with extreme effort. It was him who was making the noise, even now it remained soft and quiet, because he was clutching Sherlock close to him, eyes shut (whether through pain or through conscious decision was unknown) and breathing his words into Sherlock's dark tendrils of hair.
"John," Mycroft called down gently, but John didn't acknowledge him. "John," Mycroft tried again, leaning down carefully and reaching down a hand to touch the man to snap him back to reality. On his other hand he brought out his phone and text Christina and Lestrade blindly, with directions leading the way and demands to move themselves at a pace which would be previously unknown to man.
Leaning in close, Mycroft was horrified to learn that John was praying, seeing a minute rocking in John's body which led Sherlock's, causing some small illusion of a grotesque dance, seeing the injuries sustained to the ex-soldier and the slightly more minor ones inflicted upon his brother. Unable to bring himself to interrupt, Mycroft had to watch in with a sick fascination as the doctor's mind slowly unwound with the idea of Sherlock being lost from him forever. Rationality had escaped the man in the shock and the trauma, and his head wounds could not be helping matters much. Under his breath, he was begging Sherlock back to him, making sure God kept him safe, alive, breathing. He wanted Sherlock out of this place safe and unharmed; God couldn't just let him die here. His words were not requests, or pleading, or begging - they were hard demands, words of an officer laced with a dare-you-defy-me tone. This was a threat of suffering, an order which would not be refused. Realising he was the answer to John's prayers, Mycroft finally took a hold of John's shoulder and shook hard enough for the man to startle back to reality and stare at him with wide eyes over the top of Sherlock's unconscious head.
"I'm here, John." He said softly, as carefully as he could when he realised John was taking a while to recognise him. "I'm here to save you."
"Not me," John eventually croaked. "Not me, no – save him."
"There was no need for prayer, John, you knew I would come." Mycroft said, reaching out for Sherlock, assessing damage and figuring out the safest way of their extraction. "You were able to find the strength to send the text, after all. Help is on its way."
"That's why I was praying," He whispered, but the sound of rapidly approaching help was starting to drown him out. "Because if I didn't I wouldn't get your attention and you'd never have found him in time."
John was completely unconscious when help came into stride with Mycroft and pulled him away to safety, saying Mycroft's life was just as important and ultimately in danger due to his hasty actions, and to please go and see a paramedic immediately. As he was assisted out by a fireman, he absently replayed the conversation in his head. It all made sense, but something was niggling at his mind, telling him something was actually very out of place, like he was missing the real context of the exchange between him and the good doctor.
He was waiting at the back of an ambulance as a doctor fluttered around him, Christina standing ready besides him though staring at her phone, occasionally updating him on news, when it came to him in a cold gush of realisation. He watched as the two men were wheeled out on stretchers, face covered in blood and oxygen masks, looking so much worse, so much more damaged, in the light of the flickering sirens.
Police tape kept the news reporters away, but it couldn't stop the cameras flashing, and Mycroft was loathe to try and bother to suppress the reporter's somewhat pathetic attempts to gather the truth for the moment. Nothing significant would come of it bar an interesting story made of lies Christina was under the process of beautifully weaving while she also alerted the Prime Minister which bar his angry teenage daughter had wondered off to at this time of night.
Mycroft couldn't stop watching Dr John Watson, fearing for him worse than he feared for his brother all at once. His brother may be unconscious and potentially comatose, but John Watson was in a much worse state of being. When they had spoken earlier, John had not seen Mycroft as his and Sherlock's saviour, here to help and to carry the light for others more able to assist them than himself along the right path leading to them, no. No, with his prayers answered for possibly the first time in his life, John Watson had seen beyond humanity and rationality. With the absolute promise of Sherlock's safety appearing so suddenly before him, John Watson had seen God.
+1.
The doctors tried to hustle the man away, but he wouldn't budge for the world, despite there being no way he could legally remain.
But the man always had a backup-plan. When the hospital had called the police, John Watson had called backup in DI Lestrade and Lestrade had pulled a few strings to keep the police out of it: John Watson was not doing harm, in fact John Watson was not even moving and therefore there really was no need to call the police over it.
Then the hospitals had said there was no legal attachment which John Watson had with the patient so they were allowed to kick him out. John Watson stepped outside obediently for twenty minutes and then came back with a fire to his eyes and the papers proving that he was the patient's next of kin.
The doctors tried to appeal to John's medical background, saying he was injured himself, and he needed rest, and that he was causing himself harm by staying here in an uncomfortable chair when he should be resting at home, or at least in a hospital bed. In reply John said that he, as a doctor, knew exactly how to take care of himself and their input into his own heath was unnecessary, unwarranted, and most importantly, unwanted.
They tried to call in people who John knew and who could persuade the man to be dragged away from his adopted post by the patient's bedside, but his sister had scoffed at them, his friends said they weren't close enough to John to do that, and his boss had come in to see what was happening, but shook her head sadly when the hospital staff explained the situation.
Sarah Sawyer had peeked into the hospital room, then turned back and sighed. "There is no way John will leave him." She said, shouldering her bag and going to leave herself. "He's dependant on him. He loves him far too much to leave."
After that, the doctors allowed John Watson to stay, though John Watson continued to be a hassle. He badgered after the patient's health, needing to know if there were any improvements in the patient's condition despite being a good doctor and thus perfect capable of seeing with his own eyes how the patient was getting on. John knew he was fine, but the patient needed to stay unconscious else the pain would be unbearable even with strong painkillers.
Three days, and John Watson didn't leave the bedside of his best friend, and Dr Allison Dale was still worried. She knew that she wouldn't and couldn't budge him, and she felt his pain, she really did, because she understood what it was like being a doctor but having to put aside all that training for a moment to be the one who cries for their family, but that didn't mean he was allowed to be so bloody pig-headed and stubborn about it all. The doctors needed some room to work, after all.
She went to check on the duo at six that evening, fully expecting to see the same scene as she had for the last three days, with John on the edge of his seat, eyes trained on the dark-haired man in the bed, never moving, never changing. Instead, though, she saw something new as she opened the door, and was startled by the sudden alteration in what had become the bedroom norm.
John was kneeling, elbows on the mattress, face dug into his clasped hands as he silently prayed. She could almost read his thoughts by the tortured expression he wore – he was shouting in his mind, saying God had saved the man, but hadn't managed to give him back to John completely. He was ranting and raving and pacing and wearing himself down without having to move or ever utter a single word. Dr Dale shouldn't have been surprised, because she'd seen hundred of people doing the exact same thing, usually with little results to show for their efforts, but John Watson had shown no prior religious inclinations, and it had thrown her to suddenly see him begging, grasping at straws, hoping for something he didn't really believe in to deliver his friend from the brink. It could have been tragic, but it was really just a natural progression. When this failed to cure his friend John would continue to sit, but he would be quieter, more withdrawn, and would probably leave if he was asked again. But no one would ask him, because in his eyes they would see John's personal ghosts and shadows and an unbearable look of loss. Everyone would feel too guilty to tell him to move along; even guiltier when he did and never looked back.
But there was another surprise waiting for Dr Dale. As she allowed John to finish his desperate attempts to reach his Christian God, there was some movement from a patient who should be deep under the influence of the drugs prescribed to him and unconscious for another few days at least. Yet, she could see it plain as day: the patient's hand raising up from its previous resting place on the sheets and reaching towards the man praying by his bedside for his sake and for his safety.
Army-training and service making him paranoid, John jumped when the hand was close, eyes flying open and his jumping back a small amount of space, away from what may have possibly been a threat. He stared for a moment at the animated hand, and then followed it up to grey eyes which looked like they were struggling to keep themselves open. There was a moment between them which was almost stereotypical as time seemed to freeze and John realised Sherlock Holmes was back with him in consciousness. Dr Dale felt guilty for intruding, but she hadn't meant to, and she silently excused herself without either of them noticing.
John went to sit by Sherlock's side again, face spread into a grin and Sherlock smiled back.
"It was unbearable." Where the first words said, and Dr Dale just managed to hear the dark-haired man whisper, voice croaky with a few days of silence. "Seeing you like that. I didn't realise you believed so deeply."
"You were awake?" John asked unbelievably, and there was a breathless laugh from the man in the hospital bed.
"Of course I was, John." He answered. "And I didn't need God for it, either, so there is no need for you to pray anymore. Don't thank that which doesn't exist; there are doctors for that."
She was too far away to hear anything else, and promised she'd go back in twenty minutes to make sure they were both alright.
In the hospital room John had allowed himself a moment of indulgence which he planned to never put either of them through again, where he grabbed Sherlock's hand and clung on like he would die without the contact. He was still smiling, and Sherlock smiled back as well as he could in his exhausted, pain-filled state. John was so relieved that Sherlock was fine and was going to be fine and was going to get better (for they had previously been unsure of whilst Sherlock had been under the effects of the drug). Now John knew that everything was going to be okay, and so he couldn't begrudge himself a private thought of holiness.
He brought you back to me.
End.
A/N: Um… I dunno, do you believe? I'm not really sure if I am a Christian. I probably am, and I was Christened as a baby, but that means balls all. I suppose I'll see when I get there.
HEYHEYHEY, did you like it? I had fun writing it. Except John in Afghanistan. That was a pain in the beehive. It took a while. Ahhh, it doesn't feel like I wrote 6,417. If feels like I wrote 1,000,000. But, done now, no more whining for me.
Jack