Putting Me Down Too
John Watson sat in an uncomfortable, metal-framed chair, surrounded by the smell of sickness and the sharp odor of medicine. His eyes were shut against unshed tears. He knew Mary was beside him; her arm pressed against his with each of her breaths. He simply could not bear to look at her. He knew it was unfair to her, but he felt that she represented everything John did not want to think about right now. She represented his life as a married man, a normal person—at least on the outside... This wouldn't bother him so much, if he did not also see her as the personification of his abandonment of Sherlock.
Dear Sherlock... Turmoil raged in John's mind whenever he tried to figure out his feelings on his marriage, his former flatmate, and his current life and wife... He had always seen Sherlock like a marble statue in a glass case—beautiful, silent, cold, unfeeling, and untouchable... And wise, though before Sherlock, John would certainly never have thought that of a slab of marble. But it seemed so appropriate now. Always watching, listening, observing.
He was the army doctor's unlikely best friend... Then everything had fallen apart. Of course, Sherlock had shattered John completely and left him for two years to attempt to mend his fractured self alone. John no longer resented that... He understood the reason. But, when John had still thought his detective was gone, he had moved on. Fallen in love with a liar.
Like an idiot, even after Sherlock returned, John continued his relationship with this lovely blonde creature. He gave no thought to what might happen to his friendship with his dearest friend, Mr. Holmes. He could never have anticipated the utter lack of contact between himself and the detective after the wedding. John realized now that it was quite cruel to make Sherlock write a speech and tell stories of every happy moment between them. Relive each intimate situation. Surely the detective had already deduced what would happen after the wedding, even if John hadn't the faintest idea. Sherlock left immediately when his presence became unnecessary (in his own eyes). John realized that that was the moment he had abandoned Sherlock, if unintentionally. It was a month until they met again, quite by chance. A dreadfully thin, dirty, shabby version of John's friend in a drug den. Though he insisted he'd been "on a case" and "undercover," John was rather frightened by how quickly Sherlock had resorted to drugs as an escape after the wedding. After that, for a few days anyway, it was like old times. They, they grew apart once more, when Sherlock was dragged into the investigation of Moriarty's return. And now look where John was...
John was dragged suddenly from his thoughts by a cry from his little girl, Irene. John had suggested this name to Mary, and she, not knowing its significance, had agreed. In the doctor's mind, it was as close as he could come to doing as Sherlock had wished, and naming the child after him. Her name was a nod to one of the few people with the ability to influence Sherlock.
Her cry was still the monotone squall of a newborn, not quite a week old yet... John was terribly proud of her. Mary shushed softly and gently rocked her. A nurse stepped through a door at the side of the room.
"Holmes?"
John leapt up, Mary directly behind, and saw another man doing the same across the room. They came together at the nurse, and a distraught Mycroft asked the nurse in panicky tones, "Is he okay? Tell me he's okay." His usual composure was completely absent.
The nurse pursed her lips. "I'll let the doctor tell you. Two visitors at a time please."
Mary backed up to her seat. "Go ahead." She waved to John.
He felt numb and terrified. What could possibly be so wrong that the nurse wouldn't tell them, or even give them a brief summary.
She walked briskly down the fluorescent-lit hallway. She stopped at a door and motioned for them to enter. Sherlock looked impossibly pale under the harsh light on a white sheet. His dark curls stood out starkly against his clammy forehead. The rhythmic, metallic beep was the only thing to indicate that he was still living.