For myships-havecanons, based on their prompt for the johnlockchallenges' gift exchange.
Pulse
There were very few instances where emotions had clouded Sherlock's rational thinking. Only a handful of times; the first when they put his dear Redbeard down, the latest when he realised John was trapped under a blazing fire.
His John. John Watson. The ex-army doctor from Afghanistan. The stranger who became his roommate. The friend who saved his life. The mourner who waited for 2 years. The man who was probably dead.
It was John he thought of when he first awoke, chained to a chair in some sort of dank-looking room. A quick glance around him showed no windows and the only exit a door with a serious looking locking system. The room was silent, with only the hushed drip-drip of water from the ceiling. It was the thought of John that got him to move, to get past the pain the criss-crossing wounds on his chest were inflicting upon Sherlock. John's name intertwined with the pounding in his chest.
Thud Thud John. Thud Thud John. Thud Thud John.
Getting out of the chains was easy enough and getting past the door was little more than child's play. Then there was the simple matter of incapacitating the guard who was posted outside of his door and Sherlock was free to search for John. It was finding him that was the hard part.
He couldn't seem to focus, couldn't clear his mind, couldn't even get into his mind palace. His thoughts, usually easy enough –at least for Sherlock- to understand, resembled a jumbled mess of JohnWatsonwhereisJohnmyJohnwhereismyJohnfindhimfindhimfindJohn. His heart rate was rising at an alarming rate and the still rational side of his brain was screaming at him to calm down but the only thing he could concentrate on was JohnJohnJohnJohn.
Frustration gave way to sheer panic soon enough, going through corridor after corridor as if he was trapped in a maze. He knew he was relying on pure luck to find John, flinging doors open like a crazed maniac. The sense of dread was pooling in his gut and spreading like poison in his veins.
The next door, ordinary like the others, was the one Sherlock was looking for, frantic eyes falling upon the figure of John Watson, lying on the ground. Sherlock felt himself go numb, blinking rapidly as if it'd make what he was seeing change.
"John?" Sherlock felt the word catch in his throat.
Stumbling forward on legs made of jelly, he fell to his knees beside the man. The side of John's face had turned an ugly purple colour and his lip was cut. Raising shaky hands Sherlock reached for John's limp wrist but couldn't. He just couldn't touch him.
"No."
In that moment, the amazing Sherlock Holmes, detective extraordinaire, became nothing more than an ordinary man. John didn't look peaceful, thanks to his injuries. He definitely didn't look like he was sleeping; Sherlock was now used to hearing his deep snores.
John looked, well, dead.
"No."
JohnJohnJohnhisJohnhisJohncan'tbedeadJohncan'tbedeadhisJohncan'tbedead.
"No."
He slumped, falling back away from John, just staring to find the tell-tale sign that, yes, he was breathing and yes, John was fine. Waiting for the rise and fall of his chest as he reminded himself how to breathe.
"One more miracle, John, for me. Don't. Be. Dead." His voice broke on the last word.
He almost missed the twitching of fingers, almost didn't hear the small intake of breath.
"Sherlock, you bloody idiot." A small wheezy cough, "You didn't even take a pulse."
Raising his eyes to John's barely open ones, he felt a sharp throb in his chest, right where his heart was.
Sherlock felt himself grin, blinking through rid-rimmed eyes, "Well, next time wake up earlier,"
Thud Thud John. Thud Thud John. Thud Thud John.
Fin
