AN: Hello! Thank you to sneakysnakes and socalrose for your reviews,
Socalrose: haha, thanks! I hate exams so much…
Sneakysnakes: awwwwww ok. No drowning.
Anyways, now comes the pathetic bit. To be honest with you guys, I really never expected this story to go beyond one shot stage and every time people review going MORE, I have a mini heart attack, and I want my stories to be the best for you guys, I really do! So, if ya got any ideas, rack 'em up! Seriously, I'll take anything, cos I genuinely trust you guys, so PM or review and not only will I try to use your ideas, I'll also give you a dedication in the AN of the chapter! Now that's generous. Read it and lemme know what you think
Lily x
'John? John!'
'Hmmmm?'
'Bloody hell, are you alright mate?'
'Stand back, give him some air.'
Oh fuck. It'd happened again, and at a crime scene how embarrassing…
Surprisingly the first face that swam into view was Sherlock's, even more surprisingly; it was wearing a look of concern. I remember fervently wishing I had a camera and being rather touched at the same time.
'It's alright, Sherlock, it happens…'
'John, you are contaminating a crime scene!'
Hm. Not quite so touching.
'Sherlock, I need…'
'John, get up, your head-blood is going on the floor. Anderson is going to do his nut when he sees.' Sherlock was hissing through clenched teeth.
'Sherlock, give the man a chance! Are you alright, John? Do you want an ambulance?'
'No he does not want a bloody ambulance, Lestrade, stop being an idiot it's just a bit of a bash!'
'Sherlock, I…' the situation was becoming pretty dire now and if someone didn't pay attention soon I was going to contaminate Anderson's crime scene further. I was fairly grateful to find out that Sherlock's full attention was back on me.
'John are you still going to be able to look at the body? You know the massive head traum.. wait, where are you…?'
I have absolutely no idea what happened for the next couple of minutes, but I remember praying for death at two or three second intervals, before Sherlock sauntered out the door and watched me miserably spit a bottle of water into the gutter.
'So. The body?'
'No Sherlock.'
'Hm. Worth a try.'
I spat contemptuously into the street.
'They're getting worse.'
'What are getting worse?' I snapped, again expressing my death wish to the world in general.
'Your blackouts.'
'What blacko…'
'Oh please, John, don't even try to lie to me, you know who I am it doesn't work. What's going on, why don't you go to the hospital?'
I snorted derisively 'They wouldn't do anything. There do tend to be a few side effects when you get your face temporarily implanted onto the back of your head.'
Sherlock smirked 'still…'
'Still what Sherlock? I know what it is, I know what's causing it, I don't want to hear by how long it has shortened my life or how getting your face smashed in affects your cholesterol!'
Even I was impressed with that little outburst. But it was true, I had been having blackouts since about six months after my last operation and they had lost me a total of three jobs and my life insurance plan. I'd been doing my best to hide them from everybody but clearly the game was up and since I lived with the world's only consulting detective I really had no right to be surprised.
'John, insulting your colleagues? How unprofessional!'
I scowled 'One word Sherlock. Anderson.'
He ignored that, thank god as I had no desire to have my entire sexual history read off the soles of my shoes or whatever it was that he'd managed to do it off last time I insulted him at a crime scene.
'John, I am now asking you as a friend, please go to the hospital.'
'Sherlock, I have told you, I'm not going to…'
'Because you are dripping blood on the floor and you are not coming back in here in that state.' He was smirking again. Bastard.
'oh fine, I'll go.' I grumbled.
'Good. I'll meet you at the flat at six.'
'So soon?' I asked mockingly.
He snorted and turned away 'John, you could solve this one. If you were blindfolded. And had no arms.'
I think this little incident sticks with me because it was the first time Sherlock had ever made any kind of attempt at caring about anything but work and his cigarettes. Obviously, he had to do it in typical Sherlock style and get one over on me but it was still a small victory on my part that he hadn't insisted I stay and help him whilst letting me slowly bleed out. Of course, it could be because of what happened next.
In the A and E department at UCLH, I am fairly certain they watch out for anyone who looks in pain or seriously ill, before giving them the perkiest and most happy-to-help medical student they can find, just to add their own personal flavour to the patient's personal circle of hell. Such was the case with me.
I remember that she introduced herself as Bindi and gave me a mini monologue about how she'd been a hippy child and never gone to school but then aged sixteen, she'd disappointed her family by buying a suit, dying her hair brown and enrolling in nursing college before going on to train as a doctor and all the while making slow, even stitches in my scalp. There's a gap of not really remembering a lot around now and I'm not sure if it's because of the examination or the conversation but I'm pretty sure that they were equally painful, but there is one chirpily spoken little observation that I remember.
Bindi had just finished stitching the wound, and her supervisor had come over to check before pronouncing the stitching sound and whispering to me that he'd get me a couple of aspirin in a minute, when Bindi snapped off her gloves, blew a bubble in her gum, turned to me and said
'See! I told you didn't I! Piece of cake!'
In my desperation to get out of there and find the nice, fully qualified doctor with my pain killers I just smiled desperately, garbled my thanks and slammed the door behind me. It was only on the cab ride home, when the pounding along my wound had started to fade a little that I realised the full significance of her words.
Sure enough, over the next two weeks, I reached the point where I was blacking out nearly every day, Sherlock had banned me from coming on cases and I had an anxious Lestrade and an Irate Mrs Hudson begging me to go back to the hospital. I have no memory of what followed, but Sherlock tells me that I collapsed in the shower and he called an ambulance after getting worried that I'd been in there longer than my standard (apparently 6.4 minutes). On arrival in hospital, my head wound was found to be severely infected and I was in the late stages of shock. After investigative surgery, they also found that a small piece of bone was lodged in my frontal lobe, causing the blackouts after the accident.
Neither do I remember waking up after the eighteenth bout of surgery in my life and finding Sherlock sitting next to me, apparently having blamed himself for not noticing I had an infection ('the signs were all there John! How could I have been so blind…?') and, according to Mrs Hudson, I hugged him around the waist and told him he needed to promise me two things.
'What John?'
'One, don't let the spiders eat me.' (I refute that I ever said that and particularly not 'slurring like a sleepy toddler') ' and two, never never never never bring Mycroft to the hospital while I'm in here.'
'Done and definitely done john. May I ask why?'
'Whenever there's a piece of cake around my life goes badly.'
AN: whilst I'm not entirely happy with this chapter, I do quite like the cake related quip in the last line. Review peeps!
Lily x
