"I've always been with you. Here and now, with all that's within you, be my saviour…and I'll be your downfall." Matchbox Twenty.
John began to slowly regain consciousness, as his head rolled with difficulty onto the damp road. He gave an involuntary groan, and attempted to open his heavy eyelids. The light from the stationary traffic was bright, and John winced. His vision was blurred, and he tried to focus by blinking, but it did nothing but make his eyes water.
He remained still, looking straight up at the dark sky, when the silhouette of a man came into view, leaning desperately over John and grabbing firmly at his aching shoulders. John fought back unconsciousness and tried desperately to focus on the face above him. He could hear nothing, not even the traffic. A loud ringing filled his ears. He wanted to vomit but couldn't compute his brain's instruction to do so.
"Sherlock," he groaned quietly. "Sherlock." His brain finally cut out, and John lost consciousness again. When he came to, the figure had gone, and two paramedics were rushing him into the back of a waiting ambulance.
000
Lestrade rushed into the emergency room, panic etched on his face. He flashed his badge at a member of staff, without even checking to see whether they had seen it, and headed into the room, where John Watson lay motionless. A nurse looked up from the bedside and smiled.
"Are you family?"
"Police," Lestrade said flatly. The nurse frowned.
"Well you'll have to wait until he's stronger before you take a statement."
Lestrade's eyes remained fixed on the man in the bed.
"What? No, he's my friend. Is he ok? Will he be ok?"
The nurse hesitated.
"He'll be going to surgery shortly."
"Shit," Lestrade breathed.
"It's likely there's internal bleeding. It's best to catch it now, if there is. Despite his appearance, he's come off quite well."
She left the room quietly, and Lestrade sat himself down heavily beside the bed.
"What the hell are you playing at?" he asked the man quietly. John remained still. "Idiot." He gave a sad smile.
When John was wheeled to theatre, Lestrade walked with him, and spent several long minutes pacing the waiting room of the ICU department. He was chewing on his thumb in agitation when he heard the rush of footsteps down the corridor. He looked up to see Molly Hooper heading towards him. Her face was flushed with worry.
"Greg!" she exclaimed, throwing herself into his chest awkwardly. Lestrade patted her slightly on her shoulders. "Oh my God! Where is he? Is he ok?"
Lestrade blinked away his surprise and tried to form accurate words.
"He's still in theatre."
Molly gave a little gulp of air. They stood looking at each other.
"You should sit down, Molly," Lestrade suggested, as she lowered herself down into a seat with wobbly knees.
"This is just terrible. This is so unfair. Poor John. Poor, poor John." She wiped at her face.
"Molly, he will be fine," Lestrade said reassuringly. "Calm down, ok? It's you I'm worried about." He gave an encouraging smile, but internally he was perplexed. It was 2am. What was she doing here?
Molly's breathing calmed. They sat in silence, watching the clock. Eventually, John was brought round to the ward, and into a side-room. Molly flinched at the sight of him, and grabbed hold of Lestrade's hand.
A nurse headed over to them.
"He's doing well. He should regain consciousness soon, and then you can talk with him." Her eyes fell on Molly. "Are you family?"
"Can I see him?" Molly asked in response. Lestrade turned to her with a puzzled expression, and the nurse nodded. Suddenly, Lestrade was alone, as Molly headed into John's room and the door closed behind her.
"What the hell is going on today?" he asked under his breath, before leaning back in his seat, and attempting a quick sleep.
000
It was over an hour later when John could begin to see the glow of the strip lighting through his eyelids. He opened them tentatively. He could smell alcohol wash, and knew instantly that he was lying in a hospital bed. With great difficulty, he turned his neck, to glance at the person sat in the chair beside him.
"Sherlock?"
"No, sorry," Molly replied sadly. "Molly." Her eyes were brimming with tears. "Oh my God, John."
John winced. It hurt to breathe. It also hurt to frown. He raised a hand with difficulty to his face, feeling the lacerations and sutures with his grazed fingers.
"Thank God you're ok. Well, not ok, obviously. You're alive…you're alive." She gave several staggered breaths to calm herself, and wiped frantically at her falling tears.
"What are you doing here?" John managed to croak. His mouth was sore, and he could taste blood.
"Oh, I was just passing," Molly stammered. "Greg's here. He's outside. I'll go get him." She stood quickly, looking suddenly relieved at the excuse to leave.
"Am I at Bart's?" John managed to ask. His face didn't seem to be working properly. Molly frowned at the question.
"No. UCH." She chewed on her lip anxiously. "Get better John," she kissed him carefully on his forehead and left quickly.
John didn't have time to think over the conversation, before Lestrade rushed in, looking thoroughly exhausted. John looked away guiltily and stared at the ceiling.
"Shit, John."
"I know, I'm sorry," he muttered. "What's the damage?"
"Well your face is a wreck, but I'm sure it'll just add to your rugged charm." John couldn't manage a smile. "Four broken ribs. They operated, to see what was what. Your kidneys have taken a beating. I think they took your appendix."
"Right," John said numbly. "Great."
"Who was he, John?"
John tried to shrug, and a sharp pain shot through his collar bone. He swallowed back a wave of nausea.
"Dunno. Is he dead?"
"Yes. They pronounced him at the scene. Someone was watching over you." Greg pulled at the heavy chair and sat down. He began to pour a glass of water from the plastic jug on the hospital table. John spoke up.
"It was Sherlock."
Lestrade stared at John, the jug still poised mid-air.
"What was Sherlock?"
John tried to clear his throat. The water was passed carefully to him, and he took a small sip. Lestrade took the glass back and stared at John expectantly.
"It was Sherlock who fired the gun."
The room felt heavy with silence. Lestrade ran a hand over his weary face.
"John –"
"I know it was him, Greg. I saw him. I saw him." John repeated this, more for himself than for Lestrade, who was looking down at him with a mixture of worry, pity and bafflement. "When I came to, in the middle of the road, I saw him. He was standing over me. It was him." Tears stung bitterly at his eyes. He wanted nothing more than to go home; back to Baker Street. To go back several harrowing months. To see Sherlock's face again.
"You're sure, are you?"
John faltered.
"Well, no. Not 100 per cent, but –"
"John, please," Greg sighed. "Don't do this to yourself. You're losing it. It's understandable. These past few months have been hell, even without all of this. Just…let's just get you back on your feet first. We'll talk about this again when you're feeling stronger."
John nodded. He felt a pain inside that was nothing to do with his trauma. Lestrade didn't believe him. With every second that passed, John knew he'd begin to doubt himself too.
