Broken beyond repair
1. Fresh suture
"Turn your head, let me see the wound."
Sherlock feels a warm hand on his cheek which tips his head to the left. Reluctantly he gives in, turns his face, reveals a long cut starting right under his ear, running along his neck and disappearing under his shirt.
"Damn it, Sherlock. That was close."
Warm fingers move along the wound margin, blotting dry the red, the alcohol leaves a burning sensation.
It's silent in 221b Bakerstreet, Sherlock is sitting on the sofa in which he had been pushed almost forcefully, and in front of him, seated on the coffee table, is his flat mate, partner, friend John Watson. He cleans the wound with calmness and precision without making too many words about it.
It had been in the middle of the night, John was already sleeping, when Sherlock had struggled into the flat. Drunken with adrenalin and dazed because of blood loss and breathlessness after a long hunt through London, Sherlock had been standing in John's room, muttering his name. Silently first as if he didn't knew what he actually wanted, then louder until it had become a shouting, even John had jumped out of his bed and had approached him long since. John had been an army doctor, he was used to being startled out of his sleep, bringing full performance instantly. His brain had switched to war, to nocturnal attack, bombings and ambushes. Calm and considerate he had pushed Sherlock downstairs into the living room where he could dress the wound in better light.
"The cut is especially deep below the ear and along the shoulder. The butterfly bandages won't do. I need to stitch that up."
John doesn't bother asking Sherlock if he wants local anesthesia. It's a silent way of punishment, of saying how stupid it had been going out alone. Sherlock smiles and tries not to grimace each time the needle enters his skin and a nasty sting rises.
"Do I want to know how that happened?" John's question is floating through the room for some time, long enough to become rhetorical, not needing an answer any more.
Sherlock is lying in his bed. His fingers lift the bandage on his shoulder, he smells the disinfectant, the acrid smell enters his nose, his mind instantly categorises it, compares it to other chemical substances which are saved on his hard drive. Carefully he pushes one finger under the gauze bandage.
His fingertips skim over the fresh suture.
OoOoOoOoOo
The next morning is grey. Fog is sticking between the buildings, gets caught on the chimneys and sinks back into the maze of London's streets. The sun climbs over the rooftops, casting a strange dirty-yellow light on the metropolis.
Sherlock pulls his dressing gown closer around his body, spreads his toes on the old wood floor and looks out into the English morning, shivering. The flat is silent, it's too early, in less than an hour John's alarm clock will echo through the hallway and just a little bit after that, Mrs Hudson one floor below will wake up too and make tea.
Actually, Sherlock had expected to sleep late. He wouldn't rest during his cases which caused his body to take what it needed by force afterwards and quite often he skipped a day sleeping. But this time Sherlock had awakened with a start early, soaked in sweat and breathing heavily he had sat erect in his bed, the sheets kicked away in a nightmare struggle. After that sleep seemed impossible, tired and feeble he had trudged into the living room.
The wound on his neck is burning, he can feel it hot against healthy skin, feels the heat in his face too and lifts his hand to his forehead yet again.
Sherlock isn't surprised; much too late the wound had been cleaned and disinfected by John, much too long had he run through the city before, bleeding. Therefore an infection isn't a surprise at all. Later John will see him coming down the stairs and planning to make tea, and he will instantly know what happened. Much too obvious are the red fever spots on Sherlocks normally pale skin, too experienced the doctors eyes which can make out the slightest shiver and the heavy breathing at long-distance. At first he will be angry, Sherlock imagines, will address the reproaches which he had swallowed yesterday, in the silence of the night. After that he will be worried, will hush his fears like the doctor and healer he is. He will tell him that the infection won't kill him, will name some medicine which Sherlock of course already knows, and finally, before leaving the flat, he will make a bad joke about the wound leaving an ugly scar. And naturally John will place part of the blame on himself, because that's John, and no matter how hard Sherlock tries, he can't sort his flatmate out.
Sherlock smiles at that thought. Upstairs he can hear the first shrill tones of Johns alarm clock, hears him turning in his bed, just once, and then he's awake. Army doctor. He's used to it.
Downstairs Sherlock turns away from the window, observes the silent flat, now enlightened by orange sunbeams which managed to fight through the dense fog.
Suddenly his view blurs, the room tilts over, more heat rises to his head until it feels like it would have to explode, as though all the warmth being smoke need to leave his head, and for just a slight moment his gaze levels out, the room is even again. Seconds later he lies on the cold wooden floor, unconscious.
Upstairs John turns his alarm clock off.
OoOoOoOoOoO
"Alive", the voice on the mobile phone repeats. Sebastian Moran rolls his eyes before he confirms the mission yet again. Lying flat on the ground he stares through the scope of his sniper rifle. Two other men sit behind him, dressed in black as well, and watch him eagerly, expecting orders.
The light in the upper floor comes on, Moran turns his head backwards, nods to the others and points down with his hand. The two men disappear without a word. Moran lifts the mobile to his ear again.
"Pull up the car, Jim."
It clicks on the other side of the line before the voice chuckles quietly.
"Aye-aye, captain."
OoOoOoOoOoO
There's a whistle in his ears, an awkward sound which seems to echo in his head. Something cool is lying on his forehead, probably a soaked cloth, a drip trickles down his cheekbone to his ear. Sherlock slowly opens his eyes. Moves the fingertips. Turns his head.
He's lying on the sofa, there are some packages of medicine beside him on the coffee table, anti-inflammatory drug, pain killer, antipyretic. And a steaming cup of tea. Sherlock sits up, the soggy cloth slips from his forehead. He realizes that the bandage on his shoulder had disappeared, there's just bare, sore skin shining under orange ointment.
John comes out of the kitchen, his gaze neutral, he is already dressed, his jacket in his hand.
"Take the medicine, stay lying down. I will be back this evening", he just says.
Sherlock watches him irritated, tries to interpret his posture, but the fever makes it hard, his head roars and vibrates. He consults the watch, it's already past 8.
"You're late", he states, the only deduction he is able to do, and as an evidence he tiredly taps on the watch.
"I had a special patient today, he detained me", John says through gritted teeth, and now even Sherlock's fever-soaked brain can't miss it.
"You're angry", again a statement because Sherlock Holmes doesn't guess.
John takes some steps into the room.
"You know what would have happened if you had passed out just a few inches further?"
Sherlock looks around, can't quite remember where he had stood when falling over.
"Well, you seem rather slow this morning, so I will help you along. Your head would have met the table top at a very bad angle. Laceration, in the best case. In the worst, depending on the angle, broken neck. And I clean up after you."
John's voice stays calm, he just opens and closes his fists again and again, in his mind he's probably repeatedly counting to ten to stop himself from jumping at his flatmates throat and strangle him to death.
Sherlock leans back a bit, watches the edge of the table, curses his brain which is so slow this morning, looks up to John again who gazes at him and waits for a snippy answer, for a apology, anything. Sherlock doesn't know.
"I don't know what you want from me", he therefore says.
On John's face appears a desperate grin, he looks up at the ceiling as if he expects help from there.
"I don't know either, Sherlock", he says, and then resignedly lifts his hands. "Maybe that someday I don't have to be the one to save your butt anymore. That you will see sense. I can shoot cab drivers and beat down Chinese assassins, no problem. But the task of protecting you from yourself overtaxes me."
"I don't need someone who…"
"You don't even realize it!" John almost shouts, Mrs. Hudson below surely can understand every word, the walls of these old London buildings are thin. "Actually there are humans existing who cannot stop caring about other people!" His whole body is strained, he leans forward slightly, his hands clenched into fists.
"Why should you care about me? I don't need that!" Sherlock says dry-witted.
John's eyes widen, all the strain leaves his body, he lets his arms loose, his shoulders sink. Sherlock looks up at him, looks at the surprised face of his friend, and deep down in his overheated mind he knows that he said something stupid and he desperately tries to dig out an apology. But apologies are buried deeply in his brain, seldom used, so that he has difficulties to find one.
Sherlock opens his mouth.
Before he can say a word the gunshot echoes through the room. Breaks clashing through the window, digs a hole into flesh.
John's upper body is yanked around, then he tumbles to the ground.
For some seconds Sherlock stares wide-eyed at the lifeless body before he remembers to breath. He slowly turns his head, sees the whole in the windowpane, estimates the trajectory, and follows with his eyes. His gaze gets caught by a small gap in the wooden door case. That's where the bullet is stuck, a through-and-through wound. His brain tries to match the gauge of the weapon while his body stands up mechanically and walks around the table. He looks down at John's body, a pool of blood formed under him, but Sherlock can see his respiration, sees the fitfully breathing, how the chest is rising and falling. John isn't unconscious, he's just paralyzed.
There are noises down the hall, but Sherlock ignores them, his brain is busy bringing up useless stuff. Pictures from sniper rifles appear in front if his mind's eye, news articles, patient files, names. He blinks but can't suppress the pictures entirely, his mind overflows him while he crouches down, a shaking finger reaching for John's face.
Someone grabs him from behind, pulls him ungentle on his shoulders, pressing a cloth over his face. Chloroform. Methane trichloride. CHCl3. Freon 20. A colorless, sweet-smelling, dense liquid.
John.
Boiling point: 61.2 °C. Aggregate phase: Liquid.
John.
Molar mass: 119.38 g/mol-1
John…