I decided to update earlier than I originally planned, hopefully making you happy with this decision.
A big thank you to readers, followers, reviewers! It means a lot to me and I hope you enjoy this chapter. More to follow soon xx
The passing minutes, the minutes of which every single one could be Sherlock's last minute, seemed like hours until the ambulance arrived at last. John wasn't able to feel anything, shock filled his whole body while he was forced to see his best friend so close to death. He had felt this once already. If it was too late, if Sherlock had closed his eyes forever already, there would be no encounter in a few years. Then this would mean the end.
Also the way to the hospital seemed endless. Somehow John had been able to give information about what had happened. One of the paramedics was talking to John, but the words were nothing but blurred sounds. The only thing John was fixed on was Sherlock. Lying there. Slowly dying. And John couldn't stop it. Couldn't do anything. Like when Sherlock had faked his suicide. John hadn't been able to stop it happen. He hadn't had the chance to help Sherlock because Sherlock hadn't let him. He hadn't been able to stop losing Sherlock and as it seemed, he was losing him again and again.
The army doctor knew well how it went on in hospitals. Necessary, but terrible for those who had to wait. He had to wait in the corridor while they were checking Sherlock. While they tried to save the detective.
Chairs in hospitals weren't comfortable. They never had been. John didn't mind. His sorrow grew with every minute and every time a doctor passed by, his head shot up alarmed in the hope that someone would tell him that Sherlock would be all right. After a while he was pacing through the corridor impatiently. They wouldn't need so long if there weren't complications... He wasn't able to go to another funeral. He wasn't able to lose Sherlock. He wasn't able to see him dead.
Heartbeat. Beat for beat. A whole lifetime. Until it stopped. Suddenly, there was nothing. What was it worth living for. What was it worth fighting for. It was too late. He had lost for what he lived anyway, had been on the losing side for too long. A human error. And death getting him just showed that he was human.
It was easy. Dying. Letting life go. Just like falling asleep, except that one wouldn't wake up again, wouldn't feel again. The east wind was going to get him. Going with the wind was easy.
Why don't you just die. Heartbreak. Pain. Loss. Just let go of it. Forever. It's not difficult. Now you have the possibility to do so. Take it. Die.
Still there was something pulling him back, forcing him to go on. Forcing him to turn away from death and to fight against the east wind, to fight for a human error. Love.
John Watson needs you, Sherlock... Isn't life hateful? So full of dangers. He will grief, it will destroy him. And who knows who might target him next as it had happened so often. Who knows if he is targeted right now...
Heartbeat.
"Doctor John Watson?" It had felt like eternity. Finally. It was horrible, waiting.
"Yes." John stood up, facing the doctor in front of him.
"My name is Dr Stafford and I'm responsible for Mr Sherlock Holmes. I'd like to talk to you in private about Mr Holmes." With that John was led into one of those small rooms. One of those rooms where doctors wanted to talk to people when it was really serious. It wasn't possible to get any information from a doctor's face. They were used to deliver bad news. John prepared himself for the worst when the doctor started talking as soon as they had sat down at a small desk.
"Since you are a doctor yourself, I think I can spare you with the usual talk, but I've still got some questions about Mr Holmes."
"Go on", John answered, slightly relieved. Questions meant that Sherlock lived. John's only question was Sherlock's current state.
"What is your relationship with him?"
For a moment, John had to think about it. "We were flatmates for a long time. We're pretty close, I guess." Too close, in fact.
"How much do you know about Mr Holmes' drug habit?", Dr Stafford asked.
"Not that much. I know that he was an addict before I met him, a time he doesn't talk about, but he's been clean for years. Had even stopped smoking. As long as I know him, he didn't take drugs." An addict. It was so strange to describe Sherlock as an addict since John had never seen Sherlock as someone addicted to drugs and also never had made it a big issue.
"Any idea why he took drugs, then and now?"
John shook his head. "As I said, he never talks about it. And why he started again is also a question to myself. I haven't seen him for a few weeks, and... well. Here we are. In fact I hope that I can ask him sooner or later why he did it. Although I highly doubt that he'll answer. He is like that. You can't force him to talk about something."
Dr Stafford nodded. "He wouldn't be alive if you hadn't found him. I want to be honest with you about it. Mr Holmes had a cardiac arrest here, and he still is unstable."
These words made John swallow. Cardiac arrest. And this time, it wasn't a fake. He wished it was, though. One time feeling no pulse inside Sherlock's body had been enough. It was hard to concentrate now, but he wanted to know what else Dr Stafford had to say.
"At the moment it's hard to say when exactly he will wake up and I can't say how it will go on. How he will react and what would be the best for him. You surely know what I'm trying to say. We've also informed Mr Holmes' brother."
"Yeah. I know. All right."
"So if you want", Dr Stafford continued, "I can bring you to him now."
Of course John wanted to see Sherlock. Of course he wanted to be with him. When he stood in front of the door to Sherlock's room, he had to take a deep breath before opening the door and stepping into the room.
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.
Just a steady beeping, showing a finally steady heartbeat. John sat down on the chair next to Sherlock's bed. It was a sad sight, Sherlock being connected to several machines. Unable to live by himself. So weak, so helpless. Sherlock had never needed help, had never wanted help. Here he was lying now. Broken.
"Why have you done this to yourself?", John said quietly and carefully took Sherlock's hand into his, feeling the pulse. This pulse couldn't stop. It just couldn't.
"You're not going to leave me another time, are you? Not after all that we've been through."
Sherlock always answered. Now he didn't. It wasn't supposed to be like this. This was simply wrong. John even wouldn't be mad if Sherlock blew up the kitchen right now or shot holes into a wall. Sherlock being Sherlock was everything John wished for at the moment. Not this. Not Sherlock almost dying in a hospital. Why hadn't Sherlock let John help him before it had been too late.