The Blood In My Veins
John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, were two very different people, but were drowning in the same mundane routine and the crippling loneliness that came from lack of understanding of who they were. They meet on a rainy London night in the ER of St Bartholomew's Hospital, one dying from drug abuse, the other rushing to save his life. These two people were so different from each other, that they fit like two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Perhaps they can save each other.
Eventual Johnlock, Warnings of drug abuse. AU 22!Sherlock, 35!John
CHAPTER ONE
The first time John Watson met Sherlock Holmes he was unconscious and on the doorsteps of death from an overdose of Heroin. That day changed everything.
It had been a regular day in the ER, or rather evening, people drifting in through the streets for quick fixes to everyday ailments. He didn't know why half of them couldn't have just gone to the pharmacy for some cough medicine for the flu that was drifting around the streets of London. There were even a few addicts shadowing the doors gathering the courage to step through and try and con some of the more gullible doctors into giving them they're next fix.
John Watson wasn't so easily fooled. But all in all, a predictable day. He held back a grimace as he filled out the latest patient information and proscribed treatment. This job was slowly driving him crazy. One would think the passivity of mundane routine would be a welcome gift to a man who had seen war and survived, but that would be a lie. No one understood that. Not even his therapist he saw once a week for his PTSD and psychosomatic limp that had been plaguing him since he was taken off rotation and booted out on an honourable discharge for being wounded in battle - not that he really talked to her.
All she seemed to do is ask questions he didn't understand, which more or less made him angry, then she'd scribble on her notepad about him having trust issues. And he might, but that was understandable, no man can come home unchanged from such a life style. It also might not have helped him discount that belief when he read it upside down every time. So he had trust issues, show him a person who didn't.
But that was neither here, nor there. He rubbed at his shoulder, closing the folder and leaning back in the cheap wheeled chair in the small office, just beyond the receptionist desk. It had been bothering him lately and he was sick and tired of firing back painkillers like they were candy. So he might have done the most irresponsible thing and stopped taking them. Besides whoever said Doctors made the best patients?
Was this what his life was becoming - predictable, mundane...boring. Not that the ER was slow by any means, it could be downright chaotic. But it could never compare to another life he almost wished he could forget, just so he could be even the smallest measure of content. But this was the closest he'd get. He'd been Gods gift to the nurses, especially the most recently graduated and even the practicum students at St Barts. His military background had allowed him to create a calm atmosphere that allowed the most shaky youngsters to calm down themselves before they did irreparable damage to a patient. The older nurses were grateful.
"...uh...Dr Watson?" came the slightly nervous voice behind him. He turned around and gave a tired smile. It was Molly, a young intern in the Morgue. And a girl he had become fond of over that last few weeks, even protective.
"Yes, Molly." He watched silently as she fidgeted with the folder in her hands, her feet shifting her weight constantly, the nervous action of her tongue flicking out and dampening her lips. She was such a nervous and shy girl. It was no wonder to him why she had taken to the morgue. He half expected her to reach up and fold the little wisps of hair behind her ear. He gave an encouraging smile.
"I need you to sign this form, just to confirm that you were the attending Doctor to a Mr Hinkle before he died." Ah, one of those forms, he could count on both hands how many he had signed in the last three months. There was something every Doctor will grow to learn - that you can't save everyone.
"Of course. Come sit." he said gesturing for the folder and then to the chair at the unoccupied desk next to him. He was the only Doctor on call tonight. "Would you like a cuppa, you look exhausted?" And she did. Bruises under her eyes and a slight red tint to them that showed a lack of sleep.
"Thank you." she said fidgeting. He smiled and reached over ideally and turned the electric kettle on. Before turning back towards the file. Howard Hinkle, 40, heart-condition, died from collapsed heart-valve. They had been monitoring him for months, always waiting for a heart to become available, only he was no where near the top of that list. With a flourish he signed the papers, handing them back.
"So, Molly, how have you been lately." he said grabbing his cane and hobbling out of the chair, gathering tea-bags and two mugs. He turned to look over his shoulder and frowned. Her eyes were downcast and her hands were clutching the folder tightly. Fixing the tea, he limped over pathetically and handed her the cup, before falling back into the swivel-chair as one gracefully can with a mug of tea in hand, which wasn't all that graceful to begin with. "What is it?"
He almost panicked when he saw the tears gathering in her eyes.
"Jim, that guy I told you about, he...he.." then came the torrential rain. He panicked for a moment. He didn't like crying woman, they were so unpredictable. You never know if they were going to sob into you shoulder or slap you because your there and your that bloody substitute for the arsehole they're pissed at. He grabbed the box of tissues as a peace offering and a shield - a soldier scared of a crying girl. That thought was like a stone in his stomach. He forced back a grimace and the feeling and thrust them into the ever darkening void that seemed to consume him when he's left alone for to long.
He waited patiently for her to continue as she whipped her tears and blew her nose. What little make up she had on smudged her eyes like bruises or a mask giving her the bandit look of a raccoon. But her story was about to be put on hold when a frazzled elderly nurse rushed into the room, her gaze immediately catching his.
"Emergency," was all she managed to get out, before he grabbed his cane, turned to Molly apologized and hobbled out of the office/break room as fast as his limp would allow, which was impressive to some, but disappointing to him. By the Queens grace he missed running.
The Emergency Room was quiet for this time of night, except for the gaggle of nurses working around a bed, the paramedic's standing back on standby. This was the chaos that had captured his attention of war and the return to the ER. He could feel the adrenaline already pumping and the realignment of his spine as he stood just a little straighter commanding the atmosphere as he strode over his eyes fixed on the up coming patient. From what he could see between the gap of nurses was a thin body, young, and male.
'"What have we got?" he said his voice soft, yet holding just a hint of the Captain he used to be. He watched the transformation of the nurses before him, the very air changing. They stood straighter, more focused, less panicked.
"A young male, drug overdose. Haven't figured out the choice of poison yet, still trying to stabilize him." came the voice of a young male nurse freshly out of Grad school and hired at St Bart's three days earlier. He flickered his eyes over to him briefly.
'He's holding up well,' he thought.
He grabbed the penlight he always keeps in his pocket before reaching out with nimble fingers and lifted an eyelid. Pinpoint pupils. His eyes flickered to the breathing tub currently being administered, then to the chest. Slow and difficult breathing. He grabbed a thin, almost dainty, wrist. Slow weak pulse. He glanced at the nails. Tinged blue. His eyes narrowed and then took a quick look at the lips - also blue. He watched with furrowed brows as he watched as the muscle on his jaw twitched beneath white skin. Muscle spasms. Heroin. He only seen this once before, when he was a teen still living at home.
"How long has he been like this?" he barked at the paramedics.
"Fifteen to twenty minutes."
He turned to the closest nurse to him and made sure to catch their eyes.
"Get the Naloxone HCL," he said and turned to make sure they were handling his breathing. John was so focused he was startled when an elegant hand that was stronger than it looked gripped his wrist. He snapped his head up and locked eyes with stone-blue, murky from the drugs.
He could describe the moment other than some cliché from the old books from his mother's romance collection. But this was far from romance, there was a quiet desperation in those eyes and a defiance that lit an eternal flame within. And for a split second John felt like he understood and was understood in turn, but that was before the kids eyes closed, his breathing stuttered, and he went into cardiac arrest.