Because so many people couldn't take 'one-shot' for an answer.
His Last Breath
(Not a death-fic) If you haven't watched the His Last Vow deleted scene, go to YouTube but be right back here ASAP. And thanks for all the reviews on the last chapter!
Sherlock's eyes blinked open although he didn't seem to have control over his eyes, which wouldn't focus on anyone thing. Everything was a blur around him. Different colors? Flowers? He was at a hospital, not his Mind Palace. What had he been doing in there? Someone was standing over. His deep voice almost blended in with the the ocean-like sounds roaring in his ears. Everything looked diffused.
He'd been shot.
The man came close, he was balding, his sneer made uneasiness bubble in Sherlock's mind even through the thoughts slipped through his fingers like morphine.
It's not John.
And it wasn't John. The man plopped down at the chair next to him. He was whispering something to him. There was a clammy pressure on his arm. Sherlock tried to get his eyes to track the man, or even understand what he was saying. Those glasses, those eyes belonging to Charles Augustus Magnusson. He was talking about flowers but everything that wasn't hazily numb in sherlock's mind and body was on red alert. The man was danger. His eyelids dipped over his irises again. He felt something on his hand.
This man who had pissed in his fireplace was touching him now. He worked his eyes open again but they couldn't stop roving. He waited until they managed his direction. The heart monitor was being removed from his finger and his hand was cradled. Sherlock tried to pull away. His hand didn't even twitch. He was floating in and out of consciousness, trying to understand what the man was saying. Everything he said was important, could be evaluated, learned from…
He'd been shot. And Mary had done it.
"Look at them—a musician's hands." He had come closer, spoke louder. Sherlock felt his fingers being trailed by short, thick, clammy fingers. He couldn't remember how to pull away. Everything around him was still spinning. He couldn't react even if he tried.
CAM planted a sloppy, long kiss on his hand. Sherlock's breath came harder. His presence, awareness dimmed. He fought for control. He would not pass out with this man standing over him, violating his pride, not while he was the fireplace of the analogy.
Claire De La Lune.
There was so much cotton where his brain should be.
He tried to deduce. All he could think was that CAM wanted his hands. He didn't quite feel humor or indignation but he did feel shock—over what Mary had done. And discomfort over what CAM was doing. There was a good chance he'd remember this when he was lucid, and almost didn't want that—didn't want to remember this powerless moment.
CAM' beard was prickly, pressed up against his hand, which was perfectly limp, creating the illusion Sherlock was letting this happen. He wasn't. He wouldn't ever.
Where is John? Did Mary do something to him?
His breath picked up again, he felt there wasn't enough air, even with the nasal cannula delivering oxygen to him directly.
"Apologies for the dampness of my touch. You'll get used to it." He said. Sherlock inhaled sharply. There were implications there. He wasn't sure what he was saying but he still hadn't left. Sherlock wanted him to leave. He couldn't think when he was here—he couldn't think at all. His mind was cloaked in fog. Like the flat when he'd smoked too much during a case drought, before John had opened the windows and confiscated them…
There were flowers, were they outside? Why were there so many flowers?
Sherlock's heart raced as suddenly, CAM, still speaking, still holding his hand, still wet from those ugly, moist lips, he leaned forward so Sherlock could smell his horrible, sour breath.
He was talking about the police and Mary. He leaned in so close, his presence was all the consulting detective could focus on. His breath, his wet hands, the divots in his aging skin, the dead fish gleam to his eyes. The faster his heart beat in what he might call fear induced by his weak mental state, the deeper the breaths he was forced to draw. The more of CAM's scent he was forced to breath in. Their noses were almost touching.
Sherlock tried to move his head to the side, but CAM tilted it easily back to him. Finally, his eyes could focus, on the man's lips. What was he going to do? Sherlock didn't think he could take the man's foul breath breaching his lips. He felt a shudder of weakness take hold. He wanted him away. Sherlock's skin felt flush and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck finally respond, raising like his fear. The man's hand continued touching his while the other kept his face tilted towards his.
"What the hell is going on here?" A cross voice came from the hallway, coming in. Sherlock didn't have difficultly comprehending this voice—it was John. And John was alive. CAM stood up, releasing Sherlock's hand so it fell limply at his side and fell off the bed, and made his way out the door.
"Ta ta, Sherlock." He said as he disappeared.
John physically grabbed a nurse and pointed to the retreating figure. "That man isn't meant to be here. Get him out, now!" The nurse hurried to follow his instructions.
John walked back into the room, noticing the unfocused green eyes of his best friend. "Sherlock, you're awake," he hurried to his side, sitting in the seat CAM had just occupied. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry I didn't catch him sooner. How long was he in here?" John asked rhetorically. Judging by the amount of morphine he'd been pumped with during surgery and the fact that he'd died on the table, exhaustion and drugs would have rendered even the most stubborn people like Sherlock unable to speak. John noticed Sherlock's elevated heart rate. "Shit, that arsehole got to you didn't he?"
Sherlock could only swallow, while trying to maintain eye contact. What about Mary? What about CAM? He'd never felt so powerless.
John noticed Sherlock's arm had fallen off the bed and picked it up to move it back up but he froze, staring blankly at the wet spot on his thin, pale hand. John grimaced, trying to staunch the anger he felt bubbling up inside of him. "Did…Did he lick you?" It could easily explain Sherlock's apprehensive face and his high heart rate. "I can't believe he disturbed you, what twelve hours after surgery, to fucking screw with you." He growled out, wiping the spit off Sherlock's hand with the sheet before replacing his hand at his side. John took a few moments to put himself back together. "Bloody maggot."
"Do you need anything?" He grabbed his friend's hand again. "Squeeze my hand if you're thirsty." John waited patiently. Almost ten seconds later, he felt Sherlock's fingers tighten on his wrist. John leaned over to a bowl he had brought in and grabbed some ice chips. "Here you go, mate."
Sherlock worked his mouth open a slit and John gave Sherlock the ice chips slowly, one at a time.
"Does it hurt?" John asked, noticing the pallor of his skin had gotten worse over the last few minutes. He was worse than to be expected, even after such a complicated surgery. Two hours had passed and Sherlock had fallen in and out of fitful sleep. Refusing to stay unconscious. The kind of rest that didn't aid healing. Something was raging in Sherlock's head, something that, for now, John could not help him with.
Mary had stopped in to give John non-hospital coffee but had to rush out when her presence seemed to make Sherlock worse. His heart rate increased dramatically and he looked like he in pain, despite riding relatively high levels of morphine.
"Uhhnn," Sherlock managed, moving his hand a little when John tried to raise the morphine level.
"You don't want me to raise it?" John asked in surprise. It must have started wearing up by now. He must be feeling it. "Why not? I know you like deductions and a sharp mind but nothing is after us at this hospital. There are police officers posted at the door now. If something does happen, you can rely on me. I've learned from you, you know." John said, almost peevishly. He should know he couldn't take care of himself like this.
Sherlock let out a breath of air that almost sounded like a sour laugh to John. He formed the words on his lips, over and over again before he could spare enough air to put sound to them.
Just like playing a clarinet, John. Didn't you say you play? Just like playing, except there is nothing more real, more important than this single word.
John, you need to know.
"Mary."
Please review! Or suggest a prompt I could write in less than 3k.
