Hello! Erm… I always to Author notes, so yeah. 'ello.
I know I should be doing work on my Doctor Who and Harry Potter/Sherlock stories, but this one has been on my mind a long time and I need to write it out.
I'll update the others soon enough, don't worry!
This takes place post S3 with a fair amount of spoilers: It's a few months after Christmas.
This is a one-shot (long one, yeah xD). Flashbacks are in italics.
Trigger Warning: Major self-harm and suicide mentions/attempts.
It seemed like a normal spring day. Birds tweeted every now and then, complimenting the bright sun that seeped through the half-drawn curtains. A nice cup of tea sat on the beside table, maintaining its lukewarm temperature. John had moved in to Baker Street momentarily, as him and Mary had had a fight when his temper had risen. So, for the week, John was in Baker Street with his ex-flat mate. However, it seemed to John that he was the only one in the flat.
Not that Sherlock wasn't in the flat, but more like he hardly spent any time out of his room or the bathroom. John knew Sherlock wasn't apt to socialization, but becoming this isolated, especially with no case at hand, worried the retired army doctor.
Of course the no-eating thing wasn't exactly new, but it had only gotten worse in the preceding few days. Instead of the melodious notes that usually graced the halls were replaced with the occasional screech, as if it were in a horror film, and then a few well chosen swears.
Something was definitely wrong, and it worried John more than anything had since he'd moved to London.
.. Okay, take that back. He was worried right before, during, and after the fall. He was worried what his life might become; that he would forget the mad genius ever stepped into his life, or that he'd be so upset the guilt and grief would eventually kill him. Both options were equally terrible, and he had been worried.
But it fixed itself, like everything does around Sherlock.
This gave John the hope that all this would end up sorting itself out.
"Sherlock?" John called out around noon on the fourth day of this strange behavior.
A small gasp issued from the locked bathroom door, and a small cling echoed on the tiled floor. It almost seemed like the detective forgot someone else was in the flat.
"What do you want, John?" Sherlock muttered in reply, almost inaudibly to John. This unsettled John quite a lot, considering the lowness of his voice, and, of course…
"What are you doing in there?" Attempting but failing, John tried to keep the worry out of his voice.
"Don't worry, John. I'm completely fine," Sherlock replied, his voice slightly cracking at the end. Was he even trying to convince John? If so, he was failing miserably.
"Sherlock, I know you-"
"Go back to whatever you were doing. I'll be out in a moment." His voice started to fade near the ending of his command, and John could have sworn he heard a very un-Sherlock sound; a sob.
"To just go back to your room?" John implied, starting to reveal his annoyance at his flat mates lack of social encounters.
It took a few seconds before Sherlock had an answer. "What I do is my choice, John. As you may recall, it is my flat now, considering you've got a wife and kid at an actual house. I'm just allowing you to live here until you're very sensitive temper somewhat subsides."
John was taken aback at this as he pondered the words. What was going on with his best friend/ex-flat mate/current flatemate?
"Sherlock, at least eat something small. You haven't eaten in four days for God's sake."
"I've gone longer without," was all the detective said before the bathroom door opened, and John let out a small gasp.
His friend was almost unrecognizable. His usual pale complexion was even paler, to where he looked almost white. His frame had gotten much smaller; John ventured to believe that if the man was shirtless, he could see his bones poking from his skin. Sherlock lacked his old posture of security, now replaced with that of… weakness? No, surly not. His legs, however, where slightly shaking, as his arms were. He blinked, taking in John's figure.
"Sherlock…" John started, now even more concerned over his friend.
"Leave it," Sherlock stated sharply, brushing past John and heading to his room. However, John grabbed his arm.
"Sherlock, no. You're way too thin."
"John, I'm perf-
"No, Sherlock Holmes, you are not perfectly fine. You are going to eat something, either willingly or having it stuffed down your throat."
"You're temper is still flared, you need to calm do-" Sherlock lazily attempted.
"I will not calm down until I know my best friend isn't going to die of starvation!"
"I already told you, I've gone much longer th-"
"You're skin and bones, Sherlock!"
"I feel compl-"
"You. Food. Now." John dragged his friend to the kitchen, who resisted with much force despite his current state. "And let me look at how thin you actually are," John muttered, reaching to remove Sherlock's shirt.
"NO!" Sherlock near shouted, backing away a few steps. "No… fine, I'll eat something," he admitted in a tone of defeat.
Deciding one victory was better than none, John commenced warming up some of his leftovers in the microwave (after checking to make sure it was eyeball free (which, surprisingly, it was)).
"So… Any new cases?" John tried to make conversation, to the detective's obvious annoyance.
"Not that I've taken," was all he replied.
"So wait… You've been offered a case?" John let his confusion show.
"A lot, actually. My phone wouldn't stop going off, so I let it die." The microwave beeped, and Sherlock gave a small groan of annoyance.
"Why wouldn't you take any of them? Aren't you bored?" John asked, getting up to open the microwave and serve the leftovers to Sherlock.
"Yes, I am."
"Then why didn't you take any of the cases?"
Sherlock sat in silence as John dumped the container onto a plate, grabbed a fork from the drawer, and sat it in front of Sherlock. Finally, ignoring the question, he stated, "You said something small. This is enough to make up for two, probably three, meals."
"It's called compensating, Sherlock."
"It's called I'm not eating this much, John."
"Fine. Eat at least half."
"You're not my mother."
"Oh, do you want me to call her up and make her make you eat?"
A sigh. "No."
A smirk. "Then eat."
With a glare to the doctor, Sherlock picked up the fork and started eating, finding it repulsive. He actually gagged, turning away from the table (childhood manners kicking in) and coughed up what he had just put in his mouth.
"What is this?!" He asked, pushing the plate as far away from him as he could.
"Leftovers from take-out I ordered the first night I was here," John admitted, looking at the food with a sigh.
"I never cared for take-out," Sherlock said, standing in an attempt to walk back to his room. This time, John didn't object.
That had been yesterday. Now it was the morning of the fifth day, and the encounter was still fresh in John's mind. Of course, he wasn't angry with his wife and could most likely return home, but dare he? With Sherlock in such a state?
Interrupting his thoughts was a gasp of pain, coming from either the bathroom or Sherlock's bedroom.
Instincts kicking in, John rushed to where both doors stood, closed.
"Sherlock?!" He called, no attempt to hide the worry in his voice.
"I… I'm fine… fine, John," came Sherlock's stammered reply, full of pain.
Still not being able to differentiate, John asked in a quiet voice, "Which room are you in?"
"Just… go back to your house, John. I'm completely fine, and, as always, there is nothing wrong with me."
"Even I can tell you're lying, Sherlock. You're not even trying," John stated, hoping that the man would saunter out to tell him off for that.
Silence. The loudest silence there had ever been between the two, with John's heavy breathing of annoyance and Sherlock's possible broken up sobs (and his attempts to cover them up).
"Sherlock.. I'm a doctor, let me help," John finally tried pulling the Doctor card, which resulted in something being thrown against the bathroom door.
"I don't need help! I don't need anyone's help, and I especially don't need yours! Go back to Mary, get out of the flat, and leave me alone!"
"So, he kicked you out of the flat? Just like that?"
John nodded to his wife, Mary Watson, who was currently holding their one and only daughter; Elizabeth Wilma Watson.
"Why did you leave?" Mary asked, almost in an accusing tone. "He needs you, John. You're his only friend."
"He needs some space, and he told me to get out," John tried to defend himself against his wife's true words.
"And when that happens, leaving is the worst thing to do," Mary said, gently putting Elizabeth back in her crib. "We both are going to go see him tonight, no matter what either of you say. He needs somebody there, and you need someone there too." Mary stood, straightened her clothes out, and went to refill Elizabeth's bottle.
A fifteen year old boy sat in his room at his family's enormous manor, looking around the room for what he thought would be the last time. In his hand, gripping it so tightly his knuckles gave some contrast to his very pale skin, was a bottle full of pills he'd stolen from his mother; they weren't necessary pills, he'd made sure of that. He didn't want to hurt anyone else, which was exactly why he was about to down each pill, one by one, until he felt the world slipping away.
The teen pulled his shirt up and looked at his almost non-existent stomach; all the bandages that covered the fresher scars, the older scars standing out pink and red on the ghostly pale complexion. In a way, it seemed fitting; he already felt dead inside, so why not have it show on the outside?
He decided to give his coping method one last go. He had taken notice that lately it just hadn't been working as well as it had; the scars just kept appearing on his arms, legs, and more recently his stomach. Of course, no one had noticed. He always kept to himself, and, if possible, kept his clothes closer. He would wear the same outfit as long as he could, in hopes of hiding his shameful doings.
With a shaking hand, he reached under his bed and slid his hand around. What should he use on his last go? More recently he'd been using the sharpener from a disabled pencil sharpener; but it was becoming too dull to do any real purpose anymore. His favourite tool was, of course, the knife he had stolen from school. The teachers and staff never found out… He should probably leave a note so that it could be returned to its proper ownership.
Next to the knife was the scissors. He had stolen these from his mother, who became very cross once she realized they were missing. Once everyone in the house gave a good reason to why they weren't responsible, she subsided to just purchasing a new pair, and life went on normally for all except him, who had managed to win his prize.
His last method of coping was a rusty razor blade, which was his first to acquire. He had started using it this time last year, when his whole life turned around for the worse. He remembered showering and looking at it longingly. Of course he had known about the method; his mother explained to him that if he ever felt the need to talk it out with her.
But he never did.
Parents just never understood.
Deciding symbolism would be the best irony to go out on, he secured the razor blade in his hand, cutting his thumb in the process. However, he did not even wince. The pain he had felt before was much more severe than this puny scrape.
He went into the bathroom, conveniently attached to his room, and his pre-determined death room. He closed the door, but didn't lock it, knowing that in hours, when someone might have noticed his absence, no one would be able to unlock it.
He took his shirt off, then started peeling the band-aids off his skin one by one. Some of the cuts were still bleeding slightly, having been made extra deep by the addition of the knife. He threw the band-aids away, using toilet paper to cover them in the trash can, as to hide the evidence. As he was doing this, however, he forgot there would be no point in it. Because after today, all his secrets would be exposed. All the wounds would be visible, and no one would be able to stop someone gazing in horror at his scarred body.
He decided on the arms always worked best, so that's where he aimed. He pressed the cold metal to his skin, applied pressure, and slid the sharp blade across his delicate skin, which broke at the contact, allowing the precious red to bead along the line. The teen took a calming breath, but the emotional pain was still sharp in his heart. He tried it again, becoming more physically relaxed, but no where near emotionally healed.
After trying this for an unknown amount of time, he picked the bottle back up. He opened the bottle, looking at the mass of white pills inside of it. This is it… This is the last. He tried calming his brain down, trying to convince himself that this was the only option. Because, to him, it was. So, slowly, he raised the pill to his shaking mouth, put it in, and swallowed.
It took him a little more than a minute to have the will to pick the next one up. His hand was shaking worse than it ever had before, as if his body was warning him that this was it. If he succeeded, he would be no more. And this time, it couldn't just heal him.
But of course, he understood that, so he fought the shaking and raised the second pill to his lips, forcing it through and swallowing it.
That's when there was a knock at the door.
"Sherlock?" John called out, cautiously entering 221B again, Mary at his side.
"Sherlock?" Mary echoed, in a slightly louder voice. They had left Lestrade with Elizabeth so that they could spend as much time as they needed with the detective.
"Sherlock, please answer us. Or me. Answer me, please," John begged, stepping towards the hallway with the bathroom and bedroom. He heard shuffling inside one of them, and heaved the smallest sigh of relief. And oh, how that sigh was misplaced.
"Sherlock?" came the voice at the door. Mycroft, age 21 at the time, looked to the door with worry. He didn't know exactly what was going on with his little brother, but he had a pretty good hunch; and he prayed to God he was wrong.
"Sherlock, mother needs help with dishes, and it's your night," Mycroft tried, knocking on the door a few more times.
The teen inside's eyes widened. He hadn't expected his older brother to come, at least not this early. In fear, he quickly took a handful of pills and shoved them in his mouth, letting each take their turn of swallow.
"Sherlock, stop being childish. You can't hide from chores," Mycroft was obviously becoming annoyed at his brother's giving of the silent treatment, banging on the door a few more times.
Sherlock started to feel a bit dizzy, which was good. The pill bottle slipped from his hand, landing on the floor with an echoing sound of pills landing. Not soon after, Sherlock himself fell on the floor with a small groan and thud.
"Sherlock…?" All annoyance was gone from Mycroft's voice, now replaced with concern. He knocked even harder. "Sherlock! Open up this bloody door, Sherlock!" He decided to try the doorknob, since he had only assumed it to be locked. It twisted and opened the door with a small click.
"Gottverdammt!" Mycroft swore in German as he saw the scene that was set before him; his little brother, eyes hardly open and on the floor next to a half-empty bottle of pills. He rushed to the teen, kneeling beside him and propping him up. "Oh Sherlock… what have you done?" He muttered, reaching for the nearest phone.
"Sherlock, if you don't open this bloody door, I will break it down!" John warned, now banging on the bathroom door. From within the room, he heard sobbing, and through that, he could hear Sherlock shaking.
"Well, he might not be able to, but I will," Mary corrected her husband, who turned to her.
"Now's not the time to flirt, Mary!" He snapped, somewhat more than necessary. However, it got the message across.
"One way or another, this door is coming down Sherlock. Either you open it, or one of us breaks it," Mary warned.
The silence that followed was broken by the noise of something being set on the floor, a noise that John only knew too well.
"SHERLOCK!" He yelled, and in his furious state, he kicked the bathroom door down.
"Sherlock, stay with me!" Mycroft encouraged of his dying brother, who was slowly loosing consciousness. "You have to promise me. I know you don't want to, but you have to. I'm not loosing my brother, dammit!"
Sherlock was still conscious, and still able to hear his brother's words. Great… Just another person he was hurting. Now he almost willed himself to give in, trying to seek the comfort the darkness would give him; but there hadn't been enough time, nor enough pills.
"Mycroft, what's going on? Why are the-" Mrs. Holmes stopped mid-sentence, looking at the scene before her. Nothing but shock was expressed on her face as she not only saw her youngest son dying in her oldest's arms, but the scars that littered his arms and stomach.
"I've called for an ambulance, they should be here shortly," Mycroft assured her, keeping as calm of a composure as he could. "Just… stay here please? He could slip at any moment, and I can't do that alone."
"Of course, dear…"
What met John's eyes… well, to say the least, he never expected it.
The only thing he did expect was that he was right about him being hardly more than skin and bones
He did not expect, however, the fresh and old scars that littered his best friend in almost every place imaginable.
But what he truly least expected was the object that sat beside him.
A gun.
His gun.
Of course he'd recognize it anywhere. That was the gun Sherlock had stolen from him on Christmas to do away with Magnussen, the gun that nearly sent his best friend on a six month death mission.
"Sherlock…" John muttered, not knowing what to feel. Shock? Why the bloody hell was this happening? Sherlock was the most emotionally stable person John had ever known, so why was it that the man was sobbing with a gun next to him?
Anger? Why hadn't Sherlock ever told him? As he mentioned far too often, he was a doctor! He could easily help Sherlock through whatever was hurting him, taunting his mind.
Hurt? He was going to use a weapon that John had (unwillingly) supplied to do the job, allowing John to be able to trace the blame scarcely to himself, which would destroy him.
No… Right now, John Watson didn't matter. Not in the moment that could either save or end the life of his best friend.
"Stand up, Sherlock." John commanded, but in a gentle tone. He stared at the man, shooing Mary away. He loved her, and he knew she could help as well, but he felt this was between him and Sherlock. Being respectful, she went to the sofa and sat down, dialing an ambulance.
Slowly, John walked into the bathroom and kneeled before his best friend. He gently touched the hand that was still tightly wrapped around the metal death contraction.
"Sherlock, I need you to let go of the gun," John stated slowly. He knew to be gentle with patients, especially to suicidal ones. And right now, he was dealing with a sociopathic suicidal man.
"N…No," came Sherlock's stuttered but secure answer, shoving the doctor's hand off of his own. "I… It's… I have…" the detective, who was usually so good with his vocabulary, couldn't think of the right words.
"Sherlock, you don't have to do anything. Wait, I take that back. You have to put down that gun."
In contrast to John's commands, Sherlock raised the gun, noting that the safety was off, and pointed it directly at his heart.
"SHERLOCK!" John yelled, grabbing for the gun. Sherlock, again, despite his current state, fought strongly for control over the object.
John never really knew which of the two did it. All he knew was that a finger slipped, pulled the trigger, and the body of his friend fell to the ground, blood pooling around him.
"NO! SHERLOCK!" John pleaded with his friend, whom had already lost his consciousness.
"Dear, why is there an ambulance parked in front of the house?" came the voice of Mr. Holmes, confused as normal. He slowly walked into Sherlock's room, where the rest of his family was huddled. Before he knew it, he was being shoved out of the doorway as Mycroft carried Sherlock's limp, and now unconscious, body out of the room, running. Mrs. Holmes was behind him.
"Come on!" She barked at Mr. Holmes, who took the hint and followed his wife.
Mycroft reached the ambulance, and placed his brother on the stretcher. After they had secured the stretcher, Mycroft climbed in the back.
"There can only be one other in the back. Take a cab, and I'll see you at the hospital," Mycroft commanded of his parents. With that, the doors closed, securing the two brothers for the dreadful ride.
"Oh my God.. Oh my God, MARY!" John cried out, taking a multitude of toilet paper and pressing it against the wound. Thankfully, in his struggle, he'd managed to redirect the aim to a lower part of the torso; ironically around where Mary had shot him nearly a year ago.
Mary, however, had already been by her husband's side after hearing the word "gun." She examined the wound, and determined that the outcomes could vary, depending on how his body was moved and such factors.
"Call an ambulance!" John commanded fiercely.
"I already have. They should be here soon." Mary stated, trying to calm her husband down. She knew the situation was dire, but keeping a cool head was key. She'd learnt from experience.
"WELL IT WON'T BE SOON ENOUGH!" John shouted, noticing the toilet paper was nearly soaked. He quickly gathered more and replaced them, throwing the blood-sodden ones to the side.
"John! You have to calm down!" Mary warned, putting a hand on his shoulder.
"How can I be calm when my best friend just bloody shot himself and is dying as we speak!?" John snapped, not taking his eyes off Sherlock.
In the distance, sirens began to wail.
"You'll be fine, Sherlock… you've got to be," Mycroft muttered, running his fingers through the dark mass of curls that made Sherlock's skin look even paler. The paramedics had placed an Oxygen mask on him, forcing air into his lunges so long as it could.
"We'll have to ask you to move out of the way while we get him off. You can follow for the most of the way, except the last room," one of the paramedics, a tall ginger woman, told Mycroft. He gave a simple nod.
"Do you know what he took?" She asked, looking slightly tired. It was late at night, after all.
Mycroft dug in his pocket and handed her the pill bottle, some of the pills that had not littered the bathroom floor still inside.
"Not too serious, then. Well, it's still serious, but not as serious as it could be. Thank you, Mr. Holmes." The paramedic gave the elder brother a small nod before the ambulance stopped. The driver jumped out and ran to the back to aid in carrying the stretcher with the pale boy into the hospital's emergency room.
The ambulance pulled up to 221B not but a minute later. Paramedics burst through the front doors and up the steps. Mary spotted them and directed them to the bathroom, where John was sobbing over the hardly alive form of his friend.
"Sherlock… You're my best friend, you can't leave me… You already left me once, you can't do it again.." the pleads were interrupted by multiple sobs and gross choking sounds. He hadn't cried this much since the first time he lost his best friend; off the roof of the very building they met in.
"John…" Molly's voice came from the mix of paramedics, hustling to get the dying man on a stretcher as soon as they could. Molly, having been working a night shift and hearing there was an emergency call to Baker Street, rode in the back of the ambulance.
"Molly," John responded, watching as they took the detective's limp body onto the stretcher.
"What happened? Oh my God, who did this?!" Molly asked, looking absolutely horrified at the amount of blood left behind.
"I'll explain at the hospital. Mary," he directed at his wife, "hail a cab for you and Molly. I'm going in the back of the ambulance." With that, John followed the paramedics out of the flat, and hopped in the back after they carefully put the stretcher in place.
"Who are you?" the main paramedic, a brown haired man in his late 30's, asked John.
"Um, John Watson. I'm… I'm his best friend." John stated numbly, watching as his assistant put an oxygen mask over Sherlock's mouth and nose.
"Oh.. Can you describe what happened, then?" The paramedic asked, trying now to have at lest some sincerity.
"He shot himself. Suicide attempt. He originally aimed for the heart before I tried to take the gun from him, which resulted in him loosing initial aim and firing lower." John said in his usual "doctor" voice, taking on the tone it does when he's working on an important surgery. However, that didn't stop the silent tears streaming down his face.
"Thank you, John. He'll have to be taken in to surgery, of course, bu-"
"I'm a doctor, did I mention?" John interrupted. He didn't care, he wanted to stay with his friend until he knew he was alright. If not… he'd feel all the more responsible.
"Really? Oh yes! I've heard your name mentioned. Doctor John Watson, retired army doctor and currently employed at Bart's. Runner of that blog with you a-" The paramedic looked down, and his eyes widened. " .. This is him, isn't it?"
In reply, John gave a slow nod.
Several hours passed. Mr. Holmes was in the waiting room, anxiously looking around the place as if someone were to jump out at any second.
Mrs. Holmes was lightly sobbing, far away from her husband as to keep her emotions to herself.
Mycroft was in the room determined for Sherlock to recover in after the initial action to remove the medication from his system.
The thought that troubled all three of their minds was that there was the possibility he wouldn't make it.
And then there was the fact that they were here at all. That he had ever done this, ever even considered doing this.
Mycroft cursed at himself for never noticing it. He had struggled with similar feelings of depression in the past, so why couldn't he tell his little brother was struggling so much?! If Sherlock died… it would be his fault. He knew it. And he couldn't bear to think about it.
"Mr. Holmes?" the voice of the main doctor, a woman in her mid-40's, chimed through the desolate room. "He's awake, and he wants to see you."
Several emergency room doctors met the two paramedics, army doctor, and consulting detective at the door. They hurriedly rushed the latter into the hospital, taking him into the surgery ward. John, holding tight to his doctor status, followed.
"St. Bart's hospital, step on it!" Mary commanded of the cabbie: a teenager no older than old enough to have a license. The cabbie nodded, and after Mary and Molly were securely in, drove off, going well above the speed limit.
"Sherlock?" Mycroft's voice, somehow gentle in the situation, asked of his younger brother, who was lying on the bed with his eyes somewhat opened.
"Mycroft…" the younger boy muttered, coughing into his arm. He groaned, letting his head hit the pillows again.
"How… How are you feeling?" Mycroft may not have been the best at sympathy, but he knew not to ask a teen who had just tried to take his life why he would do such a thing.
"Rubbish," came the measly reply.
"I'd imagine," Mycroft replied, walking and taking a seat in the chair beside the bed. "Mother and father are here. You'll get to see them when you're taken to your other room." He hoped this might provide some comfort for the teen.
"When?" Sherlock asked in response.
"I don't know. Soon, I think," Mycroft still tried to reassure his brother.
"Why… Why didn't it w-work?" This statement, which had contained the most words put together since he'd been in the hospital, made him go into a small coughing fit.
Mycroft opened his mouth to speak, but couldn't. How could you tell a fifteen year old how his attempt on his life had failed?
Finally, words came. "Because someone loves you, Sherlock, and would never let you do this to yourself."
Molly and Mary sat in the waiting room together. Molly, never afraid to hold back her emotions, was sobbing; her face in her hands, and he sleeve damp from wiping previous tears.
Mary, who had acquired a certain calmness in situations like this, sat two seats down from her, thinking to herself. She knew better than to text John and ask how Sherlock was; she had to be patient. She also knew that she shouldn't be first to know if Sherlock survived or not.
She could only hope.
After an hour in the first room, the doctors saw fit to put the teen in the other room; slightly more inviting than the first. A few minutes after his parents were invited in.
"Sherlock…?" Mrs. Holmes' voice rang, obviously broken. She walked over to her two sons, her eyes fixed on the youngest. "Sherlock, I am so sorry… I should have done something. I should have he-"
"Mother, there was nothing to be done." Mycroft glared at his mother. "He's been hiding this for a year… if we didn't see it at first there was absolutely nothing we could have done."
"Why couldn't you have just talked to me dear…" Mrs. Holmes muttered, mostly to herself, but loud enough for Mycroft to hear.
"Because," Mycroft said, looking sad. "Parents don't understand."
Nearly an hour after they had gotten there, John rushed into the waiting room.
"He's pulled through. He'll survive this!" John announced, the tinge of relief on his face behind the tiredness of his eyes.
"Brilliant!" Mary exclaimed, standing to go hug her husband.
"Thank God…" Molly's voice whispered as she tried to get herself to stop crying.
"You guys will be able to see him in about an hour or so, I think. They're letting me in now since I'm a doctor." John stated.
"And how many times have you told people that in the last two hours?" Mary smirked a bit, trying to somehow lighten the mood. John quirked the smallest smile.
"I've got to go. They said I should be there when he wakes up fully, since I was there when… yeah." the doctor gave a small nod to each Mary and Molly before exiting the room.
John rushed down the hall to where he had left his friend. He opened the door to find the man on the bed starting to stir slightly. The doctors around him looked up, nodded to each other before stepping away from the bed to allow John to take their place.
"Sherlock…" John muttered, taking the detectives hand in his. To his great delight, the hand slightly squeezed his.
"John…" came the hoarse croak. John winced at how broken his friend sounded. Never did he imagine this would be the reason Sherlock Holmes would be on a hospital bed… well, again. The first time was when Mary had shot him. In John's book, this time was far less believable. He would rather believe his wife was an assassin than to think his best friend struggled with these thoughts.
Unfortunately, for John Watson, he got the worst of both worlds.
"How are you?" John finally mucked up the courage to ask. "How are you feeling?"
A few seconds of silence filled the room. "Like rubbish."
John gave an airy chuckle. "Well, I could imagine why."
"I'm sorry…" Sherlock croaked after a while, looking at John in almost a longing manner.
"I just wish you would have told me… I knew something was up, but I didn't know this…" John sighed, doing his absolute best to keep any hind of anger out of his voice.
"I know… I'm s-sorry…" Sherlock repeated, followed by a few coughs and a groan.
"I should have known! I'm a bloody doctor for God's sake!" John was beginning to shout, but he wasn't mad at Sherlock. His anger was directed completely to himself.
"'S not your fault…" Sherlock muttered, fiddling for the remote to his bed. Finding it, he pressed the up button to have the upper portion of his bed be raised so he could sit up.
"If you would have died, then it would be my fault." John stated, looking to his best friend with eyes full of guilt.
"No, it'd be none but my own," Sherlock stated quietly, trying to preserve his air. "The definition of suicide… is death inflicted by ones self. It would… would have been my fault."
"Don't you dare say that again, Sherlock Holmes." John warned, feeling the familiar sensation of tears welling up in his eyes. He blinked, freeing them to glide down his face.
"I've done it again…" Sherlock muttered, sighing and looking at John. "I've hurt someone…"
"What?" John asked, confused.
"I hurt too many people, John.." Sherlock took a few moments to gather breath. "I'm not worth the pain… that I cause you and… everyone else."
"Sherlock, that's not true…" John pleaded, but Sherlock cut him off.
"You wouldn't understand."
It took a couple of days before they released the fifteen year old to go home with his family. Of course they celebrated. Mr. Holmes went out and bought Sherlock the microscope he had wanted since he was twelve. Mrs. Holmes was at home, making Sherlock's favourite meal. Mycroft was in Sherlock's room, playing Operation with him.
"I'm sorry," Sherlock finally voiced after he won his third game in a row.
"Sorry?" Mycroft asked, not in the best mood due to loosing.
"For… you know…" he pointed to the bathroom. "I just… I felt like I hurt too many people. That the world would be much better without me to ruin people. I'm still pretty sure I'm right, but I'll let other people try to fix that problem."
Mycroft examined his brother for some time, taking in what he said. "Sherlock… do be careful. I have experienced almost loosing you, I can't imagine actually loosing you." This was strange for Mycroft to admit his emotions, but he decided for the case at hand, there was no time like the present.
"Dinner time!" Mrs. Holmes called out, leading the boys to abandon their game and accompany their parents at the dinner table.
And thus concluded this scare in the Holmes family, of which they hoped and thought to be the last.
As on cue, about an hour after John had entered the room, the doctors decided that he could be transferred to the somewhat-welcoming-but-still-a-hospital room. After he was settled in, Mary and Molly, and Mycroft (who had been called by Mary) all stood by the bed, looking at the man that brought them all together.
"Sherlock," Mycroft muttered under his breath, utterly concealing his emotions. "I expect you, Doctor Watson," he addressed to John, "to give me a full recollection of why my brother is yet again lying in a hospital bed with a bullet wound."
John cleared his throat and nodded to the elder Holmes. "Of course. Step out here and I'll explain…" With that, John and Mycroft exited the room, leaving Mary and Molly to watch over him.
And, thus concludes the second scare of the Holmes family, and, if we wish upon out lucky stars, it will be the last.