A/N: Hullo, all! I can officially vouch for the fact that school sucks butt. Thankfully, summer will be here in about a week and I can remain inside and writing about everything that strikes my fancy. Ah, anti-social tendencies. I love ya. Anyhoo, I'm am back with something a little different; in other words, Sherlock Holmes! Holmes is probably one of my favorite fictional characters, and his relationship with Watson and with Mycroft always intrigues me. So, here we are. Not really sure where I'm going with this little drabble series, but the idea came out of nowhere and kept screaming at me, so I finally screamed back. And wrote it. And now I'll stop writing before you all hate me, because I'm sure by now I seem really annoying. Well, when don't I?
To say that life is unpredictable is a gross understatement.
To say that life is unfair is a bitter truth.
To say that I am frightened as I sit by Watson's- my Watson's -bedside, waiting desperately and quietly for his next shallow breath does not do the word justice.
He shudders involuntarily in his unconsciousness, and I don't hesitate in reaching out my hand, only to leave it lingering over his own with awkward uncertainty. After a moment, I let it drop limply onto the standard hospital sheets. I bite back a growl of frustration at my own inability to comfort this man; this man who, in the eight years of our acquaintanceship, has managed to become the closest thing I can call a friend and a habit just as routine and ordinary as my violin and my cherry-wood pipe-
No, I stop myself. John Watson is most definitely not ordinary. He is a man of extraordinary character in the way others find me extraordinary in my field of work. And a man who is that extraordinary will not be bested by a meager wound; he will pull through in the way the both of us always do, he will return to Baker Street with me, and in the glow of the firelight and through the smoke of our pipes he will smirk back at me with those bright, inquisitive eyes and joke about his new war-wound.
As I watch his face, so peaceful in retrospect that it is hard to imagine that he is just simply sleeping, my jaw clenches and my hand holds tighter onto the pale blue sheets. He will get better- that is a belief I must hold on to.
Like I said, no idea where I'm going, but I know Mycroft will come soon, and I'd always appreciate your reviews, thoughts, and ideas. Thanks for reading, luvs. 3