A/N: Firstly, this is my very first Sherlock fanfic, and it turned out somewhat angstier than I would have ever imagined. Secondly, this fic was inspired by "Doomsday" from the Doctor Who soundtrack, and I would strongly recommend listening to it whilst reading the fic (available on YouTube).
Now, onwards with the fic~!
One. Two. Three.
The heartbeat is faint. So very, very faint; so faint it almost breaks his own heart in two.
The stench of disease and disinfectant and death is overwhelming. This is not how it was meant to be.
He isn't supposed to be sitting here, staring helplessly at the pale, unmoving body of his friend, rigid underneath the stiff, starched covers of the hospital bed.
John isn't supposed to be there, cold and still, lying on the thin mattress, his face the colour of the maddeningly white, spotless walls.
John is supposed to be sat in his chair in front of the TV at 221B Baker Street, sipping tea and chuckling softly into his mug at whatever snide remark Sherlock makes about the programme.
John is supposed to be sat by his desk, tapping away at the keyboard, the screen of his laptop glowing lightly, and he's supposed to get annoyed with Sherlock when he snatches the damned thing away and flops onto the sofa with it.
But John is here – a tiny figure in the middle of this seemingly enormous bed, all colour drained from his face, the beeping of the electrocardiograph the only thing keeping Sherlock sane in the knowledge that John is still alive.
It's all wrong. It's all terribly, terribly wrong.
Sherlock lowers his head into his hands, and for the first time in years he cries, honest, hot tears rolling down his cheeks and dripping down from the tip of his nose, uncontrollable sobs escaping his chest and ripping him apart with every gasp and shudder. His shoulders are shaking now, and he shivers and chokes and his hands and lips are trembling and oh God, why, why does it have to be John, why John, why not him, why John, John doesn't deserve to die, not now, not in this way, please oh God please if you're out there if you exist please don't let him die please don't let him die not now not in this way oh please God why why John why John and not me oh please let him live I'll do anything just please let him live
He cries long and hard, up to the point where he can cry no more, and his shirt which Mrs Hudson thoughtfully brought the previous along with his other clothes is wet, and when he rubs his eyes with the sleeves they become soaked with tears, too. He's exhausted, but he doesn't want to, can't, leave John on his own, so he pulls his legs up onto the chair he's sitting in, and wraps his coat tighter around himself. His coat is the shield that can protect him from the outside world if his worst fears come true.
And if they do, he'll disappear.
There will be no more Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective. There will be no police knocking on his door, no frantic chases around the streets of London, no reports, no Lestrade and no Donovan, no Dimmock and no Anderson; no new, thrilling cases.
Because without John Watson, there is no Sherlock Holmes.
The heartbeat is there, reflecting off the tiled walls and off the surface of the gleaming water, amplified infinitely, flooding Sherlock's ears, throbbing and shaking his very foundations.
His hands are trembling, and he suddenly finds it very hard to keep the gun pointed at the semtex-laden jacket on the floor. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see John, staring at the small, grinning man before them. He turns his head towards Sherlock, his usually calm, blue eyes now wide open with terror. The crescendo of heartbeats is unbearably loud, and it seems as if John can hear it too, because there's a small flash in his eyes, and his entire face suddenly becomes very determined.
He nods, and Sherlock pulls the trigger.
It feels as if the entire world is collapsing around them when he's tackled into the pool by John, hitting his head hard on the tiles. And they fall, together, John's arms wrapped tightly around Sherlock's middle, pulling him further and further beneath the surface of the water, away from the flames and the noise and the flying debris, and away from Moriarty.
It's all silent and in slow motion now (how dull), and Sherlock opens his eyes. The chlorinated water stings, but it doesn't matter because he's alive, and John's alive, kicking his legs frantically in the water, grasping at Sherlock's arms and pulling him upwards and the heartbeat starts to grow stronger and stronger again. But Sherlock knows there's something wrong, that something's not right, because the water is turning an alarming shade of pink at a startlingly fast rate and John is surrounded by a cloud of red and the heartbeat is now pounding in his ears and through his veins and oh God please don't let him die please not him not John please no please not John oh God-
He wakes up with a violent jerk, cold sweat on his palms and his face, damp curls plastered to his forehead. He wipes his brow with the sleeve of his shirt, and glances at John's expressionless face. He sighs, and gets up to drag his chair closer to the bed, carefully and quietly, as though he might wake John up (don't be an idiot, of course he's sleeping but he is going to wake up please let him wake up). After a little hesitation he stretches his arm out and places his sweaty hand on top of John's cold one, curling his fingers around John's lightly.
At first there is silence, but then something inside Sherlock breaks, and the tears are now falling freely, and he just can't stop talking.
He tells John just how much he misses him and how frightened he is and how brave John is and how much he wishes John would just wake up and how much he misses John's smile and how he's been such an idiot for being horrid to John and how sorry he is and how much he loves him, yes, I love you John, and just how much he wants John to wake up and tell him that it's all going to be fine.
And then, he feels John's hand twitch ever so slightly under his own.
The beeping on the electrocardiograph monitor stops for the briefest of seconds, and Sherlock panics, eyes darting all over John's face, a huge lump in his throat and a tide of new tears ready to break through his barriers again.
John's eyes flutter open.