The car was slowing. A single streetlight illuminated a sign in the growing twilight- Baker Street. John smiled sadly as they passed the weatherworn sign. This would be the first time since the fiasco with Mary that he would be back at his old flat.
It would be the first time in over two years that he would stay in 221B.
It had been an easy decision, in all reality. Quite honestly, it didn't seem like a decision at all. In the early hours of the morning at the hospital, his chair pressed against Sherlock's bed, John knew. Looking at his friend's beaten body, watching him as he gently breathed, the heart monitor steady beeping for the first time in hours… He knew that Sherlock needed him.
John knew he wouldn't disappoint him. Not again.
Besides, the tension between him and Mary right now didn't make his flat with her seem very welcoming. John hadn't been back, hadn't even left the hospital since Sherlock was admitted for the second time. He had loyally followed his friend from the Emergency room to ICU, and then finally to the low-risk hospital wards. Sometimes John would wander the halls to stretch his legs, or nip down to the vending machine on the third corridor.
But he was never far. Never farther than a five-minute dash to his friend's side.
John's only contact with Mary had been over the phone. She had offered to pack some of his belongings and bring them to the hospital for him, but John had refused. Somehow, the idea of Mary in the hospital with him… maybe in the same room as Sherlock… repelled him.
Mary standing over Sherlock, drugged and helpless and so vulnerable. Mary's dead eyes as she watched John stumble blindly after the paramedics, crying Sherlock's name.
A lump formed in John's throat. The murderer and the victim, bound together because of his choices.It made his head throb painfully just thinking about it. John ran his hand through Sherlock's hair, the curls lacing through his fingers. He smoothed a stray curl away from Sherlock's face with his thumb, the constant stroking calming his nerves.
The car slowed to a stop in front of the antique dark blue door. The brass knocker, John noticed with some amusement, was still tilted.
"I do hope Dr. Watson," Mycroft started lazily, turning in his seat to peer at John imperviously. "That you see to it my young brother does recover fully."
"Yeah, of course." John answered.
"I know you have- ah, plenty of experience with these matters. Bullet wounds, I mean." Mycroft said lightly. He glanced down at Sherlock, still passed out and partially curled in John's lap. Something in Mycroft's eyes flickered uncertainly as he gazed down at his brother. Mycroft sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"I so dislike moments like these." Mycroft said with a frown. "Just look at him. Peaceful. Quiet. Almost looks innocent, if that could be fathomable! Simply ghastly." John raised an eyebrow, completely puzzled by Mycroft's apparent attempt at sentiment. "You'll doctor him up though." Mycroft said passively, his fingers knitting together. "That is what you do, I suppose. You have my sincerest wishes for his speedy recovery." Mycroft said pensively. John blinked rapidly, utterly baffled.
"I- thought you said caring wasn't an advantage." John said, smoothing Sherlock's hair as he spoke.
"Of course it isn't." Mycroft answered harshly. "And this should be direct proof of it." Mycroft glanced at his brother's limp body once again, his complexion paling at the sight of the IV tubes connecting to Sherlock's arms. Mycroft's eyes had grown dark in thought.
"Goodbye, Dr. Watson." Mycroft snapped suddenly, a false pleasantness entering his voice like it had so on countless occasions. "Do keep me informed of my brother's status." The chauffeur of Mycroft's car walked around and opened John's door pointedly.
"Right then." John said with a nod, still puzzling over Sherlock's peculiar older brother. Carefully, John took a hold of Sherlock's shoulder and gave it a small squeeze.
"Sherlock. Sherlock, come on-" Sherlock groaned and buried his face in John's leg. After a long moment, Sherlock turned and looked around dazedly.
"Wha-"
"Mycroft's car." John offered as way of explanation. "Come on, we're home now." It was only after he had spoken them that John realized he had just called 221B home. He briefly thought about correctly himself, but decided against it. It would only draw attention to his slip up.
Besides, John reflected. It was his home. But like many other things of late, he had been simply too blind to see it.
"Wuza-" Sherlock moaned, wincing at the dying sunlight hit his eyes. He struggled to sit up, the bandages around his torso impeding his movement.
"You fell asleep." John added lamely, watching his disoriented friend sympathetically. Sherlock's gaze landed on Mycroft, and he frowned.
"No," Sherlock said moodily, his frown deepening. "I was most certainly not asleep. Your observational skills are worse than I feared. I was in my mind palace, trying to escape the imbelic lull of your moronic conversation. You were, simply put, boring." John almost laughed out loud at Sherlock's weak excuse, but wisely decided keep silent and not add to Sherlock's bruised pride. Mycroft, on the other hand, let out a huff of disbelief. Sherlock sent a deadly glare his way before moving suddenly. Grabbing his IV machine and opening his car door, Sherlock slid out. John moved to follow Sherlock.
"I don't need help!" Sherlock spat, turning around and regarding John coldly. There was an underlying note of desperation in Sherlock's tone. John surrendered and sank back into his seat, knowing that helping Sherlock would only add to his melancholy.
John frowned as Sherlock unfolded in a tangle of gangly limbs, clumsily setting the IV machine down on the ground. Straightening with a grimace, Sherlock started slowly down the sidewalk with the IV machine rolling next to him, the bag of vitals swinging on the metal pole. Sherlock walked to 221B's door with as much dignity as he could muster.
At least, enough dignity anyone can have when barefoot and only dressed in a thin hospital gown.
Mycroft chuckled as the door swung shut behind Sherlock.
"His stubbornness will be the end of him." Mycroft said, almost fondly, before turning serious again. "Keep a close eye on him."
"Right. Thanks for the ride, by the way." John said, climbing out of the car. "I'm sure Sherlock appreciates it too."
"And I'm sure he doesn't." Mycroft countered smoothly. "One more thing, Dr. Watson. Make sure that wife of yours doesn't harm Sherlock again, or I will be most displeased." John's fists clenched at his words, heat flushing into his face. Mycroft didn't even bother to look out of the window at him. The chauffeur started the car again, and it slowly started to glide back into the street.
"Have a good day." Mycroft called back lazily, his unspoken threat hanging in the air like a storm cloud. Soon the car was out sight.
John let out the breath he hadn't known he had been holding.
"Git," John breathed angrily, but couldn't shake the overwhelming sense of guilt that had suddenly overcome him. It was his fault Sherlock had been shot.
Because of his bloody choices.
John was beginning to loathe that word. Dear God, it wasn't like he had chosen for Sherlock to be shot. The idea made him sick. And yet, he had chosen her, chosen Mary- the events later had spiraled out of his control. His choice set into motion so much more than he could have ever anticipated.
That didn't get rid of the guilt though.
John stepped up to the door, the brass 221B greeting him warmly. The dark blue hues he unconsciously associated with home relaxed him. John opened the door.
The sight that met his eyes made his heart freeze.
Just a few feet away, Sherlock was clinging pitifully to the wall in a weak attempt to remain upright. His breathless gasps, the cold sweat on his face- Before John could understand what he was doing, he was at Sherlock's side, grasping the young detective's arm as the young man's knees threatened to give way.
"Sherlock, what's wrong?" John asked soothingly, his doctor mode overcoming his mounting panic. Taking Sherlock's hand from where it had been cradling his middle, John took his pulse.
"Shhh…" Sherlock muttered, his eyes squeezed shut in apparent pain. "Shut up. Is Mycroft gone?"
"Yes."
"Good. I'll be fine."
"You are not fine." John answered calmly, putting a hand to Sherlock's forehead. Sherlock shivered at his touch, but didn't withdraw. His fever hadn't returned, that was good.
"Tell me what's wrong." John demanded.
"Mycroft." Sherlock spat. "Why does he always have to be there when my transport fails me? He enjoys it. Definitely enjoys it."
"Stop avoiding the question," John ordered, making Sherlock look him in the eyes. "Or so help me I will call an ambulance and rush you right back up to the hospital."
"You wouldn't."
"You know I would."
Sherlock stared up at John for a moment, before giving up and rushing into speech.
"I didn't take any of the morphine at the hospital. It compromises my brain's overall performance rate and-"
"Damn!" John swore venomously, slamming his fist into the floor. Sherlock's rant died in his throat, both surprised and intimidated by the army doctor's outburst. "Are you saying," John whispered tightly, trying in vain to hold back his rage. "That after being shot, puncturing a lung, internal bleeding, flatlining for God's sake-" John's voice cracked slightly. Sherlock blinked rapidly, his eyes wide.
"John, I-"
"I'm not finished!" John bellowed, not caring who heard. "After all you went through- all you put me through, for God's sake- are you seriously telling me that you- you didn't take any painkillers?!"
"But my mental harddrive's reaction to foreign chemicals deteriorates the-" Sherlock spouted desperately, John would have none of it.
"You." John intoned dangerously. "I don't give a damn about how fast your mind palace functions. You. Are. Hurt." John inhaled, trying to calm his racing heart. Sherlock continued to stare at him anxiously.
He looked… lost. Completely lost. The great Sherlock Holmes was speechless. John willed himself to control his anger.
"I'm not… mad, at you." John said awkwardly. "Okay, well yeah I am." John amended. "But not as mad as… worried. Just for once, Sherlock, for me- could you take care of yourself?!"
"I did not anticipate your reaction." Sherlock breathed, furrowing his brow. "I never expected… you have my apologies."
"Come on, you cock." John said, his voice softening. Sherlock smiled at him sheepishly, his eyes looking suspiciously wet.
"John?"
"Yes?"
"I'll take some morphine now." Sherlock stated weakly.
"Right." John said, back to his professional self. "I'm going to pick you up-"
"What?"
"Sit up straight."
"You're trying to be humorous." Sherlock said suspiciously.
"Dead serious." John replied, standing back up.
"I can walk." Sherlock sniffed.
"Yes. Like how you walked up to the door and immediately collapsed as soon as you were out of view of Mycroft. Do you realize how utterly childish that is? Now shut up." With careful movements, John bent down and hooked his arm underneath Sherlock's knees. Gingerly he put his hand on Sherlock's back.
"Try to keep your back straight."
"This is ridiculous. I am perfectly-"
"You're perspiring, unconsciously gritting your teeth, and your eyes aren't focusing properly. Your arms are still wrapped protectively around your torso, meaning that's where the majority of the pain is. Steady breathing, lungs aren't bothering you. Wound is, probably stitches. Aching, no sharp pain. Conclusion, you need painkillers and sleep."
Sherlock blinked. Then blinked again.
"You do realize you just sounded exactly like me just now, right?"
"Shut it." John said, his face flushing. "Now, inhale deeply on three. One, two-"
"Do you have any idea how embarrassing-?!" Sherlock yelped as John straightened, cradling him in his arms.
"Are you alright?" John asked.
"No, I am most certainly not." Sherlock slurred. "My transport is failing. Epinephrine rush, nausea, massive drop in blood pressure, compromised vision…" Sherlock gritted his teeth together as a wave of pain toppled him.
"Movement triggering tremendous discomfort…" Sherlock blinked dumbly into space.
"Black dots though…" Sherlock mumbled, his voice growing softer.
"Head feels sorta funny…"
"Close your eyes." John said worriedly, already climbing up the stairs. "The dizziness should go away." Sherlock's eyes fluttered close restlessly as John continued to ascend the stairs to their flat.
"Hurts…" Sherlock groaned miserably. Sherlock inhaled deeply, his eyes squeezing shut. "Moving hurts…" Sherlock let his head fall against John limply.
"I know, sorry. Almost there." John hummed soothingly, making his way to the landing. "Can you turn the doorknob for me?" Sherlock reached a shaking hand out and opened the door. John rushed into the room, lowering Sherlock to the sofa. Sherlock rolled out his arms, not even bothering to try moving. John grabbed the Union Jack pillow from his armchair and hurriedly propped it underneath Sherlock's head.
"What's your palpitation average count per minute?" John called over his shoulder as he rushed into Sherlock's bedroom.
"Soft…" Sherlock mumbled, wincing as sharp pain coursed throughout his body. John emerged, an orange shock blanket in hand. The detective was staring listlessly ahead, his cognitive awareness slowly falling apart.
"What was that?" John asked anxiously, unfolding the beloved blanket. Sherlock's head lolled to the side so he could watch John.
"Your jumper," He whimpered, his spine arching as the pain increased. "'s soft…" Sherlock panted.
"This is soft too." John said kindly, spreading the warm orange fleece over Sherlock. Sherlock welcomed it, his fingers weakly grasping the edges. A low moan escaped his lips.
"It's worse… it's ripping m-me…" Sherlock whimpered, writhing in pain.
"It's alright." John urged, his voice strained. Getting to his knees he groped blindly underneath the sofa. John pulled his emergency medical bag out- as a doctor that had survived war, he knew to keep a first aid at all times. Unzipping the bag with a practice hand, he removed the syringes without even bothering to look.
"Acyclovir and Morphine, here it is." John looked up at the IV machine for a brief moment before shaking his head roughly.
"Damn, putting the drugs in your IV will take too long to enter your system. Direct injection into bloodstream then."
Sherlock's lips were pressed into a thin line, trying with all his strength to hide his weakness at bay. A single tear ran out of the corner of his eye, making its way for his gaunt face.
"Don't worry," John mumbled, grabbing hold of Sherlock's arm. He turned it gently over to expose his forearm. "I've got you." John whispered, sticking the needle into Sherlock's vein. Sherlock kept his eyes transfixed on John, his refusing to look at the syringe as John slowly pushed the drugs into Sherlock's bloodstream.
"There." John heaved, removing the needle. He hastily wiped the pinprick of blood off on Sherlock's arm. "That's a painkiller and a sedative. Try to calm down and even your breathing. The more adrenaline in your system, the longer it takes for the drugs to work."
John ran a hand over his face, his own panic leaving him breathless and shaking. The sight of his friend- maybe his only true friend- in pain hurt John more than he thought was possible.
It had been so long since John had been an emergency doctor. His work in the clinic, caring for children with colds or adults with mild infections, had been tame. There was something about watching a person in agony; depending on him to save them. But this had been Sherlock, his best friend.
Sherlock, hurt because of John's stupid choices.
Sherlock, shot by John's wife.
Sherlock, the only person in all the world John truly trusted, despite the hardships they had endured.
But to have Sherlock suddenly dependent on him was beyond terrifying. To be Sherlock's only hope, Sherlock needing him now to deliver him from hurt- the thought made John sick. In years he hadn't seen anything so distressful, not since the war.
Steely coldness was gripping him, constricting his throat-
Screams rang out in the night air, debris flying through the air, the dust making it impossible to breath, to see. Blood stained his hands, thick and warm. The flesh under his hands no longer pulsed-
John grunted in frustration, agonizingly trying to pull himself back to reality. His head swam with visions of the war-
the blood was still on his hands, dripping down his throat and choking him-
No, he was in the flat, dimly aware that Sherlock was in front of him-
The whole regiment was dead. He had been too late, only in time to watch them breathe their last breaths, to have them die in his arms-
He was in 221B, he was safe, he was home-
more than twenty men dead in one explosion. They had been ambushed; they were new recruits not even ready for the front lines, barely ready to go on the solo mission. So many fatalities, so many dead bodies-
"J-John…"
John blinked, and with a sudden wave of vertigo, he was back. The visions had been wrenched away, and he could see prisms of cobalt, clear and radiant in an icy hue-
Sherlock was staring at him, his eyes bloodshot and face stained with tears. John stumbled to his side, falling to his knees in front of Sherlock. Sherlock stared at him wordlessly, exhaustion evident in his eyes.
"PTSD episode?" He croaked pitifully.
"Yeah." John answered, ashamed. "You were in pain, and I guess it triggered-"
Sherlock's hand squeezed John's shoulder in an attempt to lend comfort. John swallowed, abating the sudden tide of emotions. It had been the first time he had ever been able to escape a PTSD episode. Years of trauma therapy, of nightly grisly visions had done nothing. He had been haunted by the shadows of the past. Constantly cutting himself on the sharp edges of his shattered soul.
Sherlock was loosing consciousness. His breathing had evened. John checked his pulse. Roughly eighty beats a minute, normal. Sherlock's hand was still on his shoulder, though his grip had slackened. Muscles relaxing, another good sign.
"Try to get some sleep." John advised. "I'll be here if you need anything. Relax."
"Uuumm…" Sherlock sighed, his face loosing its tension. His eyes were closing. " You petted me before." Sherlock slurred, the drugs taking affect. "In the car."
"Let the sedative do its work, Sherlock." John urged, but this only served for Sherlock to fight it more. He forced his eyes open, his eyes glazed over and unfocused.
"You did. Redbeard would nuzzle me- his fur was so soft…jumper soft... Mycroft said that he thought I was his puppy…" Sherlock laughed weakly, his eyes fluttering closed. "Felt… good. You did it to me in the car. Petting."
"I didn't realize you were conscious."
"Wazzint…" Sherlock mumbled. John smiled sadly, his hand going to Sherlock's hairline, his fingers running through his damp curls. Sherlock's mouth twitched upward in a smile.
"Thaz better…" He murmured blissfully. "Redbeard... missed you...why'd you leave me...? I was so alone..." Sherlock's hand squeezed John's shoulder.
"I missed you, Redbeard..."
"Who's Redbeard?" John whispered as he stroked, his eyes studying Sherlock's face inquiringly.
But Sherlock had already fallen asleep.
What did you think about this chapter? I need to know what you guys think in order to continue!
A huge thanks to Crufis, who liked the image John smoothing Sherlock's hair. I decided to expand on that element because of that review. Are there any elements of the story you would like me to explore? Let me know!
