Through every forest, above the trees
Within my stomach, scraped off my knees
I drink the honey inside your hive
You are the reason I stay alive
Flawed.
It all shattered.
Blood splattered on the cold, rough floor. Blood from John Watson's vein.
Maddening sound of a painful cry and Sherlock's head hit the ground hard. He could see nothing, but blood. He could smell nothing, but blood. He could feel nothing, but blood.
Then time stopped.
He heard the shots, saw the lights and smelt the flavour of medicines in the air, but that day, wherever he was taken, all he could sense was blood.
...
chapter 1.
Harriet kicked the vending machine with her black leather shoe, and gave a satisfied smirk when her so-desired coke finally arrived. Whilst she marched back to the hospital room, she opened the bottle and almost drank all at a draught. She sat beside the only bed in the room; and touched his brother's hand.
"I know you're not sleeping" she noted and drank the last sip of her coke "You were about to answer my question. You got shot in your arm, not in your brain; so I quess you remember."
"What question?" John opened his eyes and gave her a disbelieving look. "You mean your idiotic supposition about my nonexistent mental disorder?"
"It runs in the family."
"God, why am I still speaking to you?"
"Not my problem." Harriet pulled out a pack of cigarettes from her bag. "Sorry, five minutes."
"You don't have to come back. "
"Wanna get rid of me, huh?"
John rolled his eyes. Harriet stoop up and squeezed his brother's not-injured hand.
"I'll hop in tomorrow." she said on a warm tone. "Text me if you need something; candies, fashion magazines, porn dvd's."
"Bye, Harriet."
"Oh, I've almost forgotten about your prudishness. "
...
2 hours later:
The fresh, spring air filled the room with the scent of wattle-trees. Lestrade was staring at the unsullied hospital floor, resting his hands on his knees. Long minuted passed in silence, then he lift up his head and asked very carefully;
"He wasn't here, was he?"
John jerked his head towards the inspector - he should have known it would come into question; but then happened too abruptly.
"No. - he said, struggling with his curiousity. Finally he gave in. - You met him after the um- incident ?"
To his disappointment, Lestrade shook his head.
"No one has seen him since the - incident." he paused. "Is it possible that... Well, you know him better than everyone else, obviously, so I'm asking you that if it's possible that he got a shock ?"
John caught himself laughing, despite of his will.
"No. Sometimes I feel like I don't know him at all; even after this time, but I wouldn't say that he's capable of getting shocked." then from somewhere obscure pictures of a motel in Baskeville came into his head.
"Then I really don't know what's with him. I tried to call him several times; he didn't answer; I visitied him, he didn't open the door. It also run through my brain that what if he..."
"No." John didn't realise how hoarse his own voice was.
"Excuse me, inspector." the nurse was standing in the door, kindly looking at Lestrade. "No offense, but Mr. Watson really needs some rest now."
"No offense taken. I need to go back to the station, anyway..." he gently touched John's healthy shoulder. - "We all hope that you'll recover soon."
"Thanks."
"I'll call you if we have any information about him."
John nodded. Lestrade gave a soft, not-too-honest smile, then walked out of the room. The nurse closed the door behind him.
"How are we today?" she took a sit on the visitors' chair beside John's bed.
"Fine, thanks."
The nurse hesitated - John just realised how pretty her slightly blushed face was with those warm, kind, blue eyes and her long, tied blonde hair.
"If you need me to call your therapist..."
"No, no. I'm fine. Really."
"I know that you served in the military, but no one can just blink over a case like this ." she said gently. "Even the bravest soldier." she smiled at him fondly like a mother.
"I'v seen worse."
"Alright. If you change your mind, I'll be here. Even at night." she stoop up.
"Lisa." John said before she could leave the room. The nurse turned to him, her thin eyebrows raised. "I was wondering if -well, after I'm out of the hospital- we could have dinner, maybe?"
" Oh... Well, why not? Good night, John." she gave a soft, kind smile, then closed the door behind herself; leaving the injured ex-armydoctor in his total solitude.
...
~ He was running.
His lungs were shrunk, he was out of breath.
The little girl looked at him, last time, with her innocent, big brown eyes; then a bullet cruelly broke her head, broke her life; and filled the world with blood and voiceless screams.
He smelt Afghanistan. He saw corpses. He saw one man standing in the row of the doomed ones. He saw when the revolver pointed at Sherlock Holmes.
Raw, unbearable pain tore his skin; sank into his flesh; the mere, grievous reality smashed him. Again.
He heard himself roaring, the world went white; the unendurable torment blinded his eyes. ~
"You alright?"
John jumped in his bed, crying out loudly; feeling like the pain in his arm would tear him appart. His whole body was sweaty, and the tears in his eyes hid the picture of the dark hospital room. What happened?
He wiped his face with his healthy hand; while he was trying to catch his breath. He felt his heart pumping furiously in his chest, as if it was just about to jump out.
He stared into the darkness.
"You... How?" he said, still panting intensely.
"I said I was a medical." Sherlock shook his head. John couldn't see the expression on his face. "Irrelevant. How are you?" his voice was uncharacteristically gentle, and a bit hoarse.
" Good, I just... I just had a nightmare."
"I know"
John was trying to sit up; closing his eyes in pain.
"Where have you been?" he asked, not just because he wanted to distract Sherlock's attention from his pathetic struggle. "Lestrade called you several times; and you gave no sign about yourself."
"I needed privacy."
"Oh, really?! And didn't it bother you a little that we worried about you?!" John spat, feeling rage invading his chest.
"Why would you worry about me?"Sherlock asked on a startlingly honest tone.
"Lestrade believed that you got shocked. He should have known that even in special cases like this, the only thing you care about is yourself."
"I did get shocked." Sherlock stated. His voice sounded extremely strange in the quiet hospital room. "Don't look at me like that John; I'm still human."
"And a sociopath."
"Those people shouldn't be dead."
"Why are you doing this?"
"Why did you jump in front of me?"
John didn't reply, only shook his head feebly. Sherlock went on;
"If that bullet had hit you a few inches away; you'd have been dead. If the commandos had arrived a few seconds later, you'd be unquestionably dead."
"Can't you stop it?" John said quietly, while massaging his forehead.
"Why did you save my life, when you knew it would endanger yours?"
"You saved mine, you might remember."
"That was a different case. I knew I would survive."
John sighed.
"I just didn't like the idea of seeing you dead again." he was surprised how easily those words came out of his mouth, with a little amount of fury.
" So much, that you would have died for me instead?" Sherlock asked under his breath.
The dark shadow of the leaves were dancing on the walls strangely, the wind blew through the half-opened windows, stroking the curtains' light-blue curves, bringing the rich flavour of white lilies into the room.
"Solitude is an unbearable thing for me, Sherlock. You may not understand, but I never want to do that again. Alone kills me. Slowly."
"John..."
Then none of them said anything. They were staring at each other in the darkness, in the intoxicating scent of flowers, for long minutes. John couldn't tell if he actually saw or just believed that he saw Sherlock's face in the dark; but those blue eyes, that inexplicable expression on that pale, oblong face made him calm, made him comfortable in the soft hospital bed. Slowly his eyelashes descended, and the last thing he could feel was a cold, strong grip on his hand.