No Regrets (Dream)
Summary: Sherlock has bottled up his love for John for so long. When John falls ill, will Sherlock finally manage to tell him his feelings?
"John, stay with me."
The horrible weather perfectly matched the horrible week.
John gave a violent rasping noise in response. His forehead had gathered a sheen of sweat and was thrashing in his bed.
"It's going to be alright John."
The outlook was grim; John was grazed with a poisoned knife after a mugging investigation gone wrong. An ugly wound festered in his side.
"I called Mycroft and the hospital, people should be here any second."
Like an idiot, John had insisted on treating his own wound and hadn't mentioned when it took a turn for the worse. A thin white sheet lay to the side of the bed, for it had been flung aside quite some time ago.
"He said 'Unlock your door, an ambulance is coming.' and hung up. Of course he still has cameras in 221b." Sherlock rolled his eyes and choked out a laugh.
The door crashed open. Boots thumped on the stairs.
"Don't go John. I, I lo- "
The paramedics had clearly been briefed by Mycroft and streamed past Sherlock like river over a rock.
The world around him seemed muted and dull. A stormy ocean rushed in his ears and Sherlock's mind buzzed with possible outcomes as he numbly watched the paramedics carry John out on a stretcher. Sherlock realized it was his fault. He dragged John into the case, and was therefore responsible for him getting hurt. He should have noticed John's condition and now one of the only people he cared about could lose his life.
Sherlock swallowed. He could not lose John.
"Please John," he whispered.
The heart monitor beeped again, Sherlock took comfort in it.
The room was clean, white, and sterile. Sherlock hated it. He hated how the hospital gown dwarfed John's body. As Sherlock took John's hand in his own, he couldn't help but notice how clammy John's hands were compared to his.
"Sir?" the nurse asked gently, "I'm going to have to ask you to leave."
Under other circumstances, Sherlock would have argued, but his mouth fell shut at the array of tools laid out for the surgeon to begin his work.
All it took was three hours. Sherlock melted into an intensely angry wreck of himself. He was frustrated at the lack of news and at the nurses' kind dispositions. No one had the right to be kind when John was dying.
Sherlock was closer to tears than he had ever been in the past twenty years. This eternal waiting was worse than the initial discovery of the poison. Time passed in a muddled and confusing way. Three hours felt like days to Sherlock who had never been a patient man.
Finally after half a millenia had passed and the British Empire had risen and collapsed, a somber nurse appeared, a goddess to Sherlock's desperate eyes. She fixated on him, for everyone knew who he was.
Sherlock's anger deflated and all that was left was a slimy lump of lead sinking deeper and deeper. He collected himself and managed to drag his deadening feet to the nurse.
The nurse opened her mouth.
"Are you Mr. Holmes? I'm afraid we have bad news."
Sherlock couldn't think as he saw her mouth form the words that would condemn him to a life of misery.
John was dead.
Sherlock gasped awake with tears threatening to escape his eyes. He gaped like a fish, his mouth swallowing for air that he desperately gulped down to his lungs. He was a dying man living; a drowning man breathing.
He was in 221b Baker Street and the clock read 3:30 AM. Sherlock couldn't be sure, couldn't hope for fear of being let down, but he had to check. He really was crying now: in fear and in hope.
Sherlock stumbled into John's room and nearly cried out in relief. John was healthy and whole. There was no wound, and the entire plot had been a fabrication of Sherlock's own making.
John stirred.
"Sherlock," and his voice was a river that explored the terrain of Sherlock's mind, creating eddies and deep pools that filled Sherlock's ears.
"Are you quite alright, Sherlock?"
Sherlock would not let the dream become a reality. He would not let John go another day without knowing how much he loved him.
"I am now," Sherlock said. He took John's hand in his. It was warm, solid, and real.
"John, I love you. You are the person I care for most in this world and I don't want to regret never acknowledging this. I love you."
He was terribly vulnerable in his pajamas and messy hair, revealing his innermost feelings to the man he loved. Sherlock could tell John was startled.
"Well," John said, "As it so happens, I love you too."
"No regrets," Sherlock breathed.
John sat up, still a little bleary eyed and hugged Sherlock who was still tearstained. He kissed Sherlock on the cheek.
"No regrets," John repeated.
- the little doctor