Remember...
It had all been a terrible mistake. One case, one minute slip up. One simple, disastrous consequence.
Sherlock groaned and his eyelids fluttered open as he struggled blearily into cold unwelcome consciousness. The last delicate threads of his dream dissipated into the far corners of his mind, the fine strands glistening with promise as they became engulfed by the all consuming brightness which flooded his vision.
The intrusive glare of the stark hospital lighting stung his eyes and he shut them again, hiding behind the blood red tint of his closed lids with cowardice, watching the curious coloured spots flicker and dance across the endless expanse of crimson. He didn't know at first what had happened, why he was lying in this hospital bed with these itchy sheets and the stale tinge of recirculated air, but slowly the fragments of memory returned to him, piecing themselves together neatly in an intricate and complex puzzle. Even when the jigsaw pieces had slotted confusingly together, the only sharp memory that remained from that night was a name, his name, the only name that had ever mattered. "John" He croaked, his throat raw and dry from disuse.
He opened his eyes fully now, blinking away the murky film of gunk which gummed his eyelashes together. Unexpected sensation was returning to his numbed limbs, his arms began to tingle as he woke, his fingers buzzing with heat. One hand was held in a tight grip by an unknown force, his left side was still numb. One leg regained feeling, the other was still mercilessly asleep. Pins and needles shot through his newly awakened body as he shifted against the pressure restraining his left side. Sherlock wriggled uncomfortably, feeling the pressure being lifted as the weight was removed from his body. He looked down, seeing for the first time the cause of his discomfort.
John Watson was fast asleep against his side, curled against him and snoring lightly, one hand held so tightly onto Sherlock's it was as though John feared he may die should he let go. Sherlock's lips quirked into a smile as his eyes travelled down his doctor's sleeping form, taking in his rumpled clothing, three days worn, his hair, not brushed, the bags under his eyes, not slept properly for a while, and his adorable little wrinkle he only got when he was really upset or thinking hard about something. Sherlock's smile grew wider as John snuffled a bit and opened his eyes to stare at him. "John" Sherlock murmured, reaching his other hand up to stroke the blonde hair tenderly. John flinched with shock, his eyes widening with surprise.
"Sherlock!" He cried, scrambling up and staring at him with excitement. "You're awake!"
"Excellent deduction John" Sherlock laughed as he was pulled down for an unexpected but welcome embrace.
"I missed you" John said gruffly against the detective's neck, breathing in his scent and the deep delicious baritone of his voice as he replied.
"I missed you too." Sherlock said as they parted and smiled broadly at each other.
John reached out and stroked Sherlock's jaw with his finger tentatively, and Sherlock watched him with interest. The doctor seemed to remember that they were in a hospital bed for a moment, flinching as Sherlock moved one leg to stretch it before shifting the other ever so slightly...
John made the equivalent of a verbal keyboard smash and his hands fluttered around Sherlock with worry "aahshernbrnggh...Sherlock!" he babbled incomprehensively, tugging the detective wandering eyes up to meet his nervously.
"John..." Sherlock mumbled with confusion. "I can't feel my leg... I can't feel my leg John."
John's heart gave a pang of pity and love for the other man as he frowned with concern. "Sherlock, Sherlock look at me, I need you to concentrate on me." John said hurriedly, "Something happened, something bad, but you need to stay calm. The doctor will be here soon, we need to talk about it together." He explained, taking the detective's hand again and caressing it feebly. The doctor could see his partner's eyes widen with fear and begin to flick desperately about the room trying to see past John at his body which the other man had shielded with his own.
"John? What's going on, what happened to me?" he asked worriedly, ducking past the doctor to see his leg.
"Please, please just stay still for a moment" John said, leaning forwards and pressing a gentle kiss to his partner's temple. Sherlock nodded, stiffening and then relaxing into John's embrace.
There was a sharp intrusive knock at the door, and a tall male doctor entered carrying a clipboard and wearing a white coat which directly matched his fine wispy hair. He couldn't have been more stereotypical if he tried. John smiled weakly and remained with his arm around Sherlock's waist. "Ah, Mr Holmes, Dr Watson, may I speak with you for a moment?" The other doctor said in an irritatingly calm voice. Sherlock nodded stiffly, his fingers curling protectively around John's waist.
"Mr Holmes, I understand you have had a traumatic time," the man continued. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, trying his best not to deduce anything about him so that he could focus purely on what he was saying.
"And I understand that your wife has just left you for a skiing instructor in France." He blurted without thinking, so much for his previous strategy. The old doctor tried to keep it together, plastering an obviously fake smile on his wrinkled face and looking at Sherlock quizzically.
"Yes, very well observed." He muttered "Mr Watson did say you would do that."
"Doctor" Sherlock cut in irritably.
"Pardon?"
"He is Doctor Watson, not Mister." Sherlock corrected, hearing John sigh from somewhere near his elbow. The old doctor gave another grimace and nodded his apologies.
The man took a seat and looked for some time at the couple wrapped around each other on the small single bed. "Now, what I have to tell you will be very shocking, and I want you to know that whatever emotions you may need to express to get past the initial surprise is perfectly normal and will remain confidential. Some of our patients have some rather extreme reactions and can become very distressed-"
"Just...tell me." Sherlock interrupted. John squeezed his middle comfortingly, his body still angled to prevent the detective from seeing the bottom half of his body.
The old doctor sighed resignedly. "You were hurt in a terrible incident, Mr Holmes." he began. "Dr Watson has informed me that you were chasing a criminal through a building site and the man you were chasing dislodged a section of scaffolding which consequently collapsed as you ran through it. A large section of the concrete structure above you fell down as a result, and I regret to inform you that a large slab of that concrete crushed your leg." The man continued, offering a pitying glance as he referred back to his notes.
"Sherlock, I'm so sorry, I should have been there." John whispered, pressing his forehead to his partner's. "You tripped, I wasn't there to catch you in time and it all came crashing down on top of you. You had concussion; you've been asleep for three days." John said as Sherlock gazed at him with concern and uncertainty.
"My...my leg?" he demanded.
"Sherlock, they couldn't save it, the concrete shattered your bone, there was...there was blood everywhere." His partner said, reaching up to caress his face.
Sherlock stared at him on horror. Then he pushed John away roughly and stared with a blank unreadable expression on his face at his left leg hidden beneath the bed sheet. He was aware of the other doctor and his friend talking to him with worry, but their voices were curiously muffled and seemed very far away. All the detective could do was sit there staring at his limb and remember to breathe. He couldn't recall anything to do with that case, that night. Sherlock reached a hand down and leant forwards to feel the numbness of his flesh and probe it with his fingertips experimentally before John's tanned hand came down on his own and prised it away from his leg. Sherlock looked up at him in a daze. His partner was still speaking, weird jumbled words which failed to reach his ears. Only one word got through, the word he desperately wished didn't apply to him, to his battered body. It was John who spoke to him for a long time, trying to coax an answer out of him.
"Sherlock, oh God, Sherlock love please say something!" John said with distress, holding his hand tightly again. John called him 'love', Sherlock reflected. That was nice.
But there was still that word, that word which was going to change his life, hovering in the air, taunting him with its presence...
Amputated.
Then the all consuming darkness closed around him, welcoming him into its grim embrace as Sherlock's brain detached itself from reality. The last thing he saw was John staring at him with fear and sickening dread, the love and adoration reflected in his worried eyes. By the time the detective's head hit the pillow he was already unconscious, the word spinning listlessly in the continuous circle of his thoughts.
I'm really sorry if I offended anyone here. I admit to not knowing the correct procedure following amputation, but I intend to write this to the best of my ability, and if anyone has any corrections or helpful knowledge I'd love to hear it. Thanks for reading. ~K