*Walks into room with calm demeanor*'Sup, guys? So this story's coming along nicely. *Totally loses it and flails in excitement, then abruptly calms down* Honestly didn't think I'd make it this far. Thank you for staying with me and showering me with such kind words and lending your support! 31 followers and 23 favorites. God, I love you people. Enjoy.
Everything was a blur around him. He was dimly aware of the fact that Lestrade and Donovan were in the room with him now. They were saying something, trying to get his attention, but their voiced were muted as if he were hearing them from under water. He felt Lestrade's hand on his shoulder, was aware that the DI was kneeling over Sherlock with him, but he only had eyes for Sherlock. His hands were covered in her blood as he applied pressure to her wounds. His heart ached when he felt one of her hands grasp his arm. There were tears in her glassy grey eyes as she mouthed his name, her lips spattered with crimson.
"Just hold on, Sherlock. Just stay with me. Don't leave me again." he chanted lowly. "Look at me, don't you dare leave me again. You stay with me, do you understand?" There was so much blood, and her eyes were losing focus, and he was losing her all over again. His voice cracked. "Don't leave me again, Sherlock. Please. I need you."
He tried to fight Lestrade when the DI pulled him away from her until he realized that the paramedics had arrived, then simply slumped against the bed, aware that he was in shock. A paramedic was trying to talk to him, trying to help him. Without really hearing himself say it, he relayed his injuries. "Cracked rib, dislocated shoulder, contusions on shins." He felt himself being carried outside, and was content to be lead out of the flat. But the moment he realized they were trying to put him in a separate ambulance, he resisted.
"No!" he bellowed, wrestling out of the medic's grasp. "I need to stay with her! I won't leave her!"
"Let him ride with her!" came Lestrade's voice. When the medic made no move to prevent it, he climbed into the ambulance behind Sherlock. The drive to the hospital was a quick, hazy one which John would later have no recollection of.
When his self- awareness returned, he was sitting in a waiting room, his shoulder in a sling with ice, his shins covered with ice packs, his ribs taped up tightly, and a pink blanket draped on his shoulders. Seeing the familir material would have brought a smile to his face were it not for the reason behind his shock. He looked up to see that he wasn't alone. Sitting across from him was Lestrade, and on one side, Donovan, and on his other side sat Mycroft. Anthea hovered behind him, her phone out, but her fingers motionless over the keyboard. To his surprise, he also noticed Henry Knight and Angelo standing between Molly Hooper and Mrs. Hudson.
Noticing his return to reality, Mycroft sat forward. "John," he said gently. At the sound of his voice, everyone in the room turned to him. Mrs. Hudson scurried to his side, beginning to fuss over him, and Molly quickly followed, placing a small, comforting hand on his uninjured shoulder.
"Sherlock is still in surgery. We've been here for five hours." Mycroft answered John's unspoken question. Lestrade questioned him while Donovan catalogued the details. Just after the last answer, the surgeon entered the waiting room, still wearing his scrubs, though it didn't have many bloodstains.
"Sherlock Holmes," he called. Everyone stood. John winced as he put weight on his injured legs. "She's stable, but she's lost a lot of blood. She's under anesthesia. She'll be staying here for a while, I'm afraid."
John stepped forward. "Can I see her?"
The surgeon looked at him with something akin to pity in his eyes. "As I said, she is under anesthesia-"
"I know what you said," John snapped. "Can I see her?"
For a moment, the doctor looked somewhat offended, then nodded, "You can, but only for a short amount of time. Visiting hours haven't started yet." Vaguely, John wondered if this freebie was because of Sherlock's brother. Painfully, he made his way to her room, following the doctor with trepidation. All he could see in his mind's eye was Sherlock's blood- stained shirt, how the soaked fabric glistened in the light. He knew Sherlock's words would haunt his every nightmare from now to Judgment Day, the words she'd had to force around her own blood as it filled her throat.
"You're too important to me."
Recalling her raspy voice made him physically ill. His stomach churned at the quaver in the voice that had always been so confidant and calculating. He shuddered at the memory of the glaze that had covered those sharp grey eyes, the vanishing awareness not unlike the dark that followed the supernova of a collapsed star. It was so like when Sherlock had faked her death at St. Barts; the blood glistening, the clouded eyes, the unnatural stillness that gripped her.
Desperate to skirt the mass of agonizing thoughts and memories, John trained his eyes forward, analyzing the doctor he was following. He was a short, thin man with a prominent bald spot that seemed to almost shine in the light, and his narrow shoulders were pulled back and up slightly. This was a physical manifestation of anxiety, either from the stress of the surgery or the fact that Mycroft would probably blacklist him if anything went wrong. The doctor walked somewhat crookedly, favoring his left foot and compensating for the off- kilter stride by walking at a slight diagonal angle, keeping him centered. In his left hand, he loosely gripped a clipboard, and upon closer inspection, John realized his fingers were somewhat withered compared to his other hand. Looking back up again, he noticed that while both shoulders were hunched, the left hung just a bit lower. This man's had a stroke, he thought. He wasn't able to tell much else without seeing the doctor's face, and he knew that Sherlock would be disappointed in his lack of deductive reasoning.
Before John could lose himself in the many memories of the detective berating him for being "an idiot"( My god, what must I be like in your funny little brains?), the doctor came to a stop in front of a large window.
"Here you are, Mr. Watson. I'll come back for you in five minutes." He said curtly, his reedy voice making John's eye twitch in irritation.
"Thank you," he said stiffly, then turned to look through the window. He heard the doctor's footsteps retreat and leaned one elbow on the windowsill. Through the glass, he could see her, lying on a bed with tubes coming out of her that contained a red substance. Transfusion, he thought dully.
He could see her heart monitor, which showed a steady beat. He could see the gentle rise and fall of her chest as she slept. And yet, he could not feel relieved. Sherlock was pale, so much paler than normal, and the prominent cheekbones that normally gave her an air of regality now made her cheeks and eyes look sunken in, as if she were in the grip of death. Her hands, once nimble and dexterous, were now withered and still. The longer he looked at her, the more the pressure behind his eyes built up. Seeing her so still, so cold, broke something in him. It was so wrong, so painful. John began to breath in short gasps, and he felt hot tears spill over. If he could just touch her, feel her pulse in her wrist for himself, he would be able to calm himself. But he couldn't; For her safety, he couldn't touch her. A sheet of glass was all that separated him from her, what separated him from hope, from contentment, from being whole, and it killed him.
Desperately trying to think of anything that hadn't lead up to this moment, or any other situation in which Sherlock had been harmed, his thoughts turned to the surgeon. He tried to conjure up the man's face in an effort to deduce everything he could, like Sherlock had taught him. He'd been, for the most part, non- descript; other than the fact that he'd had a strokeā¦
John felt his heart plummet and he cursed explosively, his head snapping up to gaze in terror at Sherlock. Christ, any hospital worth its salt would never let a man with such a condition operate on another human being! The man was a fraud, but what was his game? Sherlock was alright, but he had a feeling that could change quickly. He ripped his phone out to text Mycroft, to warn him, when he received a text from a blocked number. Dread settled in the pit of his stomach like a block of ice as he unlocked the phone to read the message.
Just figured it out, huh Johnny boy? This was fun! I can't wait to play with you again!-SS
The Scarlet Scythe was still alive, and he'd set his sights on Sherlock.
Well, if he wanted her, he'd have to go through John Hamish Watson first, and he had no intention of letting Sherlock down again.
Seriously, guys, your lovely reviews are my life blood. I very nearly gave up on this story, which is why it took so long to update. But I realized I couldn't quit, not when you guys got me so far already. So, tell me: what do you think of my serial killer? Too lame? I did my best, and if this story cooperates with me, we'll be seeing the Scarlet Scythe again. His character was inspired by a song produced by Two Steps From Hell. The song is called "Exhumed". Go check it out!
