No Third Chances
John Watson was a patient man. He knew how to survive heavy London traffic, how to queue, how to avoid breaking anything when dealing with the damned pin-and-chip machine, how to cope when all of his friends (and several strangers) insisted he fancied men ("Not even a little, dear?"), and how to fall asleep while his brilliant, if not a bit of a dick, flatmate harped away on his violin at all hours of the morning.
But when he received Mycroft's word that said flatmate had just been admitted to St. Bart's with no further comment on his condition, John found that patience had fled from his vocabulary. In its place stood far more suitable words, such as 'need', 'urgency', and 'panic'. None of this could be discerned easily from the naked eye, as years of military training ("Afghanistan or Iran?" Sherlock quipped in the far reaches of his mind) had permanently drawn a mask of stoicism over John's features. They twisted now, as he imagined seeing Sherlock's crumpled, bleeding body packaged in white material and shoved into a hospital bed. It had been two years since the Fall. Two years since he'd felt his heart shatter. He'd only just finished putting it back together.
Please, he called out mentally to whatever deity may be listening. Don't take him from me again.
As he flew down the stairs of 221B, Mrs. Hudson was exiting her own flat, arms laden with garbage bags. Normally, the army doctor would have offered her a hand, complaining about Sherlock's latest endeavors good-naturedly. They would have laughed, both knowing the place only felt right with the consulting detective in it.
"John dear, what's wr-"
"It's Sherlock." John tossed over his shoulder before she could finish. The telltale thump that followed indicated she had dropped her bundle. He didn't bother helping her pick up. There was no time. She would understand. She had been there two years ago, too.
Stop it. John growled inwardly as images of the grisly crime scene offered themselves up, pressing against the backs of his eyelids every time he blinked. It wouldn't be that way this time, he tried to assure himself. And besides, the damage done had been fake.
It's just a magic trick.
Something in his gut said that this would not be the case when he arrived at St. Bart's. There would be no cherry red splatter on wet pavement. No clutching hands or limp wrists, un-dilated pupils and come back you bastard this isn't funny. There would be no woman on the train asking him for directions, pulling back her hood to reveal herself as his deceased best friend, commenting on the abomination that had been his moustache.
There would be no third chances. Though pissed at first, John Watson was grateful to whoever decided he was worthy of a second one. He had intended to cherish the marvel that was Sherlock Holmes for the rest of his days.
And as he pushed through the doors of St. Bart's, found Greg already there waiting to escort him to Sherlock- notdeadtoosooninfalliblenotagain – John wondered where he had failed.
"How is he?" he asked, not expecting much comfort. Greg hesitated. Don't coddle me, Lestrade. Hit me with it.
"Difficult to say, mate." Lestrade offered, fingers twitching at his side. Aching for a cigarette. Sherlock's baritone warmed the back of his mind. "I've never seen anything like it before."
John found himself eying the windows lining the hall as they walked, pondering. It was still relatively early- 6 A.M., his watch confirmed -the full moon preparing to make room for its warmer counterpart as the sky remained an inky grey. Several visitors sat alongside the windows, some flipping through magazines, others with their heads in their hands. John understood the feeling.
So, whatever had happened to Sherlock, Greg had never seen anything like it. Odd. Then again, neither of them had really seen anything like Sherlock before. What could it be? Bullet wounds were out- Greg was a cop, obvious -as was anything drug-related. Not a car wreck- Sherlock detested riding when he could walk -not a mugging, either.
His mind was still ticking off possibilities as they halted outside a closed door. John glanced at the room number- 221. Oh that was cute. Very cute. Supremely fucking hilarious. He'd bet anything that the nurses were downright pissing themselves over how clever they were.
If Greg noticed John's fists clenching, he didn't say a word, knocking twice and looking at his shoes. There was a rustle of fabric, then Mycroft's voice. "Come in."
Greg entered first, stepping to the side in order to let John through. The former army doctor refused to allow his knees to buckle as he caught sight of Sherlock, lifeless.
But, wait a minute.
Was there even an injury to speak of?
John frowned as he took everything in- the pristine hospital gown and equally white sheets, the artfully rumpled hair, the unmarred skin- oh, wait, there it was. The bandage. Gauze poked out from the neck of his hospital gown, brushing Sherlock's collarbone. Shoulder injury, then. John's brow furrowed in confusion. A shoulder injury was enough to garner Mycroft's presence now?
"It was much worse when I found him." Greg cut through his musings. "He'd lost quite a bit of blood. Whatever attacked him had torn right through the muscle."
An animal attack? Furthermore, why was there no evidence of this now, as Sherlock slept, seemingly fine?
"He's been unconscious for the past hour, John. I'm certain the doctors intend to keep him that way. Would you care to sit down?" Mycroft's were sickly sweet, as if to distract him from his thoughts. John frowned.
"And was this your decision or theirs?" he asked, turning away from his flatmate. Mycroft offered a smile- that tight-lipped, insincere smile that indicated he'd struck a nerve.
"A combined effort. My brother was in an unbearable amount of pain, loathe as he was to admit it. I simply told the doctors to do what they felt was best."
No doubt by offering them a very handsome bribe. John thought bitterly. The curtains in here were drawn, he noted, depriving it from the light of day. Probably to shield the government official from surveillance. John's stomach turned at the thought of Mycroft intentionally keeping Sherlock asleep. What was the purpose?
He turned back to his best friend, motionless on the bed. It struck him as odd that, for such an extensive wound as Greg had described, Sherlock looked otherwise untouched. No bruising. Not a hint of disturbance elsewhere on his body to indicate an encounter with a vicious animal. To the outsider, the consulting detective might as well be receiving treatment for a particularly nasty flu.
Someone's phone trilled. John flinched.
"I beg your pardon," Mycroft said quickly, frowning at his screen. "Would you both mind stepping out? It's quite important, I can assure you."
It wasn't until Greg laid a hand on his shoulder that John tore his eyes from the younger Holmes.
"Come on." he said, rolling his eyes. "Myc's got business to take care of."
Mycroft shot his fiance a glare as he guided John from the room. Greg snorted, shaking his head and closing the door behind them. "Fucking queen." he murmured as they continued down the hall, passing the nurses station. John didn't comment, opting instead to look outside. It was lighter now. Clouds had already begun shrouding the London area in gloom. For once, John decided that this was fitting, as he and Lestrade stepped under the awning in front of the hospital. Greg rummaged around in his coat, finally coming up with a pack of cigarettes. With steady, callused fingers, he extracted one, lit it.
"What do you reckon is going on in there right now?" he asked, taking the first drag.
"What I wouldn't give to find out." John pursed his lips. He swiped a hand over his face, refusing when Greg extended his pack in offering. Smoke filled the air around them, wafting into his nostrils, his vision, his mind. The detective inspector nodded.
"There's something not right about this whole thing. I swear to you, when I brought him in, he was missing chunks of his shoulder. But now..." he trailed off, throwing his hands in the air. "Now it looks like he's been nipped by a fucking poodle."
John stared at him in disbelief. "What are you trying to say?"
"You know what I'm saying." Greg exhaled another plume of smoke. "The wounds are getting smaller."
"Bullshit." John shook his head, looking away. Greg flicked a few ashes onto the ground.
"That might not be the case, but that's what it looks like." he insisted. "I told you I'd never seen anything like it."
John scoffed. "You don't really believe that, do you?"
"Prick rose from the dead, didn't he?" Greg reasoned, finishing the cigarette and grounding it into the pavement with his boot. "At this point, anything is possible."
His phone buzzing interrupted John's reply. Greg shoved a hand into his pocket, eyed the message, typed a quick reply and turned toward the door.
"His majesty says we can come back now." He grumbled, opening the door and allowing John through. The pair walked back to 221 in comfortable silence, stopping just outside.
"John, what I told you-" Greg started, giving him a look.
"Is a load of shit and I won't repeat it." John finished, gesturing toward the door. "After you."
Greg smirked and turned the handle. As they entered, Mycroft stood, trademark umbrella nestled firmly in his grip.
"I'm afraid I must go. Forgive me." he sighed, offering his sibling one last glance as he moved to leave. "Gregory, would you-"
"I'll walk you down." Lestrade finished, winking at John. "Take good care of him while I'm out, yeah?"
"I'll be seeing you again soon, John." Mycroft said as Greg helped him into what was sure to be an expensive coat. John's jaw clenched in annoyance.
"Looking forward to it." he replied, noting the eyebrow raise he got in return. Greg snickered, opened the door, and then they were gone. Silence at last. He debated texting Lestrade a request for coffee.
The sound of rustling sheets made him turn, hand moving away from his phone, as Sherlock shifted in his sleep. John watched him for a moment. The consulting detective did not move again, long fingers still against the white bedding. Had his fingernails always been that long? John licked his lips, reaching for the nearest chair and dragging it closer to the bed.
Might as well be comfortable. He shrugged, settling into the vinyl and allowing his eyelids to fall closed.
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