Wow, thanks again for the reviews. I have very little time to update, so will keep going as long as there is encouragement :) Reviews make my day. xx

Jess

Chapter 4

"John, did you hear me?"

I can't get my words out for a couple of seconds. I try to stand, but have to place a hand on the wall behind me to steady myself.

"Is he alive?"

"Barely, by the sounds of it."

"How can you be sure that it's him, I mean come on Greg...?" I don't get to finish my sentence.

"Wake up will you John, he's known to them. I used to pull him out of that club all the time. I didn't even know he was using again, did you?"

A pause

"JOHN, did you know?" He shouts.

"No." I'm sure I can hear guilt in my voice. "Okay, okay." I say, more to myself than to Lestrade and I shake myself out of this mist that's clogged up my brain and start to look for my keys.

"Where have they taken him?"

I hear a crackling radio down the phone line and some inaudible words.

"They say they haven't moved him from the scene yet, they're stableising him apparently. What the hell does that even mean? Are you at Baker Street, because I have a car around the corner and I can have you there in minutes, you can travel with him."

"Um, no it's more sensible I go straight to the Hospital. I know some of the attending A and E Consults." My brain is starting to kick back in. I know why they haven't moved him and I don't wish to dwell on the possibilities.

More radio crackles I can't make out.

"They're saying it doesn't look good. I think you should let us take you. For all our sakes, believe me. If anything happened to him there John...It's the gutter of Soho..."

I hear the siren of a police car downstairs and wonder if I have time to throw up.

The noise of the vehicle goes through me and we swerve another corner going at a breakneck speed. I'm glad I don't know the officers that have picked me up and that Lestrade isn't in the car. I don't feel I could speak even if I wanted to. No words are there. They wouldn't be able to give me anything I needed anyway. I can't dwell on the effects my actions have had on him right now, if they are because of my actions in the first place. After all, no one has ever gotten Sherlock to do something he doesn't want to do. Right now I decide to put a pin in my guilt and just concentrate on Sherlock. I should call Mycroft, although he probably already knows.

He wasn't lying when he said they could get me there in minutes. The car comes to a halt and Lestrade opens the door for me before I even register it. We're at the front of a dingy looking entrance that I guess is supposed to be said 'club'. We part the lethargy of wasted young souls staring unperturbed by the police presence around the entrance. I can't imagine Sherlock here.

It gets worse.

"Where's the damn ambulance, have we missed him?" I say with desperation in my voice and with the need to run, but with no idea in what direction.

"It's round the back of this delightful establishment." says Lestrade. He sounds tired and jogs on ahead. "It's where the ambulance can get the closest. The alleys out back are where most of the 'dealing' goes down; drugs and ...otherwise. Spent most of my time on the beat round here."

He turns to me sharply and I can tell he feels he's said too much, probably presumes Sherlock hasn't told me much about his past. It pains me that he is correct. He rushes us through the dark, dank atmosphere and I feel eyes on us the whole way. It feels like I should be preparing myself for something, but I just don't have the energy. I am watching myself from above, completely disconnected. Just as I let my brain go comfortably numb, light explodes in front of my eyes and we're outside again at the back of the club.

I could always tell when Sherlock was in a room, even if I couldn't see him right away. Always, from the minute I put the key in the front door of the flat, I would be able to tell if he was home. I used to think it was because subconsciously I could hear the presence of another individual or not realise I had seen the clues. At Medical school we leant about 'intuition' and were encouraged to believe, as medical practitioners, that it didn't exist. It was merely one of those instances where the human brain picks up signs based on one's own existing knowledge and past experience at a subconscious level. I had never really believed it. If that was what intuition was, it was not what Sherlock and I shared. I preferred to believe that when two individuals had such a connection in that way, that it couldn't be explained to others. There wouldn't be any place where one couldn't find the other, no place that they couldn't bring them back from. I knew, as I had done that day at the pool, that there wasn't anything that Sherlock wouldn't do to find me or to get me back. God I wished that he'd heard that phone message. I'd let him down so much. Let us down. I couldn't feel his presence in that alley.

I don't see him right away, only the individuals in high visibility jackets all hunched over something small and crumpled on the ground. There were four of them and it nudges at the part of my brain still working enough to remember that in serious critical instances the paramedics will call for vehicalised consultants to attend the scene immediately, before mobilising the casualty to hospital. The ground is littered with a few bits of equipment; some already used and discarded others still in sterile packages.

"Sherlock?" I thought I had cried it, but it had come out as a whisper.

I want to run over, want to see his face, kiss him and tell him I'm here. All my anxiety over his feelings and anger towards me have frozen, like the frost that now appears to have settled on the ground. I just need to see those eyes, but check myself and hope that they are closed and see nothing of what is around him

"This man will be going with him in the ambulance." Says Lestrade, out of breath. One looks up and must have read my soul, as he nods slightly with sympathy in his eyes. There is a sudden flash of bright movement and I freeze.

"No pulse." A voice says calmly.

"Starting CPR." Says another.

Everything slows down and I can hear my own heartbeat in my ears. Lestrade, at some point has moved in front of me and is blocking the scene. He has his hands on my shoulders and he is saying something to me. I can't make it out; in fact I can't hear anything. He looks concerned and shakes my shoulders a few times, trying to get my eye line. I hear Sherlock say my name somewhere. The next thing I come to on the ground. Lestrade is trying to hold me up, shouting for the other police officers to help him. They lean me against the wall.

"Breath John, can you hear me, take some deep breaths."

I put my head between my knees and Lestrade is still knelt in front of me with a hand on my shoulder. I feel sorry for him in that second of clarity that comes with momentary hypoxia and I realise it is a look of a man who believes he has let another down. It must have been hard to watch Sherlock destroy himself in that manner all those years ago.

I start to come back and Lestrade is happy enough to remove his weight keeping me up against the wall, in order to go and remove some young men who have gathered around the door to watch the scene play out. I wonder how many times they've seen it. I try to get up, or at least crawl a little closer to Sherlock. I may be able to grab his hand. They may let me be 'there', when they call 'it'. I have to be holding him when they decide to stop.

Before I can, they start to move him into the van, still squeezing air into his lungs and jumping on his chest. They close the door and I know it's so they can use the cardiac defibrillator in the ambulance. I also know they won't be going anywhere until it's done… either way. Lestrade returns and there is a strange peacefulness. There is no noise from the club, from the ambulance, no traffic, no birds. He slides down the wall to my level and turns his head to look at me. I don't want to return his gaze, there are already tears free flowing down my face. I feel him getting out a packet of cigarettes from his jacket. I didn't know he smoked. He lit two and handed one to me. I actually smile at the gesture and I don't know how. It breaks more tears down my face and neck and I feel his eyes on me. It's comforting. He looks like he's suddenly remembered something and he reaches inside his coat and hands me Sherlock's scarf. It's cold and quite thin and it always amazed me he thought it was of any use at all. I take it from him.

"You're not just flat mates, are you?"

I turn to look at him hastily and his eyes don't leave the ambulance. He doesn't need me to answer and places a hand on my shoulder, giving it a gruff pat and taking a long drag of his cigarette. I put down my cigarette so that I can take the scarf in both hands. I hold it up to my face and smell it. Doing so smashes down the last of the walls left standing inside me and I sob uncontrollably into it. He doesn't look embarrassed and I inwardly thank him for it.

"You're the best thing that ever happened to him Dr. Watson."

As I watch him stub out his cigarette, I hear the ambulance door open.