Chapter 7: White Walls
John followed the nurse down the cold hospital hallway, with Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson right behind him. John gripped tightly onto the orange shock blanket that was now off his shoulders and in his hands, making his knuckles turn white. He just stared straight forward with a stern look on his face. Other nurses in the hallway, whispered to each other and looked at him with a sympathy written all over their faces as he passed, as if they understood what he was feeling and knew what he is going through. John did not want their sympathy; he did not deserve it.
After a minute, they came up to a closed door; a private room. John gulped, knowing that they only give private rooms to people with serious conditions and for people on suicide watch; in Sherlock's case, probably both. He hoped Mrs. Hudson would not notice that.
The nurse pushed open the door for them, to reveal a small, white walled room with two chairs. There was a bed, with white sheets, against the back wall; the bed that held John's best friend. The nurse mumbled under her breath about needing to get something and left to give them time alone with the patient.
Sherlock looked small and frail; his skin almost as white as the sheets that were covering him. He wore a pale blue hospital gown and was hooked up to a bunch of wires and tubes, one of them being a ventilator that was down his throat, making him look even more alien-like. The only thing recognizable was the flop of dark brown curls on the top of his head that stuck to his forehead from the perspiration that formed. But the thing that caught John's attention the most was the white bandages that were covering Sherlock's long neck.
Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade entered the room behind John. Mrs. Hudson gasped when she saw Sherlock and tears started filling her eyes. Lestrade put a hand on the old woman's back and glanced at the body that lay in the bed before him and just as quickly looked away. He could not stand to see Sherlock like this.
John and Lestrade stood back as Mrs. Hudson slowly walked up to Sherlock's bedside. She softly placed a hand on the man's cold cheek. "Oh Sherlock; my dear boy," She spoke quietly, and leaned down to place a kiss on Sherlock's clammy, sweat covered forehead. She drew back her hand and looked down at the man, giving him a sad smile. After a moment she walked back in silence to her spot right next to Lestrade.
The room went quiet, minus the soft beeping sounds coming from the heart monitor. After a while Lestrade cleared his throat and said, "Mrs. Hudson, how 'bout we let John have some time alone with Sherlock, yeah?" Mrs. Hudson nodded and touched John's hand for reassurance, as the two of them walked out the door, it clicking shut behind them.
For a moment, all John could do was just stand still and stare down at his flat mate from his place at the other end of the room. Many thoughts swam through his head, most of them jumbling up and giving him a massive headache. The more common question that came to mind was, why. Why? Why did Sherlock do this to himself? John wanted to slap himself; of course he knew why. It was because of him that Sherlock was lying in this hospital, practically on life support.
John bowed his head and drew in a deep breath. He then covered his eyes with the hand that was not holding the shock blanket, hiding the tears that fell from his eyes. The guilt spread through his body like poison and compressed against his heart, making it ache. "I am sorry; I am so, so sorry I did this to you," John said, his voice wavered uncontrollably. He felt like he was going to collapse on the floor; he really wanted to. But he continued to stand in the same position, unmoving. "Please forgive me; oh God, please forgive me," John pleaded, both to Sherlock and to the God he did not fully believe in.
John wanted to punch a wall, scream at the top of his lungs, crawl into the fetal position and cry himself to sleep; anything to let his anger and pain leave his body. He could not do it. He could not let the catharsis out of him. It just continued to bubble up inside him, threatening to spill over.
John rubbed his eyes and lifted his head after a while, the tears still streaming down his face, no matter how many times he wiped them away. He decided that he needed to sit down, since his leg was starting to hurt him. It was good pain though, numbing pain; pain that he deserved.
John grabbed one of the chairs and pulled it up to Sherlock's bed, placing the blanket on the ground next to it. He sat down slowly, as if Sherlock was only sleeping, and he did not want to wake him from any sudden movements.
At the moment, all John could do was watch his friend's chest rise and fall, rise and fall. It comforted him in a way that nothing else could have. John softly pressed his fingers against Sherlock's wrist and felt his pulse, checking for himself that he was not dreaming and that Sherlock was truly alive. The heart beat was soft, but steady; the most wonderful sign of life.
John held Sherlock's pale hand in his own, knowing that if Sherlock were awake, he would have quickly moved it away, scoffing at John's sympathy. Yeah, John thought, a small smile creeping across his face, that sounds like the Sherlock I know.
The smile slipped away as quickly as it formed, and John looked down at his lap. "Well um…" John spoke, his thoughts coming together to try and form a sentence. "I got the milk from the shop like you wanted me to. It has probably gone bad by now, though, since it did not exactly make it to the fridge." John sighed at his attempt of conversing with a man that he knew would not be able to answer him. He let out a breathy laugh and looked up at his flat mate. "Look at me going off about spoiled milk, like it is the most damn important thing in the world."
John wished that Sherlock could reply and say some kind of insulting, snarky comment, like he always did. He did not realize how much he treasured Sherlock's voice until now; now that it was silenced.
"I could go out and buy some more, if you really want me to. I-I promise I will never complain about it again…" John paused, closing his eyes for a moment, drawing in a deep breath. He hated feeling like this; feeling like the wind has been knocked out of you and never being able to bring in enough air to fill your lungs back up; feeling claustrophobic, like the walls were closing in on him, as if he were drowning. Is that how Sherlock felt like in his last few seconds? Drowning? John pushed the thought out of his head. He knew that he could never fathom what Sherlock felt while he saw the world around him go black.
John opened his eyes once more and looked back at his best friend. He waited a few seconds then continued. "Remember the first case we ever did together and how you called me an idiot? Well your right, you know. You are always right about everything, and you know it, too. You and your God damn brilliant, fantastic mind looking down at the world with knowing eyes, seeing everything that is hidden in the dark crevices of this earth..." John paused. "You should have told me. I would have not said all those terrible things if I knew that they hurt you. Sometimes I forget that you are human like the rest of us. I wish I could read people the way you can; this probably would not have happened if I could…"
The tears were falling more rapidly now. He slowly bowed his head and placed his forehead on his and Sherlock's intertwined hands, as his body shook from the sobs that racked through it. "I-I am so, so sorry. Please f-forgive me. I did not mean w-what I said. Please, Sherlock; oh God please forgive me…" He pleaded once more, even though he knew it would never make a difference.
This continued for about three minutes, until it was interrupted by a knock at the door. It opened to reveal the same nurse that brought them to Sherlock's room, but this time she carried a clipboard and a pen. She stopped suddenly once she realized that she intruded on the two men before her. "I'm sorry. I just came to check Sherlock's vitals. Do you want me to come back later?"
John lifted his head to look at the woman and cleared his throat, trying to hide the fact that he was sobbing, even though it was obvious by his wet face and how his body still shook. "No, i-it's fine. Go right ahead." He let go of Sherlock's hand and stood up, moving out of the way for the nurse.
John stood awkwardly off to the side, as the nurse moved toward the hospital bed. He was determining whether he should stay in the room or just leave. But the nurse's voice stopped him before he could make a decision.
"You saved his life, you know," The nurse said calmly as she looked over Sherlock. After John did not reply, she decided to change the subject to something less touchy. "Where did you learn your medical skills from, if you do not mind me asking?"
John rubbed the back of his neck, feeling slightly uncomfortable with the conversation, and spoke softly. "I was a doctor for the Royal Army Medical Corps deployed in Afghanistan."
"I knew you had to be army. I could tell by the way you hold yourself in front of people." She glanced back at him and smiled. John just nodded.
There was an awkward silence for a few seconds, both of them not knowing what to say next. After a while, it was finally broken by John's voice. "Um… will you excuse me? I am going to step out for a while," John said, trying to not be rude.
The nurse gave him another sympathetic smile, hoping that she did not make it too uncomfortable for him. "Okay. I will update you if anything else changes."
"Thank you." John pushed open the door and left the room. He gave out a small sigh of relief when he saw Greg leaning his back against the while wall beside the door. He looked around and realized that Mrs. Hudson was not with him.
"How are you feeling?" Greg asked as soon as he saw John walk into the hallway.
John ignored the question and turned toward the detective inspector, asking, "Where is Mrs. Hudson?"
"She left, the poor lady. It is a very troublesome thing for a woman of her age to come to a hospital, especially when it is for someone she really cares about. She would have told you, but she did not want to disturb you." Greg paused, and then continued. "She is really worried about you, you know; we both are."
John sighed, running his hand through his hair. "I am fine…"
"Do not lie to me, John. I can tell that you are far from fine, especially after I witnessed you having a mental breakdown in the waiting room not too long ago."
John avoided Greg's eyes by looking down at the floor, feeling slightly embarrassed. Greg walked toward John until they were about a foot apart and placed both of his hands on the other man's shoulders.
"John, look at me." John eventually looked up and stared into Greg's dark brown irises. After Greg decided that he had John's full attention, he continued. "Please, don't do this to yourself. It is literally terrifying to see you this way. You are a good man; in fact, you are one of the best men I have ever had the privilege to meet. You have affected the lives of so many people because of that big, damn heart of yours. You place everyone before yourself, even if it means that your life is put in danger, and that, John, is hard to come by in this selfish world of ours." Greg paused. "Ever since Sherlock met you, he has become a better man. You have changed him, even when the rest of us thought it was a hopeless cause. You saw past all his imperfections and found something that none of us could see. He really needed you, and he still does."
John did not reply as he continued to stare into the detective inspector's eyes, as if he were searching for any lingering truth in the words his friend said. Greg did not know what else he could say to make the other man understand that none of this was his fault and to make him feel better. So before he could think of what to do, much to his and John's surprise, Greg pulled John into a hug.
At first, John just stood there stiffly as the older man embraced him, but he slowly relaxed until both men were holding each other. Much to both of their dismay, it was quite comforting; it was not like an embrace that two lovers would give, but more like one that a father and a son or two best friends would share when they were both feeling a mutual pain. It was like they were telepathically telling each other that everything was going to be alright, even if it does not feel like it at the moment.
"Thank you," John whispered, half mindedly, as he stared straight ahead at the white wall behind Greg's back; the wall that separated John from the room where Sherlock is laying unconscious. Whether Greg was right or wrong, it still did not change the fact that John made a horrible mistake that almost cost his best friend's life. A mistake that was already fixed in time and one that can never be taken back.
Greg pulled out of the embrace and said warmly. "Like I said before, I am always here for you."
A/N: Hey everyone! Sorry again for another late update. I am trying my best to write whenever I have a free moment, even if it is only for ten minutes. This is my longest chapter in this story so far! Exciting! Anyway, I hope you liked this chapter and all its emotionalness-ness. It kind of gets depressing, but I hope the friendship at the end makes up for it. I always love seeing everyone's reviews! They help motivate me to continue writing. So yeah… Cheers!
