A crash, and it was done.
"What's going on?" said Dr John H Watson, snapping through police tape without a second thought. Nothing would be in his way right now. "What the fuck is going on with my sister!"
It was utter carnage- twisted metal, and fire, emergency services crawling the scene. Assessing his surroundings, John took quick note of the accident- a sleek, glossy car, wrapped back around on itself, folded in half, almost. A lampost, crooked and bent from impact, lightbulb smashed, and the hatch dented out of it's place, leaving live wires all splayed and crushed. Other elements of the wrekage were registered, but barely so, for quite rightly, his vision fixed on two gurneys, laid out by the big double doors of an ambulance rear. One, John could see from here, was male, and all the paramedic attention was drawn around him, men and women frantically attempting to fit his body back into place, make it work right. Needles, frames, bandages were all in the process of being applied, and the general insanity of the work about this man was causing the eyeline of most spectators to be pulled in to that general direction. Johns eyes lingered over this petty scene for mere seconds. It was longer than the sight warranted, he knew, and he also knew that the only reason he watched over it for those few seconds, was because he was too afraid to look to the left, and take into account the load of the second gurney. With a frightened breath, he turned to the left. He saw nothing other than what he expected.
A body lay on the second, that he could see for certain- a bodybag already zipped over the shattered frame of what had once been a human life. What brought him forward, he could not say, for it was already agonisingly clear to him what lay underneath the black plastic. He knew he didn't want to see it- it could only bring him pain, but somehow, his brain could not stop his feet from beating the pavement in a quickening, businesslike pace, that drew him ever closer to his greatest fears. Reaching out, to touch the zip, he faltered, hands shaking. He did not falter for long. In one, quick and fluid movement, he drew back the bag, and gaped at the face within. A red hot pang twisted across his heart.
There, still and cold, was the bruised, broken face of Harry Watson. Her features, while shot through with black and blue, were free from blood, unblemished by death. They were, undoubtably, destroyed, but that somehow made her no less beautiful. Her ginger hair was knotted and ragged, yet John caressed it with a gentle touch, as you would use if were you holding a baby bird, still new to this world. Taking in this last image of his sister, he moved to her eyes. Green and bright, as they always were, but their sparkle gone, they now lay glassy, and unseeing, as a doll.
A paramedic suddenly swatted away his hand, ripping the zip to a close, with clinical speed. "Leave it alone!" the ignorant man said, pushing the words through cruel, tight lips.
"IT." said John. " YOU JUST CALLED MY SISTER IT!" At that, he lost his cool, swiping at the paramedic in agony and fury, "YOU FUCKING PARASITE! SHE WAS MY SISTER-YOU NEVER KNEW HER! YOU CAN'T HAVE HER, LEAVE HER ALONE! LEAVE HER ALONE!" His cries, ragged and animal, were violent and broken, enough to break the heart of the great Moriaty himself. He clawed at the sack that sealed his lost sister, clutching it so tight he probably bruised her cold skin even further. Nothing would tear him away from Harry, nothing!
The paramedic was apologetic now, speaking in a fast, soft monotone, the words of which he could not care to understand. He could only pick up the odd word-... ... crash, causes unknown... drivers condition critical... alchohol poisoning... dead already...didn't suffer... nothing we could do.
nothing we could do.
nothing...
Head spinning...blue lights flashing incircles round hishead... where did thisblanket come from?...WHAT?
And that's when Dr John Watson passed out.
In the Mortuary of Bart's, was where John awoke. He still clutched at the black bag that was his sisters tomb, and unable to comprehend what was really going on, he settled for slumping on the floor, grabbing tightly the hand of poor, broken Harry. They wouldn't put her in those drawers, he decided. That wasn't for her. So he held on tight until a familiar face brought him comfort, and sanity. "John." came Sherlock's voice, a calm and warming lullaby to John's tired and fuzzy brain. "It's okay. You don't need to be the brave one. Not now." Sherlock simply sat there, in a silence that to John, was blatantly nicotine assisted, but for once, it wasn't an issue. John slumped to the side a little, letting his head rest in Sherlock's scarf, and he simply sat there too. Nothing needed to be said- in fact, John was quite certain to be incapable of speech in his current mental state. He let his mind wander instead.
Harry. Harry was dead.
That concept was hard to fathom. Harry had always been... well she had certainly not always been there, but to put it more accuratley, she had always been. Harry was a constant- John's rock in the storm. Whatever John was going through, Harry would still be doing much the same as ever- still in some rocky relationship or another, still drunk, still with the same flaws, that John could pretend to fix. Harry had always been, and John thought she always would be.
And now she wasn't.
John was drifting. Drifiting on a sea without an anchor.
_Time passes. Neither man knows how much_
John leant on Sherlock for a long while. They didn't know how long they stayed there for, but John noticed Sherlocks head flopping to the side a little, which meant perhaps he'd fallen asleep breifley. John wouldn't have been suprised if he'd dropped off at some point too. People came in a few times, but the two men, so quiet and still in each others comfort, were un-noticable.
Until now.
Molly Hooper came running in, at a speed non-befitting of her outrageous heels, her hair more than a little untidy, and her lipstick beggining to crack a small amouunt, around the edges,showing that in reality, her lips were a lot less full than she had drawn them on this morning. Or this afternoon. Or this evening. Or whenever the fuck this was. Sherlock and John were blissfully ignorant of time- it is never a good idea to know how long you've been in pain for, as it leads you only to spend every waking second looking at the clock, and begging it to make the pain go quicker.
"Oh, Sherlock- thank goodness it's you! We've been looking for hours..."
"Molly! Can't you see this is NOT a good time!" Sherlock snapped, whipping his head round to face her. "John has just suffered a HUGE loss, and I just HAPPEN to be doing a very good job of being there for him! Scotland yard can piss off!"
"But it'-"
" No, Molly. What could POSSIBLY be so important as to make me abandon John now. Not even MORIATY could make me leave!"
"SHERLOCK!" Yelled Molly. "It's not a case- it, it's about the driver!"
" WHAT about the driver! Was he murdered, was he drunk, was he dead, was he in love, was he alone, was he gay, was he straight, was he married, was he single was he rich, was he famous! He could be any of those things- can't you see? I DON'T GIVE A CRAP!"
"Sherlock- no. It's... it's...
Mycroft. John had seen it coming before Molly said the words. Sherlock, despite all his genius, hadn't. It had all happened rather quickly after that. Sherlock had stood up, businesslike, and swift, and marched out of the room. John had stayed behind, not wanting to leave his sister, but he stood up after a while, and giving her hand a final squeeze, he left her in persuit of his freind, who, it elaborated, had had no idea where he was going. Several long mintues of frantic searching by the whole hospital staff, lead John to finding him on a chair in the altzheimers ward by a long, tall window, having gone slightly feotal, rocking gently. He was clearly freaking out, in his own special way.
For some reason, that John couldn't quite identify, he was afraid. The idea of Sherlock, this one man who was always so strong, and uncaring, being helplessly afraid was something he wasn't sure if he could take right now. With each step, his feet were shaking, and with each step, his resolve weakened. Facing up to the man who, in John's head should've been the same way he'd always seemed - bulletproof, was something that just shouldn't have to happen.
He'd only just lost his anchor. Now the only thing remaining in his world that he could be sure of was falling apart before his very eyes.
It was the hardest thing John Watson had ever had ever had to do.
So he didn't do it.
For the first time in his life, John Watson turned on his heel, and ran.