Hi all here's the next, and if I do say so myself, most exciting chapter. We start to get a little more romance in this and coming chapters, if you don't like don't read.
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, :P and mean no copyright infringement.
-Sherlock POV-
"Sher… ck? Sh…lock? Sherlock…you…k? It's alright…wake up…ready…"
'I'm so tired, I don't know where I am or what is going on, and that's quite unusual for my brain. I think I'm dreaming…aren't I? Who was calling me? It's as if cotton balls are in my ears… or WATER?'
He suddenly remembered everything in a rush: setting up a meeting with Moriarty, seeing John, John strapped to a bomb, Moriarty stepping out of the doorway, the conversation, thinking it was over, ripping the bomb off John, relief, Moriarty coming back, John's nod, pointing the gun at the bomb, and, almost instantaneously, shooting and feeling John collide with him sending them towards the water.
His eyes shot open. Quickly he catalogued his body; 'breathing normal, head aching slightly, chest a little sore (probably from impact both of John and the water), no burns though it's obvious the bomb went off due to the condition of the room. Overall fine but will be sore for a week or so. The next question is where is John? Obviously I was in the water (I'm wet), someone else got me out of the pool (as I was unconscious for undetermined amount of time) and it wouldn't have been Moriarty. Moriarty!' He quickly scanned the room for both Moriarty and John and within a few seconds didn't see obvious signs of either. Moriarty had gotten away, of course he must have had numerous backup plans, but where could John be?
"Oh my god!" He gasped out loud finally realizing the only place left to look for John was in the water. His heart skipped a few beats.
He sat up and scanned the bottom of the pool searching through the rubble spread across the floor and finally saw legs. JOHN! He was wedged underneath a large piece of the ceiling that had fallen and Sherlock could only see his legs and head on opposite ends. He realized there were no bubbles coming from John's mouth. 'NO!' Sherlock's heart grew cold as he dove into the now murky water, swam all the way down, and grabbed the beam. It was so heavy he didn't know if he could move it, 'but I have to because it's John, my John'. It started to shift, a little bit at a time, and stirred up debris in the water, then finally it moved enough that John's body was free. Sherlock grabbed him around the waist, pushed against the pool floor for an extra boost of speed, and started frantically kicking till he got to the surface.
John's body was limp in his arms and he wasn't breathing as Sherlock swam towards the edge, ignoring the floating pieces of rubble in his way. He quickly dragged John's limp, waterlogged body out, and then used his arms to lever himself up onto the side of the pool. Sherlock searched for a pulse first on his wrist then neck. 'I can't find his pulse anywhere. He's got a bad laceration and bruise on his forehead, probably a concussion, and massive bruises all over his chest and stomach from the beam.' He started CPR.
'1, 2, 3… 18 19 20 chest compressions,' Sherlock counted in his head. John's wet clothes made squishing noises against the tile floor as Sherlock's arms pounded his chest. Then he put his mouth to John's, hoping this would not be the first, last, and only time he could kiss those lips. Those cold, unmoving lips. Sherlock tilted John's head back, held his nose and puffed five breaths into his mouth. There still was no response; John's chest didn't even rise, meaning the breaths were not getting past his airway and into his lungs. He continued, and all the while started to panic. This was the second time tonight he had panicked. The third time in his life he had ever really panicked. All of which had been when John was in danger of being hurt or killed. 'I've never felt this way before; I've never been in love before this; before John.'
He continued his compressions, and breaths. John's face was losing all color and his lips were turning an alarming shade of blue.
"Damn it John, breathe!" He shouted.
Sherlock's hands furiously compressed John's chest in the practiced CPR move. His lips touched Johns and he puffed his breath into John's airway five more times. Then he felt John's neck for a pulse but still couldn't find one.
"John, you wanker, BREATHE! You are not leaving me!" Sherlock shouted in a strangled voice, emotion overcoming him.
Then he said a word he hardly ever said, and when he did he rarely meant it. This time, though, he truly and desperately meant it.
"…Please." Came the word in a broken, pleading whisper.
He kept pumping John's chest, and suddenly felt a tremor through John's diaphragm. Sherlock kept pumping his chest another 10 times. He put his lips to John's and breathed the last 5 breaths into him. Finally he felt the doctor's chest spasm and he started coughing water up. Sherlock turned him on his side so he could evacuate the water more easily. That's when he noticed the burns on John's back. 'All over his beautiful back, are red welts and oozing sores and blood. He got those protecting me, damn that idiot…But I don't have time now.'
He turned John back after his body seemed to stop the chest spasms and the water was out of his lungs. Sherlock watched as his chest moved slowly up and down, finally breathing. He put his fingers on John's wrist checking his pulse. 'How I've taken that for granted, that simple fluttering beat telling me John's alive.'
His heart felt 30 kilos lighter, and the rush of relief made him dizzy. In his stupor he bent down and quickly, lightly, laid a kiss on John's lips. Sherlock jerked his head back realizing what he had done, his soaking wet pants sliding on the floor a bit, and was glad John was still unconscious. 'If John ever found out he might hate me, or leave, and I can't have either of those happen.' Sherlock thought with an inward flinch.
Sherlock reached into his pocket and took out his phone, somehow not damaged by the water, and called Lestrade.
"DI Lestrade here."
"It's Sherlock, I need an ambulance right away, you'll want to bring police and the fire department too. The public pool. Please hurry." He hung up before Lestrade asked a bunch of inane questions that would distract him from John. Sherlock noted that another 'please' had slipped out, and he meant this one as well. John's care was and is paramount.
He sat there, not noticing the rather large puddle forming around he and John, and waited for the ambulance, annoyed that there was nothing else he could do for John's probable concussion and crushed ribs. 'I can't complain too much since John is still with me.' Sherlock thought. He watched every breath and still held John's wrist, feeling his pulse. After two and a half minutes, and exactly 52 of John's breaths later, the police had arrived and were starting to make their way through the rubble. Lestrade and the medics were first. The medics rushed to John's aid while Lestrade started talking to Sherlock.
"What in the bloody hell happened Sherlock? Was it the serial bomber? Is John okay?" Lestrade asked in quick succession.
"Yes it was the serial bomber Lestrade, and obviously the bomb blew up. John's breathing, but I don't know if he'll be completely fine." He said the last part with a grimace. During this time the paramedics started to put John in a neck brace, took his vitals, checked him for injuries, and, with Sherlock's help, lifted him onto the gurney. Sherlock never let go of John's hand; the medics could work around that surely.
They wheeled him to the ambulance, every time the medics seemed to want to protest Sherlock's presence they would look in his eyes and start to speak, but whatever they saw seemed to shut them up immediately. 'I must look just as desperate and haunted as I feel.' Thought Sherlock. His hand tightened around John's.
The ride to the hospital was blessedly short; Sherlock had continued counting John's heartbeats. They started to head in the ER doors when the medics paused for a second.
"I'm sorry sir, but you can't go in here." Said the female paramedic as she held Sherlock's gaze, almost bravely. "They have to fix him up, and then you can see him again soon. I promise."
Sherlock's eyes widened and his hand reflexively tensed around John's. Then he placed a light kiss to John's fingertips, reluctantly let go, and watched them wheel 'My John' away. Something in Sherlock ached deeply at the loss of his presence, like losing a limb, or a heart, but still being able to walk around.
Lestrade came in and found Sherlock staring at the faux wood doors they wheeled John through. He glanced back, and Lestrade seemed to flinch at the look in his eyes. He silently led Sherlock over to the cheap brown chairs and they waited.
The room had cream floor tiles with brown specks, the walls were painted a warm yellow-white with a linoleum baseboard around the bottom half of the wall, and the walls had poor copies of supposedly cheery paintings. It felt like forever that they sat there, Sherlock's leg twitched nervously making his chair tilt back and forth over it's uneven legs, and his hands were clenched together on his lap. Lestrade didn't seem to know what to say, so he just sat next to Sherlock, and silently waited. Finally the doctor walked out of the doors, Sherlock shot up like a rabbit, and rushed over.
"Ah, family of John Watson?" said the doctor. He was a shorter man, he looked tired, there were bags under his chocolate-brown eyes (not unusual for an ER doctor), and his skin was tan but looked strange under the fluorescent lights.
"Yes, I'm…yes." Sherlock replied, not knowing exactly how to quantify their relationship. 'It's not like Harry, the only family John has left, would even show up, probably too drunk off her arse.' Sherlock thought sadly.
"Mr. Watson is stable." Sherlock let out the breath he'd been holding. "We've looked over his injuries and he has a moderate concussion and laceration on his head, one broken rib, one fractured rib, many bruised ribs, a laceration on his forearm, and part of his back is covered in first and second degree burns. We've stitched up the lacerations and treated the rib injuries, and the concussion needs monitoring but should be all right after a few weeks. His back is the more serious concern, as there are open wounds and burns that were exposed to unsanitary water. We've cleaned and treated them, but he will need antibiotics for at least three weeks and we need to check the burns often and change the dressings often to insure healing and prevent infection. They will scar quite a bit, but we found he does not need any skin grafts at this time. If you would like to see him I can bring you to his room. We can never predict when someone will wake from a concussion so we'll just have to wait."
"Thank you, and yes I would really like to see him now, please." He twitched at the use of the word once more. This could take some getting used to, although it seemed like some part of Sherlock already used it automatically.
The doctor took him to John's room. Sherlock paused at the door for a moment, nervous to see John look, well, not like John. It only lasted a moment, before he strode in and went immediately to John's side. He did flinch when he first set eyes on the army doctor's still form, Sherlock had never seen him look so...small before. He sat down in the chair next to the bed, and gently took John's hand in his, and before he knew what was happening he kissed the back of the army doctor's hand. Slightly shocked at himself, he sat back, fingers on John's pulse for reassurance, his hands still wrapped around John's, and waited. 'At least waiting for John to wake up was better than waiting for his heart to start beating again.' Sherlock thought.
Sherlock heard the irritating tick of the hall clock as he looked around the dull hospital room. He started to feel the aches and pains of the day and the exhaustion. It was deeper than the bruise on his forehead and the general soreness of almost getting blown up. 'Who knew emotion could take everything out of you like that?' Sherlock thought. He'd never felt this much emotion before, never had someone to care about…to love.
'I don't understand why people go through so much trouble for love. Is it really so bad to be without it?' He sighed out loud then worriedly checked John to be sure he hadn't jostled anything or woken him. As soon as he set eyes upon John's face his heartbeat thrummed and his chest warmed as he remembered all the little things that made him love John. He realized 'this is why people go through so much shit just to stay with their loved ones. John is beautiful yet strong, frustrating yet infinitely interesting, wears his emotions on his sleeve yet I can never tell exactly what he is feeling or thinking (especially when it comes to me). And he is worth every single second of agony I'll ever go through. He is worth it.'
He attempted to get comfortable, in the world's most uncomfortable chair (ugh hospitals), but never let go of John's hand, never took his fingers off John's pulse. It was his steady pulse that lulled Sherlock into a doze, the exhaustion and emotion of the day was just too much for him to stay awake.
Not too bad of a cliffhanger I hope, not like the last 2. See you next chapter and thanks for reading.
