John was on his rounds when he got the text.
He was standing at the end of a bed of a young woman who was recovering from surgery, watching his intern ask questions and take notes on her chart, when he felt the buzz in his pocket. He pulled out the phone and read the text.
Sherlock Holmes is in A&E
At first he just stared at the text. Then he grit his teeth and put the phone back in his pocket.
"Frances, you've got this? I need to go down to emergency."
The intern looked up from her tablet and nodded. John turned to walk quickly down the hall and got about 10 steps before he started running.
Accidents and emergency. Of course that's where Sherlock would show up. What the hell has he gotten himself into this time?
As he rushed down the stairs, the images flashed in his mind: A drugged Sherlock, bruised and beat up, bloody with a stab wound or worse. A burned Sherlock after an exploded bomb or experiment. A crushed Sherlock with the impact wounds of a great fall. The creative ways that Sherlock could get himself maimed was endless.
By the time he had burst through the door to the emergency centre, he was braced for the worst. He passed swiftly by empty emergency room beds and was about to yell for the on-duty nurse when he heard Sherlock's unmistakable voice booming from around the corner. He rounded the turn, ready for whatever horror he was to find.
What he found was Sherlock standing in front of the formidable Nurse Matilda Masters, pointing down the hall and shouting. He wore a bright red scarf, a heavy blue sailor's jacket, a white wig and huge white, bushy eyebrows.
"... that man, Dost Akbar, is a suspect in a very important case," he was yelling at the nurse, "and if he dies of his wounds before I have the chance to interview him, you will have Scotland Yard to answer to!"
Matilda Masters was not the type who was easy to push around, however, and she put her hand on her ample hip and gave Sherlock one of her patented looks.
"I don't care who you are, sweety. Unless you produce a badge and a court order, I'm not letting you in there."
Sherlock howled in frustration, and then dropped his voice to a low, menacing register and stared at Nurse Masters.
"I really don't care about the unfortunate situation with your brother, nor am I sympathetic to your distress over the latest affair of your girlfriend —"
"Oi!" John yelled as he started walking quickly down the hallway towards them.
"— which you just found out about this morning. But it is clear that these meaningless dramas are preventing your puny mind from understanding the simple fact —"
John approached the two of them, reached out with his arms and pushed Sherlock hard.
"— that your obstructionist rules are illogical."
Sherlock stopped growling as his attention finally came into focus on a very angry John Watson standing in front him.
"What. The hell. Do you think you're doing?" John said.
Sherlock's expression became slack, the pretense of anger dropping. He seemed taken off guard as he stared at John's face.
"I was ... trying to see my client."
"Your client?" John squinted his eyes and tilted his head.
"My suspect," Sherlock modified, holding his head up high.
John shook his head and put his hands on his hips. "So which is it, your client or your suspect?"
"All right, fine," Sherlock said, suddenly calm and quiet. "I can't tell you who he is, not …" he looked at Nurse Masters. "... not now. But I need to talk with him. It's of utmost importance."
John turned to the nurse.
"I apologise on behalf of Mr. Holmes, Nurse Masters. This is completely unacceptable. I will handle this."
He then reached out, grabbed Sherlock roughly by the arm and dragged him outside. It was a chilly evening and the sky was charcoal and starless. John's breath steamed as he released Sherlock's arm.
"What are you doing here, Sherlock, really?" John tried again, keeping his voice lower this time.
Sherlock rubbed his arm and then pulled down his sailor jacket.
"I'm afraid, John, that out of context my interest would seem … a bit not good."
"And I'm afraid, Sherlock, that's just not good enough. Tell me the truth. You are here just to get my attention, aren't you? Fine. Well done. Here I am. Now what do you want?"
Sherlock smirked and put his hands in his pockets.
"Not everything is about you, John," Sherlock said. "However, the irony is that this is, indeed, about you, but not in the way you think. I did not come here for you. I came here for Dost Akbar, who is possibly dying from wounds he sustained while trying to escape a group of men who wanted information about a considerable lost fortune…."
Sherlock trailed off and John waited. But instead of continuing, Sherlock turned away and looked out into the streets.
"Yes?" John said impatiently after a few moments, but when it appeared Sherlock was disinclined to continue, he just sighed. "And will you please take off those ridiculous eyebrows? You look like Denis Healey."
"Who?" Sherlock said, raising a huge fluffy white eyebrow inquisitively.
"Never mind," John said, and he smiled despite himself. He pointed at Sherlock's face, and Sherlock reluctantly removed the fake eyebrows, making him look slightly less absurd.
But then he also took off the white wig, and John was not prepared for the buzzed hair and prominent scar underneath. Apparently Sherlock had shaved his entire head, and now he had about a month's worth of dark growth. It made him look sick and thin and reminded John he was still recovering from surgery.
"I was in disguise," Sherlock said softly, looking at the wig in his hands.
"Obviously," John said.
They stood there in the cool evening and watched each other warily, suddenly aware as the moment expanded that they were together for the first time since John had left Baker Street a month ago. John thought of the information he had left on the thumb drive, and he cleared his throat. He really didn't want to talk about it right now; he was at work and he wasn't sure he was ready to discuss the contents. But it was impossible for him to leave Sherlock outside either.
Ultimately it was John who spoke first.
"Well, regardless of why you're here, I can't let you in there, not while he's in surgery," John said and then shrugged. "But I can get some more information and let you know when he's conscious."
Sherlock nodded. "I'll wait."
John bit his cheek and checked his watch.
"Ok, well, um. If you want to sit and wait, I can get an update on Akbar and continue on my rounds and … check in with you a little later?"
Sherlock merely nodded and then strode imperiously into the waiting room and sat down, staring straight ahead. John went to speak quietly to Nurse Masters.
"Sorry 'bout that. If he makes any trouble at all, you let me know."
The nurse smiled and squeezed John's elbow.
"You bet, love. No worries. I can handle the likes of him."
John laughed. "Oh I know you can. I'll be back in about 20 minutes."
It was one of the strangest rounds Dr. John Watson had made in years.
As he headed back upstairs, a smile blossomed on his face and would not dislodge. For the next half hour, it was as if he could see the pulse of life run through the hospital, flowing through the hallways and providing nutrients and healing powers to every room. The doctors and nurses were the red and white blood cells, bringing oxygen and medicine and comfort to the people in their beds, water and light and hope. And each person he saw smiled back at him, infected by his glow.
He knew it was crazy. He knew he had to push this deep down, but he could not help himself. He could at least wait until the end of his rounds, right? For half an hour he could fill his mind and body with the sweetness of hope and the rushing stream of ….
He shook his head and greeted his last patient, a 74-year-old man recovering from a bad fall.
"Hello, Mr. Crenshaw, how are you feeling?" he said as he slid his finger along his tablet, scrolling down the hospital's chart.
"Oh, I'm alright. But maybe if I take whatever you're taking, I'll feel better," he said and wiggled his eyebrows.
John just laughed and continued his assessment. He took a few notes as he talked with Mr. Crenshaw, then closed down his tablet and went to his office. He changed jackets, closed and locked his office, and walked back downstairs to check in on the status of Dost Akbar.
Akbar had been stabbed in four places and had lost a lot of blood, but he was recovering from surgery and would be moved into a room soon. The anaesthesia would take a while to wear off, however, so it would be an hour or two before he was coherent. Also, the police were waiting to speak with him as well. John had the nurse take note to text him when it looked like Mr. Akbar was coming around.
John walked back into the waiting room and he found Sherlock stretched out on a bench in the corner, his hands folded across his chest, looking like he was asleep. John could tell better, however, and sat down in the chair across from him and waited.
He didn't mind sitting for a second and watching his old friend. It would give him a chance to rein in his emotions, just as he had held them back the last time he'd seen Sherlock. After nearly a week of cajoling from Mycroft, John had finally acquiesced to visit Sherlock at his apartment after the surgery. But first he made a video and loaded it and several others onto a thumb drive. If this was a call for help from Sherlock — which was the best case scenario — then out of respect for their past, he would do what he could to help.
He didn't want to believe it, though. He didn't dare to risk hope that Sherlock might actually be trying to turn his life around, but if this bizarre ruse of memory loss was an attempt to get away from the drug abuse and the cold-blooded violence, then maybe….
He shook his head and rubbed his eyes. Such a slippery slope, hope was. It lead down, down to false forgiveness and deception, back into the warmth of dysfunction and adrenaline, back to old addictions. But damn him if there wasn't happiness in there too.
He raised his head and found Sherlock's blue eyes staring at him.
"Ah, you're awake," John pretended.
"I wasn't asleep," Sherlock said.
John just smiled and nodded. After a beat, he checked his watch.
"Dost Akbar won't be awake enough to talk for another couple of hours."
"I see," Sherlock said and then faced the ceiling and closed his eyes again.
"I think the Union Shop is still open," John said tentatively, "if you want to… get a cup of coffee."
Sherlock turned his head and looked at him again silently, then he stood up and held out his arm for John to lead the way. They made their way to the nearly empty coffee shop and John bought them both cups of black coffee. As they sat at a table, the night settled around them. Even though it had been years since they spent any time together, the comfort of an old friendship is hard to shake off, and John was used to them looking at each other in silence.
But Sherlock seemed to become unsettled, and he looked away and spoke to the window next to him.
"Thank you for the files. I found them most … illuminating."
John raised his eyebrows.
"Did you? What was it you found most interesting?"
"I…." He took a sip of his coffee, stalling to find the words. "I enjoyed seeing your daughter. She looks like a lovely girl."
"Ah yes. She is lovely. And clever. Like her mother."
Sherlock looked up at him then.
"Her name is Sherri?"
"Yes," John said carefully, his eyebrows coming together as he eyed Sherlock sideways.
"Is Sherri short for something?"
"Sherrinford."
"Sherrinford?" Sherlock said with surprise.
"Yes, but you know this, Sherlock. You were there when we named her," John said with exasperation. He looked at the blank expression on Sherlock's face and then threw up his hands.
"Fine. As you know, she was attached to the name but I have no idea what she was thinking," John said. "Sherrinford Morstan Watson. Quite a mouthful, but…" John took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "But you always called her Sherri, so the nickname kind of stuck."
Sherlock just stared, his face expressionless. The only motions were his irises contracting and his barely perceptible breathing. John sat back and watched and waited. It was usually best to give Sherlock room to work through these little glitches, when emotional confusion sent his brain into an infinity loop — although sometimes it was difficult when Sherlock had entire conversations in his head without giving John the benefit of participating in them.
Despite himself, he suddenly remembered when he had asked Sherlock to be his best man. Sherlock had stood there in silence and claimed later they had had an entire conversation. John shook his head and gave a small amused huff at the memory.
The sound seemed to shake Sherlock out of his reverie.
"... must have been living…"
John took in a breath again as his heart squeezed in his chest.
"Pardon?"
"You never said on your blog. That we were… that I was… living with you and your daughter."
John looked down at his coffee and tried to compose himself. He shook his head. This ruse of Sherlock's was surprisingly solid, a well-constructed deception. Sherlock smoothly moved in and out of things he should and shouldn't know, and it was absurd that John was enabling this. But he supposed this was what he did. John humoured Sherlock, and they always did it Sherlock's way.
Although, now that he thought about it...
"My blog? I thought I took that down," John said.
"Oh, you did, but I found a copy of course. Nothing truly disappears from the Internet. So I knew you had a daughter, and I knew you had moved back to Baker Street, but I didn't quite realise…"
"...that I took my daughter with me? Uh, yes, Sherlock, that's what happens. Parents tend to take their children with them when they move. We lived with you for more than a year."
Sherlock nodded and looked disturbed, as if trying to comprehend. "I helped you with your daughter."
"You and Sherri were quite attached to each other, actually. And she still misses you, by the way. In case you're wondering."
"She misses me."
"Yes, Sherlock. Of course she does."
This was beginning to get ridiculous and exhausting. John checked his watch again. He was going to have to leave in a few minutes. He was expected home soon after 10 p.m.
"Can I meet her?" Sherlock said, and John raised his head in alarm.
"No, you can't see her. I haven't changed my mind, Sherlock, no matter what kind of game you're playing at," John said, his nostrils flaring. "Nothing has changed."
"Except that you and I are having coffee. It's my understanding that you haven't talked with me in two years. Why the sudden change of heart?"
John leaned back in the chair and glared at Sherlock. He hated that Sherlock could zero in so effectively on the things John was trying to avoid. But he decided to go with it and be honest.
"Ok, I'll admit, regardless of the fact that you are lying — and nothing you say can change my mind about that — you have changed. I'm hoping that maybe you actually want to turn your life around this time. You've been ruining yourself, Sherlock. You have been for years. You've made one bad decision after another. But despite the fact that I really do want you to make your life better, I can't be a part of it any more. Sherri can't be a part of it."
Then he leaned forward and looked Sherlock straight in the eye, holding it steady as he spoke quietly.
"But if you're really trying to get back to a time before all the drugs and lies and murder, I… want to support you in that."
"Take a case with me," Sherlock responded.
John just sat there with his mouth open.
"Have you not heard a single word I just said?"
"Yes, I did. You want me to be healthy. Take a case with me, John. Just one last case. And then I'm going to retire."
John laughed and threw up his arms.
"You already retired, you crazy man. Remember? It was called joining MI-6 and becoming a hit man and a drug addict, or whatever it is you were doing. No, thank you. I'm not interested."
"No, John," Sherlock suddenly became intense and earnest. He reached forward and grabbed John's hand, refusing to let go.
"I can see why you did it. Why you left. You wanted to protect your daughter. I still have not fully deduced why it took you a full year after Mary's death to decide that, why you moved in and then moved out again. There are so many threads to follow, so many things I'm missing. But you must know that I have no interest in returning to the lifestyle that landed me in this predicament.
"John," Sherlock said, and drew John's hand in closer. John's face tightened in defense of whatever Sherlock was trying to do.
"John, I know you have lost a great deal, but please. Help me in this. One more case, and then I will retire to the country."
He let go of John's hand and looked out the window again.
"I have resolved to buy a cottage and grow apples."
John's face screwed up, not knowing if he should laugh or cry. He could never guess what was going to come out of Sherlock's mouth.
"Apples? But what about bees?"
"Bees? Why would I want to raise bees?"
"Because you've wanted to since you were a little boy, since you discovered the wild honey on your aunt's farm."
Sherlock tilted his head. "I've never told anyone about the wild honey."
"You've told me all kinds of secrets, Sherlock," John said, suddenly blushing and going silent.
Sherlock just studied him, his eyes slightly squinted. John could tell he was deducing, looking at John's eyes, his hair, the way he breathed. John decided that was enough for the night. He stood up and put on his jacket.
"I need to get home. Marie is expecting me."
Sherlock simply nodded and continued to watch John carefully. John shook his head and turned to leave. But as he was walking through the doors into the nighttime air, he heard Sherlock call out to him.
"Just one last case. It's all I ask."