A/N: Gah! I'm so, so sorry! It took me far too long to get back to this story. (winces) I was short of typing time and had a little adventure. But now I'm back, sooo… Yay?
First things first, though! THANK YOU, from the bottom of my heart, for your reviews and support for this story! It makes me feel all warm and fuzzy. (HUGS) So thank you!
Awkay. It's already been waaaaaaaaay too long, so… Let's go. (gulps) I truly hope that you'll enjoy the ride.
August – Bleeding and Breathing
It was getting late and Sherlock was trembling down to his very core while he made his way through a rainy Warsaw. His hand was pressed almost convulsively against his side and in the pale light of street lamps one could just see the red staining his white knuckles. Sherlock knew, better than well, that he would've been in need of medical assistance but at the moment such was out of the question.
Due to a slipup he could only call idiotic he'd managed to attract the attention of some wrong people. Entering some hospital or clinic… well, wouldn't be a very good idea. And he'd had his share of bad ideas already.
The motel room Sherlock stumbled into twenty-six endless minutes later was quiet and cold. It didn't look like any human being could possibly live in it although he'd spent the past three days in the kip. With a wince the shadows were almost enough to cover he slumped to the floor, leaning heavily against the wall. Of course he should've tended to the wound first. Instead he used the hand that wasn't pressing against the agonizingly pained, pulsating wound and pulled out a cigarette. Lighting it with a single hand was a challenge but there was very little Sherlock wasn't able to do if he put his mind on it.
Sitting there, struggling with all his might against the fog that wanted to take over his head, Sherlock allowed his gaze to linger. A shiver crossed him when he saw his cell phone. All of a sudden the pain that came over him was a thousand times worse than the one radiating from his side.
John… He would've needed a doctor, right now. He would've needed…
It would've been so easy to just pick up the phone and…
"You're getting careless", a entirely too familiar voice chastised him. A person who infuriatingly obviously couldn't be more than a trick of his imagination glanced towards his wound while approaching, then sat down. "It's almost as if you're trying to get yourself killed."
Sherlock growled, trying to find a position that wouldn't make him feel like half of his body had been torn to pieces. "Shut up, John."
"Your death wish may be granted soon." Imaginary John wrinkled his nose at the cigarette. "Those things will kill you if the stab wound doesn't manage to do the job first."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. He was feeling exhausted and miserable. The last thing he needed was his mind playing cruel tricks on him. "Don't be overly dramatic. It isn't deep enough to make me bleed to death."
"Infections a lethal, too. Surely you know that much." John's face seemed startlingly familiar, yet the detective wondered how many little details he'd already missed. The comforting voice in his head went on. "Now stop feeling sorry for yourself, get up and do something about that wound, you git."
The cigarette was almost finished. Sherlock tossed the rest of it to a filthy ashtray, then prepared himself with a deep breath and hauled his transport up. In an instant he bit his lip to keep himself from screaming while white hot pain shot through.
"Breathe through it, Sherlock. You've had worse." John's voice was stern yet there was also a touch of softness he found himself clinging to. "You didn't fool Moriarty himself just to let some moron's knife bring you down."
Sherlock's eyes narrowed while he indeed focused on breathing for a few moments. "Shut… up, John", he snarled. He wished, from the bottom of his heart and soul, that he would've been able to order around something more than a trick of his imagination.
Cleaning up the wound turned out to be a taunting task. The blade was swift and brutal, meaning that the injury it left behind was messy. He worked on it as well as he could, even did his best to put on some stitches like he'd studied from one of John's books. The final result wasn't perfect and would probably scar horribly but at least he wasn't bleeding anymore.
He just… He wanted to sleep, so badly. Which was a foreign desire to him. When was the last time he slept longer than twenty minutes?
The lack of rest was clearly impairing the functions of his mind if he couldn't even remember something as simple as that.
When Sherlock stumbled out of the bathroom the painfully not real John was there once more. "You should go to sleep", the doctor pointed out. "You must be in a world of agony, since at the moment you don't have any relief laying around."
Feeling ridiculously self-conscious although he was all alone Sherlock put on a cream colored jumper to cover his wounded upper body. It didn't make him feel a lot warmer. "Stop fussing. This is nothing but a minor setback. Soon I'll finish this… assignment. And then I'll go back home." He didn't know why he wanted to say it so badly. Maybe if he'd repeat it enough times he'd start to believe it.
The reflection of John his mind created smiled a bit sadly. "I'll have to take your word on it, I suppose. Now rest."
For a few more seconds Sherlock just stood there, as though feeling lost. Then he looked towards the cell phone again and made his decision. Working furiously to push all ache from his mind he marched towards the item and took it, then made his way to the room's pitiable, small bed. It screamed under his weight and something hard pressed painfully against his back but he barely noticed.
Pretending that the made up version of his best friend would still be there when he woke up Sherlock closed his eyes and in a few moments found himself dreaming.
Dreaming of happier times. Dreaming of days when he wouldn't be all alone in the world anymore. Dreaming of a home that he could only hope would still be there.
And although Sherlock was trembling miserably from cold and a slowly rising fever there was a faint smile on his sleeping face. He was squeezing the cell phone so hard that his knuckles had turned white.
TBC
A/N: Poor, poor Sherlock! It'd be so good to give him a hug, no matter how little he'd like it. (winces)
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Until next time! I truly hope that I'll see ya all then.
Take care!
no: I'm truly sorry for that annoying little habit. I suppose that it's my insecurity talking. (winces) But I promise to try and improve my ways.
I'm glad that hear that you've found the story thus far promising!
Thank you so much for the review!
