A/N:
The beginning dialog pre-shooting is property of the BBC Sherlock group. I make no profits from the use of those published lines nor any of mine in this story.
The song (in bold type) that inspired this is The Beacon by A Fine Frenzy and can be found here:
you tube dot com /watch?v=2FwVlagk1LI
For the first time in my life my mind is blank without the aid of drugs. It is fear that makes all thought flee as the gun points towards my chest. How could this woman be pointing a gun at me? How is my mind supposed to rationalize something like this?
Deduction. I crawl under my mental safety blanket naturally, forcing my brain to begin working again, reading the signs.
Liar repeats over and over around the head of Mary Watson, and it makes sense now.
"Is John with you?" She asks calmly.
"He's umm…" I stutter.
"Is John here?" She stresses impatiently.
"He's downstairs."
"So what do you do now? Kill us both?" I almost sigh in aggravation at Magnussen chiming in with a statement that possibly supplies her with an alternative idea.
"Mary, whatever he's got on you, let me help," I try to reason with her, taking a step forward.
"Oh, Sherlock, if you take one more step I swear I will kill you."
I smirk. There is no way that's happening, "No, Mrs. Watson, you won't."
As quickly as I see her eyes tinge with regret they're blocked by a mass that forces me to stumble back and fall as a shot fires. From my new position on the ground I hear a quiet, familiar groan of pain and an unfamiliar one of dismay. In front of my eyes, you fall from your knees on to your right side as you clutch at your chest. I'm at your side guiding you onto your back before I've even communicated to my limbs that they need to move.
Out of the corner of my eye I see Mary run from the room without another word. I'm not worried about her right now – I can't – because I know Mycroft can find her easier than I can run her down, and in this moment all that matters is –
"John," I call urgently as I gently pat your cheek.
"Sher…" you breathe, eyes only opening a tiny fraction before slipping closed again.
As I register that Magnussen has dialed emergency to request an ambulance, I gently raise your left hand off of your chest to inspect the wound, and my heart stops to see it so close to center.
"Oh, God, no. John, please," I can't help but beg, replacing your hand on the wound while holding it firmly in place with my own.
"Sher…" you try again, eyes remaining closed.
"I'm here," is all I can think to say as I feel your pulse grow weaker beneath our joined hands.
"Safe?"
I let out one sad chuckle because I expect nothing less from you than to be worried about my safety when you're the one who has been shot. Always the doctor, "Yes, I'm safe. The ambulance is on its way and you'll soon be safe, as well. You have to hold on for me just a little bit longer."
"Don't leave me," you say so softly I almost don't hear it before you lose consciousness.
"Never," I whisper just as quiet, even though you can't hear me.
When the paramedics arrive a minute later, I have to fight my way on to the ambulance with you. The fact that they are unable to pry my hand away from yours may be the only reason they allow it, but I'll take what I can get.
Half an hour later you are in surgery and I am frantically pacing the waiting room floor, tugging my hair and constantly checking my phone for any news from Mycroft. I texted him shortly after arriving in this room so that he could begin the hunt for Mary.
"Sherlock," I hear a familiar voice call and turn to see Lestrade walking towards me with purpose.
"Greg," I greet him with a calmness that I do not feel, putting an end to my pacing. You made a big enough stink about me not knowing his name enough times that I learned it to appease you. Will you ever even get to know that I did that?
"Any word?" He asks as he sits in a nearby chair.
"None yet, but it's only been 34 minutes," I take the seat next to him.
"Right," he nods, looking me over, "and how are you?"
"Perfectly fine thanks to John; not even a scratch."
"I don't mean physically," he clarifies.
I look towards the nurse's station so that I don't have to see the worry in his eyes, "Fine," is all I give him, and blandly at that.
"Sherlock…" he starts, but I can't stand the pity in his voice, so I cut him off.
"Did you need to question me about what happened? I already have my brother on the case of finding the culprit. I unfortunately did not chase them myself as I was a bit dazed after being shot at."
"Was it really Mary?" He asks disbelievingly.
"I am incapable of inventing facts like these. Though, admittedly, I wish that it were not true."
"Christ," he mumbles and I hum in agreement.
We spend the next 58 minutes sitting next to each other silently. I will never admit that it was nice having a familiar presence near – even better that he did not try to distract me. I dared not enter my mind palace for fear that I would miss a doctor coming to inform me of how the surgery had gone.
"Mr. Holmes, is it?" I stand up in shock as a stranger in scrubs approaches me.
"Yes," I answer, seeing Greg stand as well.
"Mr. Watson has been moved to a private room," he begins.
"It's Doctor Watson," I correct tersely.
"My apologies," he continues unfazed, "Dr. Watson made it through surgery well. The bullet was removed and there was very minimal damage, considering; no major organs were hit. He is a very lucky man."
My eyes tear up as relief floods through me. I swallow thickly, "He'll be alright?"
"He is heavily medicated and will be in and out of consciousness for a day or so, but he should not suffer any long-standing ill effects. If you would like, I can have a nurse take you to his room."
"Thank you," I say, still trying to wrap my head around the fact that you are alive and I am being allowed to see you.
"One moment," the doctor says before heading towards the nurse's station.
I feel a hand firmly grip my left shoulder, "He's okay," Greg sounds awed.
I nod, "I knew he would be," I try to sound arrogant but can't keep the edge of doubt from my voice.
"Of course you did, genius," he smiles.
I turn just enough to roll my eyes at him as a nurse appears to lead us to you.
A few steps in to the room I stop dead in my tracks. You're asleep on the bed, bare chested except for a square of white gauze over the wound. Your skin is so pale because of the blood loss, and I can clearly see the years of service on your face, all of your scars that you've worked so hard to hide.
In the back of my mind I know that Greg is talking to the nurse, but I don't register what's being said as I slowly make my way to the chair next to your bed, my eyes never leaving your face. I'm not convinced I will ever be able to tear my gaze from you ever again, afraid that you could disappear.
The door closes and Greg comes to stand next to the chair, looking down at you.
"He looks..." he starts, but doesn't know which adjective to choose.
"Fragile," I finish for him, "I've never seen him so vulnerable."
"I have," he says sadly.
My eyes turn sharply to him, "When?" I ask harshly.
A pained look crosses his face as he tilts his head to the left, "When you were gone."
When you were gone. When you weren't here for him. When you caused the pain.
Here I am fretting over having almost lost you and thinking how I could never cope with that, but losing me was your reality not that long ago. There was an hour and a half where you could have been gone from my life forever and that was too long; how did you ever survive two years of this, John?
"Honestly, Sherlock? I have never seen two people cause each other so much distress and heartbreak and not resolve it."
"What..." I begin, but his cell phone begins to vibrate. He steps out in to the hall to answer it.
I look back at you, wondering what point Greg was trying to make. Is he implying that you might actually return the feelings I have harbored from the start? What the hell am I supposed to do with that information?
Greg peaks his head back in the room, "Sherlock, I'm sorry; I have to go."
I look over at him hopefully, "Have they found her?"
He shakes his head, "I'm not on that case; your brother is more than capable and made that abundantly clear when I offered to help."
"If you're not working the case then why are you here?"
He looks honestly pained and dubious, "To make sure you're okay. As your friend," he says as though he shouldn't have to point it out. As if it were obvious. Sentiment has never been my strong suit.
"How long have you classified us as friends?" I ask, genuinely curious as I try to ignore the lump in my throat.
"Since John came around. He humanized you a bit; made you more palatable to us underlings."
I sneer and make a noise of distaste, "Remind me to berate him for that."
He smiles, "I'll do no such thing," I snort in response, "I really have to go, but I'll come back to check on you."
"No need," I dismiss with a wave of my hand as I turn back to you, a small part of me hoping he doesn't take me serious. His company has been surprisingly welcome.
"Yes, well, I'll be back just the same. Take care of yourself; you know he'll be upset with you when he's better if you don't."
I grunt and wave my hand again, then hear the door close behind me. I begin to imagine my life without you, but quickly stop as it tries to pull me in to my mind palace where I would be inaccessible to you should you wake.
Instead, I study your face. Usually so strong and determined, now lined with pain and confusion; even in sleep you're trying to solve the problem. As I look, the pain becomes clearer and your breathing increases as the heart rate monitor beeps faster. When your eyes open, I'm already staring directly in to them.
"Oh, Jesus," you gasp, rasping for breath.
"Stay calm and still. Do you want me to increase your morphine?" I ask as I already reach for the dial.
"I want to die," you say, the words halting my every movement, including breathing.
I recover quickly, or, at least I think I do, "You don't mean that," I say quietly, dialing the morphine up as I had originally been trying to do.
"I do," you insist, words not very clear and eyes scrunched in pain, "every time I wake up there's this unbearable pain. When I was shot in Afghanistan, it had nothing on this pain," you open your eyes and find mine as I remain standing next to your bed, "this will kill me. Just let me go."
If I had to base my conclusion solely on the honesty in your eyes, I would not hesitate to believe you. But I know better, the doctor has said you will be fine.
"No," I say firmly, fighting tears, "you cannot leave me. I know I left you for two years, but at least I came back."
You shake your head, "You don't need me, Sherlock. In this state I'll only slow you down."
"Then it's a damn good thing I'm not taking any cases until you're better. You will get better; the doctor said so."
"He doesn't know my body like I do. Please don't put your life on hold for me; you're so important to the world. They need you, but no one needs me, especially not like this."
I can't stop the tears at your self-deprecating words, "I do. Please, I can't do this without you."
"Sherlock, come here," you demand quietly, and I edge my face towards yours. You lift your hands to cup my face, wincing with the effort and pain. You rest your forehead against mine and my eyes slip closed at the comfort, allowing more tears to fall. You move just slightly to place a soft kiss below my right eye and then my left before pushing me back to look in my eyes, "You are not allowed to cry over me."
I sniff, "You cried over me," I try to reason with you.
You chuckle sadly, hands releasing me as you fall back to your pillow, "Different. You were dead," you say quietly before slipping back in to sleep.
You say your time has come
You're tired of waking up
Don't be obscene
I can't conceive of living without you
You say you drag me down
No one should want you now
I start to cry
You kiss my eyes and say I'm not allowed to
I'm not certain how long I hover above you trying to process your words. I shake myself and wipe my tears away before falling heavily in to the chair.
My mind takes me back to our first case together; our first few days. You were so shockingly loyal and impressed from the very beginning, and I had never had anyone react to me that way before. I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, for you to come to your senses about me, but you didn't. You still haven't and I know that there is no way that I deserve you, as a friend or otherwise.
I thought that Greg's fake drugs bust would be the thing to make you see reason. That I am not perfect and I have a very dirty past, but you stepped up and adamantly defended me. It was that moment that you became this pillar of hope for me, a kind of beacon leading me along to a better path. Greg was not wrong that you humanized me; it happened almost instantly.
That evening with the cabbie I so desperately wanted to give in to my druggy past and take that pill not only to prove I was right, but for the high I knew it would give me. But you were there with me, even then, and I couldn't do it.
I didn't stall in taking the pill because I knew you were coming to find me - that you cared enough to even do so - and would kill the cabbie before I had the chance to swallow it. I stalled because in that moment, the pill almost to my lips in my shaking hand, I saw the look of confusion and disappointment on your face in my mind's eye.
I knew that I could never bring myself to wittingly put that look in your eyes again.
Burning beacon in the night
Can't feel its heat or see its light
That single solitary guide
It must get lonely there sometimes
A few hours later, around 11pm, Greg returns.
"How's he doing?"
I rub my hands across my face and sigh, "He woke up a few hours ago for a few minutes. He was in a lot of pain so I upped his morphine. I expect he shall stay asleep most all of the night."
He nods, handing a pile of files to me, "I brought you some cold cases to keep you occupied."
I shake my head, trying to hand them back to him, "I appreciate the thought, but I don't want to take the risk of getting absorbed in them."
He looks at me in shock, "Sherlock, I know you won't leave his side and you sure won't be sleeping which means your brain is going to drive you crazy. At least keep them accessible."
I sigh in aggravation, "Fine," I say as I snatch them up and place them on the table next to the chair.
I can feel Greg roll his eyes at me, "He looks more colorful."
"He'll get better. He doesn't think he will, but he already is."
"Did he say that when he woke up?"
I bite my lip, remembering, "Yes. But it's just the pain talking."
He goes to ask me more about it, but I silence him with a glare.
"Well, I just wanted to drop those off and check in on the both of you. Do you need anything before I head home: coffee? Food?"
I give him my patented 'Don't be an idiot' look and he chuckles.
"It was worth a try," he says. As he moves towards the door he adds, "Let me know if you need anything."
I look at him, "I probably won't," I tell him honestly.
"I know," he sighs.
"But...thank you, Greg."
His eyebrows raise in surprise, but he just nods before leaving. I heave a sigh and slouch in the chair, my eyes tracing you for any change. I notice goosebumps on your arms and stand to cover you.
Before lifting the blanket, my eyes fall once more to the gauze-covered wound. My left hand moves slowly towards it, landing with my thumb and forefinger framing the bottom, the rest of my hand settling to hold your ribs lightly. I feel your heart rate increase but a quick look to your face shows you still sleeping peacefully with no trace of pain. I sigh heavily again before removing my hand and raising the blanket up to your neck, then settle in my chair with a case file.
Nurses come in every hour or so to check on you and reassure me that you are doing fine. They lowered the morphine level to where it was before you awoke the first time, and my fingers itch to raise it again for you, but I refrain.
Around 3am you wake. I'm lost in my second case, eyes racing as I try to picture the scene exactly as it happened.
"Sherlock?" You ask sleepily.
"John!" I jump, having been so lost in my thoughts that I didn't register the quickening heart monitor or your movements. I close the file and replace it on the table, "How are you feeling?"
"Better," you nod slightly, "foolish," you add sheepishly.
"Foolish?" I ask quietly, because it seems proper at this time of night.
"For what I said before. It wasn't true, I just get dramatic when I'm injured," you follow my lead on the volume.
I look down at the bed, feel a small smile tug my lips, and then glance back to you, "I'm glad it wasn't true. You know you're important to a lot of people."
You shake your head sadly, looking off to the opposite side, "I don't think that's true."
My brow furrows, "What do you mean?"
You sigh, "Can you turn my morphine down? It clouds my head and I don't want to get addicted," I do as you ask, "Thank you."
"You're welcome."
We sit in an awkward silence for a few minutes. I want to say so many things, ask so many things, regarding what you just said, but I don't know where to start. Surprisingly it's you who speaks first.
"Why would Mary want to shoot you?"
I shake my head. I've been thinking on it a lot but still haven't figured out an answer, "I don't know. Why did you jump in front of me when she tried?" I have to ask.
"I couldn't let her shoot you. I lost you once, I wasn't going to do it again."
"But you could have died. A few centimeters more and you would have."
"Better me than you. I did mean that before: the world needs you."
"Me? I spout facts that people would rather not acknowledge in a very unforgiving manner," I say seriously and you smirk, "You save lives."
"Yes, but I also endanger them, apparently," you look at me pointedly.
"You can't blame yourself for her actions."
"If I hadn't tried to make myself believe that she loved me, she wouldn't even have been around."
"She did love you."
"No. If she did she wouldn't have shot me."
"To be fair, she was trying to shoot me."
"Look, I've never been anyone's first choice anything. I was foolish to think that that would change the older I got."
I try to deduce you, but you've turned your eyes down away from me, "Your family loves you."
You chuckle sadly, "No. Do you know what I remember of my father before my parents died? He was sitting with Harry and me and said 'Do you really think I wanted either of you?' I was eight years old."
"John..."
"Then Harry turned to drink just like our parents, and the same harsh truths come out of her mouth, as well. She hates me when I try to help, hates me when I let her be...and it's fine, it's how it's always been for me, and I've come to accept that."
My mouth gapes open, unable to create sound.
"Then my wife shoots me while attempting to shoot my best friend, like I would have been at all okay with that. Maybe one of these days I'll be able to just admit that love doesn't suit me."
"I..." is the only word I can get out. I don't know how I planned to follow it up, but you shake your head at me and smile a sad smile.
"It's okay, Sherlock. I'm going to go back to sleep now. Goodnight."
"Goodnight, John."
And seconds later you are asleep.
You were a child forgot
Lessons of love untaught
Now no embrace can quite replace
The one that never found you
You sleep peacefully the rest of the night as I make my way steadily through the files Greg brought me. I've already solved four of the seven by morning light and, depending on how long you'll be admitted, I'm already contemplating asking Greg for more.
"You really should sleep sometime," Mycroft's entrance catches me off guard.
"Unnecessary, you know that," I bite back, closing the current file. He walks over and drops a bag on my lap, "what the hell is this?"
"Some essentials, like shower materials and clothes. I know you won't be leaving this room until he does, so the least you can do is utilize the private bathroom to clean yourself up. I have also made arrangements for the staff to bring you a meal along with all of John's. I expect you to at least pick at them."
"And if I don't?" I grump back.
He sighs dramatically, "You always were a difficult child; maybe at some point you could deem it appropriate to grow up?"
My face falls as I remember your words about your upbringing and how it was so different than my own.
"We...had a fortunate childhood, didn't we?" I can't look at him as I ask, but I can feel his questioning eyebrow raise.
"Just because you didn't appreciate it doesn't mean that it wasn't good. What is this about?"
"This morning John was telling me about his childhood, and I had no idea that people could experience the types of feeling of not being wanted or loved at such a young age and for so long. Mummy and Dad are annoyingly nagging about being up to date on our lives, but I've never doubted that they loved us. Not for one second."
He nods in sympathetic understanding, "We have never been like most people - for many reasons, mind you - not least of all that we have always been loved for the individuals that we are. Even when you mess up, little brother, you are not alone."
"He doesn't have that," I admit sadly, looking at your still peaceful form.
Mycroft's head tilts at me pointedly, "He does now."
I was raised tenderly
And all that was taught to me
I will apply
Your parents tried but they didn't know how to
After Mycroft left, I found myself thinking back to my fake death and what happened while I was away from you. Hundreds or thousands of miles away from you, it didn't matter, I still thought of you constantly. You were the only thing to keep me sane - to keep me going.
Everything I did during those two years was because of you. It was to protect you, it was to get back to you. The last six months of my time dismantling the web was when I got most of my scars. I became careless and less focused on the task at hand and more focused on returning to Baker Street. The longer I was away from you, the stronger your pull became, like a tide in to the shore. I wanted to come home so many times, but I needed to know you would be safe.
The irony of you nearly being killed yesterday is not lost on me.
Maybe I should have been less selfish and just stayed away. If I had, would you never have known the truth about your wife? Would you be happy right now?
John, why do you put up with me? I am such a poisonous presence in your life! I constantly put you in harm's way and don't look after you the way I should. I see your vulnerable look when you think I can't see you...so sad and alone in that head of yours.
I want to believe that when we're together you feel less alone.
Burning beacon in the night
Can't feel its heat or see its light
That single solitary guide
It must get lonely there sometimes
"Sherlock?" you ask as you finally wake around 10am.
I turn away from the window and smile at you, "I'm here."
You press the button on your bed to raise the top portion so you are in more of a sitting position before you reach over and lower the morphine tap yet further.
"Have you even left?"
"Mycroft brought me some of my things, so I have showered and changed without leaving. He has also forced the staff to bring two meals to us so that I will eat."
You smile, "Your brother is a smart man sometimes."
I ignore that, "Besides, you asked me not to leave you, and I promised I wouldn't," I sniff nonchalantly.
Your mouth drops open slightly before you let out a laugh. It causes you to wince a little in pain, but you recover quickly enough to not worry me, "I didn't mean at the expense of taking care of yourself, you berk."
I smile and walk back to sit in my chair, "You know that I rarely think about what 'taking care of myself' consists of. I'm not very good at it."
"Well it's a good thing that bullet didn't kill me, then, so I can continue nagging you to eat and sleep occasionally," you joke.
"How are you able to joke about it so soon? Isn't that like giggling at a crime scene?"
You shrug, "Bit not good, maybe, but I think the drugs help reconcile my conscience. Speaking of the incident, what's become of that soon-to-be-ex-wife of mine?"
"Mycroft was in a few hours ago and assured me that there was nothing more to worry about in regards to her."
"Is she dead?" The distant way you ask it sends a chill down my spine.
"He didn't specify. But I assume yes," I answer honestly.
You nod and look away from me, "Good."
You are an incredible enigma to me. You are the kindest, gentlest, most selfless person I have ever met. I have watched you save lives; have witnessed you save my own. Whenever I forget that people have feelings and sometimes I need to be careful how I say things, you are my moral compass helping to keep clients comfortable with me so that I don't get thrown off a case.
And yet...you can turn so very cold and withdrawn when you would like to, sometimes without warning. I think it's the soldier in you. While you didn't want to kill the cabbie and waited until the last possible second when there was no other choice, you had no qualms flipping the switch and killing him for me.
People always assume that I'm the remarkable one because of the way my brain works and the things that I can observe that others clearly are unable to. But you...you are a hero.
You lead everyone to believe that you are the lucky one to be standing next to me. You exclaim praise for all to hear and look at me with such admiration and awe. But anyone who knows the both of us will not hesitate to answer that you are the preferable one of the two of us. You are approachable and warm, and you honestly care about the answer when you ask someone how they are.
How can you not see that you are the remarkable one?
Let me stand by you
Honor is mine
Let me stand by you
Loneliest light, loneliest light, loneliest light
The nurses come to check on you about every hour still. They fetch the doctor when they see that you are awake and he says that you should be able to leave tomorrow with the understanding that you must take it easy for awhile longer yet at home. You joke that I will wait on you hand and foot, making the tea and toast, and I joke along knowing that it is absolutely true. I will do everything I can for you to be better sooner, even if that means skipping out on cases for awhile longer yet; it will be worth it to have you back on cases with me.
Per your request, I call Mycroft to have his people move your things back to Baker Street before tomorrow. When asked about starting the divorce paperwork, he assures me that that will not be necessary because you are officially a widower. You joke that it makes you sound old and I can't quite bring myself to disagree. You throw the TV remote at my head.
You stay awake most of the day as we play cards and finish off the stack of cold cases together. The only way it could have been better was if you had not been shot in the first place and we were back at our flat already.
When you fall sleep again, I allow myself to finally reflect on the warm feeling in my chest whenever I look at you. The warmth had dimmed after your wedding a month ago, but now that I don't have to share you or compete with anyone else again, it's back all the stronger.
In my entire life I have never loved anyone the way that I love you. My love for you is different than for my family, because we have chosen each other. I'm not certain that your love for me is anything more than platonic, but that doesn't matter.
Before you I was lost when it came to sentiment and friendship. I tried desperately to figure it out throughout the years, but I could never find anyone to put up with me for as long and with as much patience as you have. Turns out I was trying to force something that should be so easy with the right person.
At my grave you said that you were so alone before you met me. I don't know how long exactly you meant, but I know that I was alone all of my life thanks to my "brilliant" mind. You let me safely learn how to love, and we ended up saving each other from being alone.
Burning beacon in the night
Can't feel its heat or see its light
That single solitary guide
It must get lonely there sometimes
You stir awake the following morning, eyes cloudy from sleep. As you glance around, finally landing on me at the window, I know that your head is clearer than ever before since you opted to switch to pain pills instead of the morphine drip.
"Sherlock?" You ask, but I barely hear you.
I, too, know what it's like to be lonely. I suddenly find it to be unbearably ridiculous, us being so close and doing so much together except for finding solace in the other.
My feet begin to move, pulled to you like the beacon that you have always been to me. Guiding me to be better. Guiding me home. Guiding me to love.
"You are a hero," I whisper when I have made it to your bedside and sit in my chair. You open your mouth to say something - probably a rebuttal - but I grab your left hand with my right and gently squeeze, shaking my head, "You are more magnificent than I can ever be, and I am in awe of you. I'm sorry I never told you that."
"Compared to you, I'm hardly anything," you reply sadly.
"John, you've always been the remarkable one of the two of us. I am a machine, but you...you are the heart. I am always so proud to stand by you."
You move your lips in a circle while sniffing, a sign that you're holding back tears. You breathe deeply and say, "And I you."
I smile, "You are both my best friend and my family. As such you are always loved, always cherished, and always worth it."
You sniff again, but smile broadly, "Well, I think we can both agree that we are each others' favorite family member."
"Oh, God, yes," I say with a straight face before laughing.
A few hours later when we get back to the flat, I help you to your chair.
You breathe a happy sigh, "You know, I really missed this place."
I stop fusing with papers on the coffee table to look at you, "It wasn't the same without you."
You look me in the eye for a few seconds before continuing seriously, "I'm sorry I chose her. I knew it was wrong but...I wanted to prove that I didn't need you."
I duck my head, "I understand."
You stand slowly and walk to me, "No, I don't think you do."
I look at your mischievous smile with confusion, then it all becomes clear as your lips claim mine.