Hello again! Second chapter – this one's a bit longer…
DISCLAIMER: I still don't own either of them, or there would be far more cuddling involved in their friendship. Lots and lots more.
Warnings: More swearing – sorry! And also possibly incorrect medical details, but I bluffed through as best I could! Enjoy!
John
I stir slightly and wake from an unrefreshing sleep.
He looks terribly vulnerable, lying there on the bed, his skin still pale and clammy. They have taken his clothes and put him in a hospital gown that hangs off him like some kind of ridiculous cape – he looks like a living skeleton.
Living. That's the important thing.
My emotions flick from terror, to anger, to sorrow.
What would I have done if I had lost him?
How could I have go on?
How could he do this to me?
How could he be such a selfish bastard?
Doesn't he know how many people this act affects?
Why did he do it?
Does he really feel so worthless?
Does he feel his life is so pointless?
Why the hell didn't I notice something sooner?
Why wasn't I there to stop him?
I can't answer any of these questions. I can only watch the covers of his bed rise and fall as he breathes, and be thankful with every atom of my being that I forgot to take my suitcase to my new flat last night.
The paramedics finally arrived, and strapped him on to a trolley, and then it was a mad, horrifying dash to the hospital while the paramedics poured IV fluids into him to keep him alive. At one point, he opened his eyes, and just lay there, staring straight ahead, as we tried to save his life, ignoring us completely. That was the most chilling part of the whole terrible experience. It was as if he were willing us to leave him alone, to leave him to die. The thought makes my chest feel tight.
We sprinted into the Accident and Emergency Department just as he went into VT, and then cardiac arrest. And then there was a mess of shouting doctors and defibrillators and blood transfusions, and one of the nurses took me out of the room he was in because I was shaking and covered in blood and getting in the doctors' way.
The whole thing was like a horrible nightmare I never wanted to relive.
I sat in the ED waiting room in only my vest, having washed my bloodied hands so thoroughly that the skin was threatening to come off.
And then Mycroft arrived, complete with perfect suit and umbrella. Somehow I wasn't surprised that he was keeping surveillance on his brother, and an ambulance arriving at 221B would hardly have escaped his notice.
"I take it he's tried to kill himself?"
I managed to nod.
He shook his head disapprovingly. "Mummy would be so upset."
"Would be?" I inquired, wanting to concentrate on something other than the horrifying image that just wouldn't leave me – Sherlock, lying in the morgue, face paper white…
"Oh, yes, she killed herself when Sherlock was a boy."
I swallowed uncomfortably, realising anew just how little I knew about Sherlock Holmes.
There was the electronic ping of a mobile phone, and Mycroft frowned in irritation. "I am very sorry, Dr. Watson, but I need to be going. An important Czechoslovakian diplomat is flying in and I can't really miss the meeting… Here, take this…"
He thrust a clean shirt into my hand – evidently his men had informed him of my state of undress.
"Erm… Thanks…"
He gave me a critical glare. "You should go back to Baker Street, Dr. Watson. There's not much you can do here."
Then I had punched him in his nose.
He took it unexpectedly well, dabbing away the blood with a clean white handkerchief. "Don't worry, I understand you are in a state of emotional distress. Please contact me if there are any further developments."
And then he left.
So then I sat for what seemed like hours on a cold, hard, plastic chair, earning myself strange looks from other patients and nurses alike, shaking and on the verge of tears.
Some time later, a doctor came to talk to me.
"We believe that Mr. Holmes is out of immediate danger," he said, and those words were enough to cause my legs to nearly collapse. "We successfully restarted his heart. He has lost a great deal of blood, but we have given him several transfusions, and he will almost certainly pull through."
"Thank you," I murmured quietly, and I don't believe any words had ever been more heartfelt.
"Someone will be coming down from the psyche ward tomorrow in order to assess his mental state," he continued, in a slightly quieter voice. "I understand a nurse is now with him to ensure no repetition of… well… his earlier actions. And well…"
He coughed awkwardly.
"What is it?" I had pressed him.
"He appears to be rather… undernourished."
I looked away awkwardly and shuffled my leg. It had begun to hurt again. "Well… He… erm… He's not big on eating," I said lamely, and watched as the doctor frowned and made a note on his clipboard.
"Can I go and see him?"
"By all means – he's quite stable. Unless you would rather get a coffee or something from the hospital canteen - Mr. Watson, isn't it? It is getting rather late…"
"It's Dr. Watson, and no, I'm not hungry."
He smiled in recognition of a fellow medical professional. "In which case, I'll take you to see him. Though he's sleeping now, I believe." We discussed a few more details of his wellbeing and then I followed him to ICU, to find my flatmate lying in a clean neat hospital bed in a gown that didn't fit him, with tubes protruding from the white bandages that swathed his arms. I couldn't bear to look at them. They served as a horrible reminder of earlier, when that white skin had been marred with streaks of red…
His bed was near the window, and I looked out of it. Night had fallen over London – a million tiny lights flickered like glowing eyes from countless hotels, cinemas, offices and homes.
I texted Mycroft curtly to inform him that his brother was out of danger, and then, to my embarrassment, I fell asleep at Sherlock's bedside, despite the lack of comfort the plastic chair provided.
It is morning now, and Sherlock is still sleeping. It feels strange to see him like this – like a small child, wrapped in blankets to keep him warm. The beep of the monitors is regular and reassuring. There is a soft knock on the door and a nurse enters, giving me a sympathetic smile, which I return. She begins to check Sherlock's blood pressures and dressings, and I excuse myself to go and get a coffee.
It is still early, and the canteen is fairly empty. I grab a coffee and a sandwich. I feel strangely guilty about tucking in when I know Sherlock is still lying passed out upstairs, but my stomach is beginning to rumble painfully, and I can't ignore the needs of my body like he seems to be able to.
I am looking around for a quiet place to sit and eat when I hear a voice calling my name. For a horrible moment I think it is a doctor coming to tell me that somehow Sherlock has deteriorated while I have been away, but then I realise it is only Lestrade, greeting me with a grin, clutching a bacon butty.
We've become quite good friends since I met him for the first time during a Study in Pink. Any poor idiot who has to deal with Sherlock on a regular basis, (and especially those who manage to do so without hating him), tends to stick with other poor idiots who are in a similar predicament. Lestrade's a good copper and a good bloke – the amount of ribbing he gets from Sherlock for being "incredibly dull" and from the other guys at the Met for "dragging in a psychopathic civilian to do his job for him", I'm surprised he hasn't gone mad, but he still manages to be relatively jovial.
"John! What are you doing here?"
Shit. He doesn't know.
"What are you doing here?" I ask, evading the question.
"Oh, some fancy accountant got himself beaten up last night – I came to take a statement, but he's still in theatre, apparently. Complications. So I'm at a bit of a loose end. You?"
"Sherlock," I say quietly.
Lestrade rolls his eyes. "Blood hell. You know I care about the bloke, but you must be a bloody saint to be able to live with him. What has he done now? No, don't tell me. One of his bloody chemistry experiments? Or was it a suspect of his? – I always said that smart mouth would get him into trouble one day. Or… Oh God, he hasn't been leaping across rooftops again, has he? Or has he upset Mrs. Hudson – I heard she…"
"Stop."
To my surprise, my voice is calm and authoritative. Lestrade stops.
"He's tried to kill himself," I say. I don't trust myself to look at Lestrade, because I might do someone stupid, like start crying.
"Fuck," he says quietly. "Fuck. Sorry, mate. I didn't know."
"Don't worry," I say.
"How did…? I mean… what happened…?"
"I moved out," I say, and my voice is hollow and exhausted.
"Oh," Lestrade says, and I know he is itching to know what Sherlock did to make me do it, but I can't answer, and all I can think is how stupid I was, and how ignorant of the effect my actions could have on another person, which, in a way, makes me just as bad as Sherlock, unconscious upstairs, unaware of the torture he's put me through.
"I left something behind," I say, and cough to try and get rid of the horrible tightness that the memory of the fear brings back to me. "And I came back, and found him."
"Fuck," Lestrade says again.
"He'd slit his wrists," I manage to choke out, and then I dig my hand into my mouth to stop the tears seeping out, clenching my eyes shut. I feel the reassuring weight of Lestrade's hand on my shoulder.
"Stupid bastard," Lestrade says, and I'm not sure whether he's talking about Sherlock, or me, but it makes me cough out a laugh anyway. I wipe the tears away, and take a fortifying gulp of coffee.
"Is he… Is he going to be all right?" Lestrade asks cautiously, and I nod weakly.
"The doctors say he's out of danger. Though it was… touch and go last night. He lost more than a third of the blood in him."
"Shit, John." Lestrade sounds sincere and shocked. "It must have been fucking awful. You could have called me."
"I didn't think."
I drain my coffee and take a few bites of my sandwich, wanting to finish it as fast as possible so I can get back to Sherlock. The thought of him dying while I enjoy my breakfast makes me feel sick and weak. I want to get back, just so I can sit and watch the up-and-down of his chest, to prove to myself that he's still alive.
Lestrade and I eat in silence, and then, by tacit consent, we leave the canteen and go back up to the ward. I can tell the doctors aren't keen on us both being there, but they don't object.
We reach his room, and I push open the door, somehow ridiculously afraid that the bed will be empty. But it isn't. Sherlock is still lying there - mad, intelligent, brilliant, vibrant, alive Sherlock, lying in a hospital bed like a broken doll.
I return to my seat beside his bed, and Lestrade pulls up a chair as well. I can tell that he's thinking about how little he really knows this man, whose tactless and cold exterior shields something far more vulnerable and insecure and human.
I don't know how long we sit there, but eventually Lestrade stands. "I'll tell whoever needs to know, and no one else," he says quietly. "D'you want me to talk to Mrs. Hudson?"
I nod gratefully. "Thanks."
He nods sympathetically, and then places a hand on Sherlock's. His long, pale, spidery fingers are resting on the outside of the covers, folded neatly.
"Get well soon," he says gruffly. "I need your help on a case. Identical triplets, would you believe it? So you better get out of here sharpish, because I know you think we're such a load of incompetents that we can't do it without you."
He gives Sherlock's hand an uncertain pat, and leaves.
I am left sitting beside my unconscious flatmate.
It occurs to me that I haven't thought to touch him, to do something as simple as touch his hand. Steeling myself, I reached forwards and brush my fingers over his hand. His skin is unexpectedly warm and soft, though there are calluses and imperfections here and there, no doubt the result of one of his experiments.
I wonder if I am somehow violating him, touching him like this without his permission – he'd never condone it if he were awake - but then I pull myself back to reality. It's only his goddamned hand, after all.
"Sherlock?" I ask quietly.
Don't be stupid, John, he can't hear you. He's asleep. You've been trying to get him to rest for three weeks solid and now he's asleep – leave him be!
I ignore my own advice.
"Sherlock?"
And then, incredibly, his long fingers twitch under mine, and blue-green-grey eyes flicker. He draws in a long breath.
"Sherlock?" I ask frantically, and am instantly embarrassed at my enthusiasm. "I mean, um…"
His pale lips move. "Stop gibbering… What was Lestrade doing here?"
"What?"
"How is it, John, that I can wake from yet another dull-as-dishwater failed suicide attempt after having lost…" His head twitches. "I'd say… a third of my blood volume? Hard to tell. I lost track. Anyway, how is it that I wake up after all that and yet my brain is still five times faster than yours? I know Lestrade was here because I can smell his aftershave. I was enquiring as to why he had been here."
I swallow. I had forgotten how utterly overwhelming I find Sherlock. I realise anew why it had been imperative for me to leave the flat – at this moment all I want to do is lean forward and kiss those pale, thin lips. He is so alive it's easy to forget everything that happened last night, lose myself in the excitement of Sherlock's personality, his lightning-fast intelligence, his sparkling eyes…
I also remember what an absolute bastard he is.
"Erm… He had a case, but the victim was still in theatre, so we bumped into each other and I had to tell him…"
"Fantastic," Sherlock sneers. "Now the whole of Met will know. And they thought I was a psychopath anyway."
Something else he has just said catches up in my brain. "Wait – you said "yet another dull suicide attempt" or something – Sherlock, have you tried to…"
The words catch in my throat.
"Have you tried to take your own life before?" I ask quietly.
"Yes," Sherlock says promptly.
"I didn't know… You didn't tell me."
"I have never asked for a blow-by-blow account of your stay in Afghanistan," Sherlock said sharply. "They were unpleasant experiences which I did not watch to think about. Is that surprising?"
"No… I mean, that's fine… I just…"
I feel like I am drowning in him – his beautiful, deep voice, his piercing eyes. I am finding it hard to think, let alone speak – not that that matters, because he will always be a million times more intelligent that me and I only remind myself of this when I open my stupid mouth.
"Did you call Mycroft?" Sherlock asks idly. "He has an irritating habit of wanting to know about these things."
I come back to reality with an effort. "Er… He turned up here, as a matter of fact."
"Oh?" Sherlock's eyes flash curiously.
"I'm afraid I punched him," I say regretfully. "He was only trying to help…"
"I utterly sympathise," Sherlock announces flippantly. "He is immensely aggravating at the best of times, as I no doubt am."
I blink in confusion.
"Honestly, John, you need to stop doing that – it makes you look like a startled rabbit."
I ignore the jibe. "How… How are you feeling?" I ask gently.
"Fantastic," Sherlock drawls sarcastically, and I wince.
"The doctors say you're underweight…"
"Boring. You know I hate eating."
"But Sherlock…"
"I'll have a sandwich when we get back to Baker Street, if you're really that bothered. And, by the way – have you seen my phone? I want to text Molly – ask her if those ears she promised me are ready yet."
A burning tide of anger rises up in me. "I'm guessing you took it out of your pocket before you got in the bath and slit your wrists," I say coldly. "In which case, it's back in the flat."
"Oh." Sherlock looks disappointed for a moment. "No matter. I'll use yours."
I give something between a sob and a snort. Sherlock gives me a strange look.
"You're upset," he says decisively, though he looks a little puzzled.
"Well deduced," I snap, wrenching my hand away from his and standing
"Why?"
"How can you even ask that?" I snarl angrily. Sherlock looks surprised, and I make the effort to lower my voice. "I came back to the flat to pick up a suitcase I'd left behind, and I find you lying in a bath of your own blood… Fuck it, Sherlock, I thought… I thought you were going to die."
"I didn't," Sherlock chips in brightly. "And don't swear. You know I don't like it."
"Your heart stopped as we arrived in A and E," I say bitterly, my teeth clenched. Sherlock looks mildly intrigued.
"Really? In which case, I'm not such a failure after all. I wonder…"
"Fuck you!" I snarl at him, and limp out of the hospital room, tears stinging my eyes. My stupid leg is playing up again, despite the fact that I know there's nothing wrong with it. The pain is a constant reminder of Sherlock, of him tricking me into running out of the café without my cane when we'd only just met, just to prove a point.
I stand in the corridor, breathing deeply. I know I've shocked Sherlock, but somehow I can't bear to go back in there and hear him talk about his death like that. It physically hurts me.
"Ah, Dr. Watson?"
A pretty, female doctor reaches out to shake my hand, and I do so.
"Um… hi…"
"Sorry, I should have introduced myself. I'm Dr. Williams, from the psyche ward. I've come to assess Sherlock."
"Oh," I say stupidly.
"If you wouldn't mind just telling him I'm here, and then we'll get down to business – it often helps if a friend acts as a go-between – it can make them feel more relaxed."
She smiles encouragingly at me. She has long brown hair tied back in a professional ponytail, pleasant green eyes, and a sweet, round face. I don't want to see what Sherlock is going to do to distract her from him – I can tell it's going to be fairly dramatic.
"I go tell him," I murmur stupidly, and open the door.
Sherlock glances up as I enter.
Sherlock
John looks angry. I must admit - I quite like it when he's anger. It's better than upset, or worse, disappointed. He's annoyed with me for trying to kill myself, which is quite understandable. I'm annoyed with myself too, though that's more because I didn't manage to finish the job properly. Not that I feel like dying now, but it's more than a little embarrassing to be so utterly incompetent.
I decide to try and lighten the mood.
John
"Back already, John? Look at this – they've taken the strings from the blinds, so can't strangle myself with them. How novel!"
I try not to wince again. "The psychiatrist's here to see you," I say stiffly. His eyes light up.
"A psychiatrist? Marvellous. They're nearly always interesting. I was beginning to waste away in this tedium. Bring her in."
I go to the door and beckon Dr. Williams. She enters, and I can almost see the cogs of Sherlock's mind beginning to whir as he assesses, analyses, catalogues his data. His eyes gleam, his face goes oddly still.
"Hi, Sherlock, I'm Dr. Williams," she says gently, in what is meant to be a non-threatening way.
"Hi Kate, I'm Mr. Holmes," Sherlock replies, in exactly the same tone of voice. His pleasant smile is unsettling, and it clearly throws her for a moment.
"I've come to talk to you…"
"Do you know your husband is planning to leave you?" Sherlock asks, in the same cheerful voice.
"What? I'm sorry?"
Sherlock drops the smile. His face is blank and emotionless. "I was wondering – do you know and are faking your ignorance – perhaps denial? Or are you genuinely in the dark?"
Dr. Williams stammers and tries to find a response, and I take my leave. I can't sit there and watch Sherlock tear apart that poor woman, for no other reason than he wants her off his case. Of course, it might have the opposite effect and she might have him sectioned out of spite, but he's probably calculated the probabilities and decided to blackmail her into giving him a good report.
A few minutes later, the door of Sherlock's room opens, and Dr. Williams emerges, her face red and screwed up, choking back tears. I leap to my feet. "I'm sorry," I say helplessly. "I mean…"
"Don't talk to me!" she says angrily, and marches off down the corridor.
I fling open the door, ready to give Sherlock a piece of my mind.
"I think that went rather well, actually, John," Sherlock says cheerfully. "Now, when do you think I'll be allowed to go home?"
Second chapter yay! Hope you're impressed by speed updating – I was so inspired by all your lovely comments that I wanted to get this done ASAP. Next chapter will probably be about Sherlock returning to Baker Street, and the inevitable arguments and angst that will follow – hooray!
Thanks to my lovely reviewers –
Sournois
Adr1en – see, another chapter! you won't have to exact your terrible plan of revenge now!
SyberiaWinx
kemokage
Glittery-excuse-for-a-Fae
misscruel
Harpyquin – don't cry! he's alive :D and he's also a pain in the neck, but we'll get over that…
and goldeneyedbeatle – cool name btw!
And thanks also to anyone who read and enjoyed!
Any reviews going spare to encourage me to write more? :)