Thirty-five.
Thirty-five hours.
Thirty-five long, painful hours since John's heart had stopped beating. Sherlock sighed, his face in his hands, rubbing circles into the sides of his forehead.
He had lost track- of the hours passing, that is-, retracting deep into his mind to think and only 'resurfacing' every once in a while to check up on things. But this thirty-five mark was suddenly unbearable.
Of course, it had been approximately thirty-four hours and forty-five minutes since the doctors had made it start again, but that didn't ease the detective's inner turmoil. It had also been thirty-five hours since John had been responsive to external stimuli. Sherlock's external stimuli, specifically- their conversation in the alleyway had been the last time John was awake. Thirty-five hours in a comatose state.
Thank god John wasn't quite thirty-five years old, or this would have been the most disgusting piece of irony the detective had ever observed in his life. He checked the clock again. Make that thirty-five hours and ten minutes.
The door to the hospital room creaked open, making the tall man raise his head. It was Mycroft. Sherlock almost didn't want to bother with scanning over him, but habit made him do so.
Dark, three-piece suit, he only wears those on international affair days; no new tan, it's early autumn, so he must have stayed up north. Red tie, what countries have flags with dark colors and red with cloudy weather? Oh, and chocolate, he's got a stain on the corner of his lip. Belgium then. Shoes are wet, dirty but not muddy- he must have left someplace quickly and walked to his car, it's raining out. If they're still wet, it means he came in a hurry, not bothering to wipe them off at the entrance. So he's worried then. Phone had been disturbed in his pocket, the usual lines folded around it weren't snug around its case. He's called someone then. Judging by the high-ranking doctor who let him in, he was probably making calls to the hospital. Unusual darkness around the eyes, he's tired; one corner of his mouth stretched, eyebrows drawn together, so he's also stressed. He's been awake as long as I have; he's also been in Belgium, recently, too recently for him to have changed clothes. Translation: he was in a meeting in Belgium when he heard (and he heard rather late, seeing as it's been thirty-five hours), called the hospital, set up John's upgraded room arrangements, quickly booked his flight here, where it's raining, and is now checking in on him. Or me.
"How was Belgium?" he mumbled without moving his position as Mycroft started to open his mouth. The elder Holmes paused, backtracking, before he replied.
"Fine, brother." He glanced at John's hospital bed, a look of worry darkening his face again.
The use of familiar diction, looking at John. So he's worried about both of us, then.
"Sherlock, John would want you to eat," he pressed gently, and Sherlock suddenly yanked himself to his feet, storming over to his brother. His eyes glinted dangerously, and when he spoke, his voice rumbled in his throat.
"Don't," he snarled, "use him to get something out of me."
The two men stared each other down; the room was silent, spare the steady hums and beeps of the machines by the doctor's hospital bed. Slicing blue eyes met glittering grey ones, battling out an unspoken argument. Mycroft was the first to look away; at that, Sherlock whirled around, starting to pace back and forth.
"I don't trust any of these doctors on him. I want someone I trust." As irrational and impossible as it was, the only doctor Sherlock trusted to fix John was, well, John.
"I have the best doctors in the country watching him," Mycroft retorted stiffly, as if offended by the mere thought of ordering second-rate practitioners to work on John Watson.
"I don't trust them," Sherlock hissed, turning around to glare at his brother. "They aren't good enough; they might not do something properly. I want someone I trust," he repeated, "to work on him."
"Well." Mycroft narrowed his eyes. "Be glad that person isn't Miss Hooper."
Sherlock visibly flinched. That was too far.
"Now." Mycroft abruptly steered the subject away from his harsh retort. "I suggest you go back to aiding the police in this case before you drive the doctors all mad."
"No." Sherlock slumped into the chair by John's bedside, back to rubbing circles on his forehead.
"No?"
"No. What if he wakes up? What if he- if he-"
"You will be alerted if so much as a single hair moves on his head. I'll see to it."
Sherlock sighed loudly, glancing up at the elder Holmes, who raised an eyebrow.
"There's a cab waiting outside to take you to the station. I'd hate for you to keep him waiting."
The detective narrowed his eyes at his brother before jumping to his feet again. He walked over to the door, fixing his scarf, before turning to glance forlornly and the motionless doctor. Well, not totally motionless- the shallow rise and fall of his chest proved he was breathing. Which was better than-
Well. Sherlock took one last glance around the room before stepping out. It was better than thirty-five hours and fifteen minutes ago.
Once he stepped through the station doors, Sherlock was greeted with a grave-looking Inspector Lestrade.
"How's he doing?" he asked, straightening with a look of worry on his face. Sherlock subconsciously scanned over him before replying.
New clothes since yesterday- they're brighter, but not cleanly pressed- he must have put them on quickly. Too-focused eyes, so he didn't sleep well and is currently relying on tea for energy. Ink stain on his fingertips, so he's been writing; muddy shoes, so he's recently been out; therefore he's been interviewing witnesses of the break-in. Wringing his hands, he's impatient, creased forehead, he's worried. Probably awaiting information on the case while simultaneously worried about John. Taking a quick look around, Sherlock found the same careful, worried look on every face. They were all worried about the doctor.
"He's, ah, stable. Unresponsive as of late," he admitted, "but stable."
A collective sigh was emitted from everyone in the room- even Anderson and Donovan looked a bit less strained.
"Well. That's, uhm, good. Better." Lestrade cleared his throat before moving on.
"We've just got the security cameras from the streets, and we're uploading them now. They'll be on the screen in a moment. Meanwhile, we've got people interviewing witnesses of the break-in, doing damage control, finding out everything we can; number of victims, suspects, number of suspects, anything. Th-"
"Inspector, the cameras are up." A woman walked into the room, holding a USB drive in her hand.
"Perfect. Everyone else, keep working, finding information. Donovan, Sherlock, Eastlake, with me."
Anderson gritted his teeth, staring after the four as they walked towards an investigation room near Lestrade's office. Sherlock said nothing.
Lestrade shut the door behind them, plugging in the flash drive to the main computer while Darcy Eastlake, the woman with the files, sat at the desk. Several screens on the wall flickered to life, showing motionless security camera videos. For once, Donovan didn't make a snide remark as she and Sherlock hovered next to the detective inspector, eyes on the screens.
"Alright, Sherlock, what time did the chase start?"
"About two thirty-five, on the corner of Caversham and Hammond." Darcy pressed some buttons, and suddenly Sherlock and John were on-screen on one of the many TVs in the room. Muted noises came from the speakers, which Lestrade turned up a bit.
"Is sound really going to help?" Donovan muttered. Lestrade shrugged.
"Maybe. I don't know, but I'm not about to miss anything." He turned it up even more before Darcy pressed play.
The video kept going, with video-Sherlock-and-John standing outside a nearby flat. Suddenly, there was a loud crash as a person in a long, black coat burst through a window. The doctor and detective burst into action, sprinting after the suspect. As soon as they disappeared from the first screen, they appeared on another, rushing down the sidewalk of Caversham. Video-Sherlock soon took the lead between him and his partner; even though John was ex-army, the detective's long legs and stride gave him much-needed speed.
As they appeared on the third screen, Sherlock jumped. "Wait- stop it! Stop it, right there, and zoom in on his face."
Darcy froze the video, and soon an image of the culprit's face appeared on a larger screen; even though it was a bit fuzzy, it was the unmistakable face of Jim Moriarty.
"That's him," Sherlock growled. Lestrade nodded, a grim look on his face.
"And the person you were chasing hadn't changed as of then?"
"No. He'd been in my sight the whole time so far."
"Good. So, confirmed, it's Moriarty. Now, keep going."
Donovan turned to Lestrade. "But- we know who it is! He was there!"
Lestrade turned on Donovan while Sherlock stiffened behind him, both men suddenly fuming. "And yet, Sally," he spat venomously, "he also managed to shoot Doctor Watson a kilometer away during the chase. Doesn't that strike you as a bit odd?"
She fell silent. Lestrade took a deep breath before turning back to the screens. "Keep going, Eastlake."
The videos resumed again, with the chase continuing across several screens, through alleys and across streets. Each time they zoomed in, the face of the man in question was, without a doubt, Moriarty.
Sherlock's eyes never left the screen; they probably hadn't blinked since the tapes had started. He took in every detail, confirming he remembered everything with slight nods of affirmation every so often.
Sherlock and John dashed across the street after the man, who took another turn and darted out of an alleyway into an oncoming street. From the camera's vantage point, it could make out Moriarty's face as he froze, trying to decide which way to take.
A shout from Sherlock was heard, and Moriarty scampered to his right. John and Sherlock came on-screen, bursting out of the alleyway; suddenly, the video skipped, and several black smudges appeared; seconds later, Sherlock was dashing off-screen in the direction of the culprit, with John behind him, but they were several meters ahead of where they were.
"Oh, this stupid-! Come on!" Lestrade pounded a fist on the table. "Darcy, is there any way to fix that?"
"Not really, sir," she admitted. "I can't do much for poor video quality."
Lestrade muttered a curse under his breath. Donovan crossed her arms, leaning back on her heels. They continued to watch the video; it continued as 'normally', without any further interruptions, until Anderson burst into the room. Sherlock turned as Darcy paused the video.
Coat rumpled, ink on his hands- so he has been working. What a surprise. Shoes are dry, he hasn't been outside, though his walkie-talkie has been messily put back; he's gotten a call. Eyes bright- did they...?
"Sir," he panted, practically bouncing on his toes. "It's him. Moriarty. They found him, they're chasing down his car, he's-"
Lestrade was already dashing towards the door, adjusting his coat collar. Donovan rushed after him, followed by Sherlock. The consulting detective checked his phone as the walked out onto the street; seconds later, a message blinked on the screen. Mycroft.
No change. Stable heart rate, still unconscious. -MH
Sherlock sighed and ducked into a police cab with Lestrade and Donovan, who gave him a glance.
"What, catching this criminal isn't exciting enough for you?"
"Do you call riding around London in a police car an exciting experience?" he snapped, giving her a cold glare.
"Inspector Lestrade, this is Police Cab Thirty-five, I have Moriarty on target, we're in pursuit."
"Detective Inspector, this is Police Cab Twenty-eight, I'm trailing thirty-five and the criminal."
"Cabs thirty-five, twenty-eight, keep trailing him. Don't lose him. Turn on your tracker, we'll catch up."
The cab peeled away from the curb, sirens blaring. Sherlock checked his phone before stuffing it into his pocket. Thirty-six hours.
Thirty-six.
Author's Note:
First of all, thank you so much to anyone who reviewed, I mean asdfghjkl it's great to have feedback on something I've written hahah.
This story has officially assumed the time period after Hounds, but it's in a sort-of AU (I guess?) where Reichenbach doesn't and won't happen. And, for the sake of my story, John is 34 and Sherlock is about 32. I don't know exactly how old BBC's Sherlock is making them, so I'll make it up myself.
And another thing; as much as I love Sherlock, and love hearing how he thinks and dissecting his deductions, I find it a bit difficult to wrap my brain around properly writing his point of view. It's hard to make genius seem realistically written, where it allows insight to his mind while also staying in his so-called cold and emotionless character all the while staying on track of the story. Any long paragraphs/studies of people in italics are his little internal split-second deductions; I wanted to show his train of thought, but it's hard to do so and make you realize 'by the way, this never-ending paragraph happens internally in less than a half-second.' So there's that, and my grasp of his character and his mindset will hopefully improve as the story goes on.
Also apologizing in advance for any incorrect or nonsensical British terminology, since I'm bound to slip up sometime. Actually, I apologize for any incorrect terminology of any kind; if you see something that doesn't quite make sense, please let me know so I can fix it (I hate when I'm confused while reading something, especially my own work)!
That's pretty much it for now; I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and again, reviewing/criticism is greatly appreciated :)