Disclaimer: nothing relating to Sherlock belongs to me.
This is may be difficult reading, but I make no apologies. My dark side needed to get out today.
Tick, tick, tick. The hospital clock counts down the seconds. It is obscene that these moments - the final moments of the most incredible man he has ever known - should be marked by the red hand of a white plastic clock. The timepiece that marks his passing should be far more grand. He should take it down, turn it's face to the wall, but he doesn't. He wants to commit to memory the exact moment his heart shatters into a thousand pieces beyond any hope of repair.
Everything in this sterile room is artificial, fake. The ventilator huffs air into lungs that refuse to draw breath and tubes drip hydrating and pain limiting fluids into drug scarred veins. False life, false hope. The pointless waste of a life continued by the power of electricity. He wants to cry again but so many tears have already been shed in this room. His eyes are raw from tiredness and tears, burning and scratchy, but he will not lose one single moment of this remaining time to sleep.
This is not his friend, this barely animated figure beneath crisp white sheets. Waxy, pale skin and shadowed eyes, dark as bruises. He looks dead already, were it not for the steady rise and fall of his chest. He leans over the comatose man and whispers "why?". There will be no answer, no smart deflection of his question, no avoidance. The 'why' is irrelevant now in this quiet room. He hates the silence more than anything. There are whirrs, beeps, sighs from the machines, and the incessant, agonising ticking of the clock, but there is no conversation, no sign that his question was heard.
"Why?" He demands, louder now, and then he is screaming into the slack face, "just tell me why, damn you!" Nothing. No response, no recognition. Fat tears drip from his cheeks falling into the ashen, still face that never moves. He slides down the wall and rests, elbows on knees, head in hands, murmuring the unanswered question. He will never know.
The door opens and rubber shoes stop by his knees. A firm, gentle hand squeezes his shoulder, all the reassurance that can possibly be offered. "Hush now." The voice is kindly, caring, but businesslike. He can't scream his frustration and pain out here, he knows that. It is futile anyway. The feet leave and the clock ticks on.
He should say everything he has never said. Now, in this dim room, as the light of his life fades, he should find the words to express the depth of his love for this brilliant man. There are no words though. 'I love you' whispered over and over into the darkness has proved inadequate these last three nights. There is no comfort, no solace, in the profession unheard by his friend. "Forgive me. I was afraid." He weeps.
The hands of time creep ever closer to the end. Every tick corresponds to a drop of fluid drawn into unwilling veins. Soon they will take no more. Total silence will prevail, save for the weeping for a life prematurely ended.
Yesterday he held another, watched his heart break too as they made the decision together to end this hell. He expected him to fracture into a million icy shards, as unfeeling in the face of death as he had been dismissive in life. Instead he had dissolved in the acid rain of remorse and regret for a distance that would never be repaired. They had pooled their strength, their grief and anger, and somehow they had given consent for this end. The older man sleeps now, fortifying himself to meet the hour head on, but not him. He will see this through to the bitterest of ends.
When this is over he will hunt them down, these evil men that create the poison that has destroyed an amazing man. He will turn their poison on themselves and watch the life drain from their hopeless eyes. He will carve his grief on their bodies and... He is sobbing once more, numb on the cold floor, knowing he will do none of those things with his impotent anger.
He clambers stiffly to his feet, exhaustion and sorrow hampering his movements. Pulling the plastic chair close to the bed he takes the thin hand of his beloved friend and presses his lips to the palm. Love is the most wondrous and painful of states. This coming day will haunt him without mercy for the rest of his days. Every tick of a clock will be a needle to his damaged heart. Ever closer the hour, ever closer the final farewell. Tick, tick, tick.
A firm but gentle voice says "you need to wait outside. Fifteen minutes or so while we remove the equipment." He is unable to speak, lets the nurse lead him from that impersonal room to the waiting area where the other broken man waits. They embrace, nothing more to say. The final act has been committed and soon they start their vigil. These are the longest minutes, each second away from his side slipping into a past full of memories, escaping a future of lost hope. The other man whimpers and grips his hand, fearful that the moment - the moment - will pass by, while they are exiled from the room. His polished veneer shows deep cracks that will change his life forever, bleeding hurt and distress. "I have imagined this day, but the agony it would bring was always beyond my comprehension."
Sympathetic features and the same gentle voice. "You can go back in. He's breathing by himself, but the prognosis is poor... We think a few hours..." She is telling them there is no going back, the end is in sight. For over twelve hours he has known this with certainty, but now the clock ticks louder and faster, urging him to say everything he has never been able to put into words before it is too late. It's already too late. The broken pair return to their fallen hero hand in hand.
Without the hum and whoosh of machines the room holds the silence of the grave. He places a soft kiss on the forehead of the motionless man, brushing his fingers through soft dark curls he had never dared to touch before. Weak, shallow breaths escape dry lips, cracked and sore from the intrusive ventilator. He lays his own against those of his friend and breathes "live, you bastard. Live for me. We need you."
Half lying on the bed the other man rests his head lightly against the patient's hip,feeling every tiny movement while it lasts. "Brother dear." The words which once dripped with sarcasm are coated with loss. "I am so sorry. I should have saved you from this." The clock marks another hour passed, and still he breathes.
Waiting for the next breath, counting the seconds between. It's a game he believes he is winning when each exhalation comes regularly, then his stomach plummets as the pattern is broken. A sudden sharper, deeper intake and the room holds its collective breath. Out, and back to the pattern. In, count. Out, count. In, tick, tick. Out, tick, tick. He finds himself praying to a God he long since abandoned, just to keep time moving forward with the rythm of his breath.
While there is life the nurses will come. They step softly around the companions, unobtrusive and sensitive to the deep sadness that dwells here. This senseless devestation must be familiar to them, but they do not judge. They act as though he is made of delicate porcelain, disturbing his rest as little as possible while they take their measurements. Nobody asks the time question. Nobody wants to know 'how long?'
Another circuit of the clock is almost complete, every movement of the second hand mocking their quiet thoughts. 'I wasn't there', tick, 'i should have stopped him', tick, 'we didn't love him enough', tick. Blame themselves, absolve him of all guilt. It was their failure, not his self-destructive addiction that has brought them to this room. Liquid golden bliss flowed through his veins and cushioned him against a world they hadn't made perfect for him. He knows it for the lie it is, but he will use it to punish himself in the quiet moments when he is forever alone.
"A few hours, she said..." Three, approaching four. Weak, shaky breaths rattle in the peaceful room. There is an acceptance that the inevitable will happen, that one final sigh will announce the end. He is running out of time.
Pressing his fingers lightly but firmly to the pulse point in his love's neck he uses the hated clock to count heartbeats. He has resisted the need to doctor, afraid to officially confirm the squiggles on the chart. If he didn't know, it was easier to hope. The pulse is slow but steady, far stronger than he expects, but the breaths seem to be fading...
There is so much love in this room, unexpressed. Two lives revolving around a third - bright, brilliant and tragically brittle. There are things that must be said before the centre of their universe collapses. He slips his dark fingers beneath the narrow lifeless hand that lies on top if the sheet and holds it to his cheek. The other hand closes around the brother's slim hand, closing the circle. He places another gentle kiss on the still hand that rests against his face, murmuring his words into his friend's palm.
"I'm sorry that I couldn't prevent this, and that i wasn't there for you when you needed me." Tick, tick, tick. "I want you to know..." His voice cracked, but he would say the words. "To know that I'm... That we are angry with you. You have denied us a future with you. Your parents are devastated. You are a selfish bastard and I hate you for doing this to us." The brother makes a sound of distress and tries to pull away, but he won't let him go, tightens his grip. This needs to be said. "I will forgive you for leaving in time. I will... I will love you forever, and I'm sorry it took me so long to acknowledge that. But... Please don't leave me again. I don't think I can bear it." He presses the cool hand against his wet cheek as tears flow once more. "I love you Sherlock."
Tick, tick, tick. The white plastic clock ticks away the moments of their lives. A slender thumb brushes across a damp cheek. Time stands still.