AN: Are you guys sick of me apologising for taking forever to update yet? If not, here is another apology. Summers are crazy, what can I say? And I started a new job so that's good because: money. But not the best when it comes to free time. Anyways! I hope you guys like this chapter. I worked hard on it every time I had a chance. You all are amazing and wonderful.
xxHoney
John sips the last of his cold tea and watches the fire burn down to its embers. He sighs, putting his RAMC mug on the small table next to him, and looks down at Sherlock nestled in his lap.
He fell asleep ages ago, his toy bumblebee sandwiched between him and the boy's chest as his head lolls in the crook of John's arm. He's unconsciously holding his right hand tucked close to himself, and John frets at the loss of the splint. His fracture was healing nicely, but it would be sore for a while yet, not to mention fragile. They would have to get a new one tomorrow when they stopped by the hospital. For now, one night wouldn't harm anything, and John makes a note to wrap it in an elastic bandage come morning.
The list he was compiling helped quell the roaring in his head. He always felt better when he had a task that needed to be accomplished. It helped him from going off the rails when he felt like the world around him was slipping from his stoic control. He needed to call Lestrade in a moment, inform him that someone (earlier insufferable company excluded) was stalking them. To think Sherlock could have very well been snatched back into the hands of the people who hurt him is enough to make the tea in John's gut turn sour.
Sherlock nuzzles closer and subconsciously tucks his middle two fingers into his mouth, his brow furrowing in sleep. John brings his thumb up and smoothes the faint creases of worry, his heart pounding with a mixture of heartache and guilt. He should have been there — shouldn't have let him out of his sight even for a moment. Sherlock was so smart and independent it was easy to forget he was so young because he was so capable. And then that bloody Mycroft dogging his steps like a blood hound, just waiting for him to sod everything up. He was probably compiling evidence this very moment on John's ineptitude as a guardian that he could sing to the courts, and with his affluence and resources…well. Did John stand any sort of chance?
He pinches the bridge of his nose in attempt to ward off a tension headache, and breathes out. He was drowning in the mire of doubt again, and he had to keep it together. One step at a time. And the first step was putting his exhausted little boy to bed.
Carefully, John lifts Sherlock up into his arms and makes his way back to his own bedroom. Today was a rough day, and John figured one night in his bed wouldn't do much harm. Chances are if Sherlock were to wake up in his room, he would only crawl right back into John's anyhow. He was tenacious that way.
John settles Sherlock under the thick duvet, smirking when he immediately flops on his belly like a fish, stretching his legs out and making himself right at home with his stuffed toy tucked soundly under his chin. It was likely he would migrate to the dead centre of the bed before long, and John rues the lack of sleep he knows he's going to get with his clingy little bedfellow. He stoops and drops a kiss on his forehead, sighing with exasperated fondness when Sherlock snuffles and turns over.
John reaches a hand out to smooth over Sherlock's back, when he is suddenly stricken with visions of an empty bed, a devoid flat, and that dreadful gaping maw of ineptitude which had ensnared him all those months ago.
God. He cannot lose this.
It's enough to suck the air out of his lungs and he snatches his hand back, the idea of breaching the distance suddenly and intensely painful. He wipes that hand down his face instead, and makes his way back out into the quiet sitting room.
He looks around, eyes lighting over the little bits of evidence left behind — colourful toy blocks, picture books, broken crayons — items that a mere week and a half ago didn't belong in his life. Just picturing their absence now is enough to make John's throat tighten, and his heart beat faster.
John sits heavily in his chair, and rests his head in his hands, allowing his elbows to press into his thighs a little too hard to be considered comfortable. Not for the first time, he wonders about his intense attachment to Sherlock, and a small voice in the back of his mind registers that it is perhaps a little more than unusual. He realised the moment he couldn't make it work with Sarah of all people, that he wasn't cut out for the domestic picket-fence life after all. So, where in the hell did this fierce paternal streak even come from?
Perhaps a shrink would say John recognised himself whenever he looked at Sherlock. Perhaps they would be right.
But, John knows the truth is not so textbook or cliché. No…the real explanation of the strength of his feelings lies within the fact that from the moment he set eyes on Sherlock, something broken and barely limping along inside of him was wholly, and miraculously fixed. The lack of that hateful cane was testament enough, if one were to require proof.
Maybe it was his nature to be relied upon — to rescue. It started with the need to shield his mother and sister from the cruelty of his own father, which later translated into a doctor and then a soldier, until helping people was synonymous to breathing. When he came back, he damn near forgot how to function, the phantom pain setting up camp in his otherwise perfectly fine leg a constant reminder of his purposelessness. He was circling long before he found Sherlock. He just didn't realise how deep.
That might be the crux of the problem, John notes, hands dropping to hang heavily between his knees.
He was being selfish.
It was one thing to save Sherlock from the deplorable circumstances he was living in — after all it was any Good Samaritan's prerogative. No one with a decent bone in their body could have walked away from that. But now, one could argue that he had fulfilled his civil duty. Any court of law is more prone to side with a child's next of kin, and now that a blood relative has come forward to claim custody, it would only be good decorum to step aside, content in the knowledge that he had done more than enough to secure Sherlock's well-being.
Besides, what can he possibly offer Sherlock that Mycroft couldn't? He isn't a wealthy man. In fact he was barely making ends meet as it was before Sherlock came into the picture. He doesn't have influence, a family legacy, culture…anything. He's just John Watson. All he has to give is what? Love? An abundance of it surely, but is it enough?
An image of Sherlock's trusting face swims into his vision. The feeling of his little arms wrapping around his neck comes next, and John has to physically shake himself so he can get a grip. He really couldn't afford to think about all of this right now. What mattered was figuring out just what in the hell happened at the park today. With a sigh, John rubs the back of his neck, and pulls himself to his feet. He gives in to the restless need to pace the floor a few times before he snatches his mobile off the coffee table, dialing Inspector Lestrade's number.
The man picks up on the third ring with a formally brusque greeting.
"Lestrade."
"Yes, Inspector. This is Dr. John Watson."
"Yes, I remember. Everything all right?"
"No, actually," John says, pacing the floor again. "We've had a little incident…"
-oOo-
By the time John finishes detailing the events that transpired with Sherlock and his near-abductor, John is at his wits end, and practically dead on his feet.
He shuffles back towards his bedroom after turning off the lights and stirring the embers, and remembers his little bed octopus tangled up in the ocean of bedclothes. The only thing visible is his tuft of unruly black curls peeking out from the top of the coverlet. John feels a warm twinge in the vicinity of his heart, and leans over Sherlock, gently manouvreing him to the side of the bed furthest from the door. He's utterly dead to the world, and given all the excitement he's had today, it's not a wonder.
John dresses down to his boxers and undershirt, not having the patience to fumble for his pyjamas in the dark, and slides under the covers next to the warm, sleepy mass snoring gently beside him. He is asleep within moments.
That night the nightmares, which had been blessedly absent since Sherlock came to live with him, returned with a vengeance.
He jolts awake, trembling, face clammy with sweat and drying tears, the residual sound of a woman screaming in terrified Pashto ringing in his ears.
"Please!" she begged in his memory — for that's what the dream was, John realises. "You are a doctor. Help my son! Help my son!"
But there was nothing he could do for him, the young man having succumbed to the shrapnel wound in his abdomen before they arrived. Even if he had still been alive when John and his company passed through the small village, there wouldn't have been much else he could do for the lad besides make him comfortable.
The screams of that woman, though. He doesn't think he will ever forget them.
He swipes a hand over his face, and stares blankly into the greyness. It's much too early to be awake, London still slumbering outside the walls of his bedroom. John knows he won't be able to fall back asleep despite how weary he is. He pulls a deep breath into his lungs, holding it before letting his chest deflate in attempt to slow his racing heart.
Just then, a small hand smacks him in the centre of his chest, startling him out of his reverie and effectively dragging him back into the present. He turns his head, and practically gets a face full of curls for his trouble.
Sherlock, at least, was sleeping peacefully. Which was a relief, all things considered. He nearly forgot the little boy was in his bed tonight, and says a silent prayer of thanks to whoever may be listening that this time it wasn't a night terror. Even though he hasn't had one of those for quite some time, he shivers to think of what could have happened if his nightmares turned violent.
As if subconsciously sensing John's distress, Sherlock burrows in closer while managing to shimmy under the blankets until his head is eclipsed from view. John chuckles softly, lifting the duvet so he could check on his little hobbit. He can't really see, but from what he can tell, Sherlock's face is pressed into John's side and his uninjured fist is wrapped in John's shirt. He doesn't know how that can possibly be comfortable, but the contented little huffs of breath speak otherwise, so John lowers the blankets.
"Strange child," he whispers fondly, his hand resting on Sherlock's back. Surprisingly, John feels himself relaxing again, his mind quieting as he counts the deep rise and fall of Sherlock's breathing. He lets go of his doubt and anxiety at least for the remainder of the night, his eyes slipping shut once more.
-oOo-
The day was a muted grey and bitterly cold causing John's shoulder to ache even before they left the flat. Sherlock insisted on having his blue scarf with him even though it was overdue for a wash. When John tried to explain this to him, however, Sherlock wasn't having it, his cheeks flushing with anxiety at the mere thought of leaving it behind. John didn't think too much of it, until they had to double back because Sherlock forgot his stuffed bumblebee, dissolving into tears when John attempted to coax him to go without so they could try and catch the Tube.
"I'm sorry we missed the train, John," Sherlock mumbles sadly.
They are currently sitting in a taxi, Sherlock facing him on John's lap as he fiddles with the bumblebee's floppy wings. John's arms are encircling him, and he gives Sherlock an encouraging squeeze. This was progress, considering for the first half of the ride Sherlock had his face buried in John's jumper, and refused to come out. It's with no small measure of guilt when John realises Sherlock is anxious and scared beyond his realm of coping from the events that transpired yesterday. So if a mangy scarf and a stuffed toy were what Sherlock needed to feel safe…well. What was a little extra in cab fare?
"Ah, that's okay. The Tube is smelly, anyhow. Smells like feet," John says trying to cheer him up. "Smells like your feet." Sherlock purses his lips, trying not to smile, and John considers it a minor success. "Smells like feet, and boiled cabbage, and gopher guts."
Sherlock looks up at him. "Gopher guts?"
"Mmhm. Slimy ones."
"Ew-w!" Sherlock says, but his small smile says otherwise.
"Yep. The whole London Underground is run by trolls, and trolls are very smelly."
"John," Sherlock says, trying not to giggle. "there are no such things as trolls."
"And how would you know? Have you ever met one?" John challenges.
"No," Sherlock says frowning.
"Then for all you know, you could be a troll."
"John!" Sherlock says, finally giving in to a little bit of laughter. "I'm not a troll!"
"Yes, yes, you could be," John says with mock-seriousness. "I could be a troll, too. Who knows?"
Sherlock smiles, and puts a finger up to his chin, tapping as if in contemplation. "I don't think I mind being a troll if you're one, too."
"Yeah?" John says, bouncing Sherlock on his knees a little.
"Yeah. We can be the troll family," he decides.
John's eyebrows rise slightly at this. Family. The simplicity with which Sherlock says this causes John's throat to tighten.
"You bet," he says, trying his best to quash the sudden doubt that wells up at the image of Mycroft Holmes's looming shadow. Sherlock give a little hum, eyes drifting down to the toy in his lap once more. John notices the dark circles under his eyes and assesses him a moment, shoving aside his own lingering worries. "You okay, kiddo?"
"Mmhm," Sherlock says. He doesn't look up, though, and after a moment curls against John's chest again, fist clutching his jumper. John sighs, and cups the back of his head holding him close, taking a bit of comfort for himself as the cab drives on.
When they finally pull up in front of St. Bart's, Sherlock is asleep.
"Sherlock," John says. "Time to wake up; we're here."
Sherlock jolts awake, panicked at first until John soothes him by tucking the scarf more securely around his neck. He pays the cabbie, and climbs out of the taxi with his arms full of a Sherlock who was supremely disinterested in walking apparently, and decides that their first stop would be getting Sherlock's arm sorted. Chances are, Michelle was still tired from her aneurysm procedure, and their well-wishing could keep for a little while longer.
While they are waiting for the elevator to take them up to paeds, however, Sherlock tugs on John's sleeve and points to the gift shop. In the shop window there sits a modest bouquet of wildflowers, with a 'Get Well Soon' card pinioned in the centre of the cheery blooms.
"Mrs. Husdon says flowers are a good way of cheering people up. She got some from Mr. Chatterjee the other day because he was apologising for having to cancel their date even though he was really seeing his wife instead," Sherlock says before clapping a hand over his mouth, eyes wide and guilty.
John blinks at him, astonished. Sherlock's deductions would never cease to amaze him, he was sure. "Sherlock…does Mrs. Hudson know about Mr. Chatterjee's wife?"
"No. I told myself I wasn't going to say anything because sometimes she gets sad about Mr. Chatterjee, and I think this will make her even sadder. I don't like making Mrs. Husdon sad," he says softly.
John sighs. "No, I don't like making her sad either. Maybe we will keep this between us for the time being, hm?"
"Okay," Sherlock says, nodding fiercely.
"But in the mean time, I think flowers are a wonderful idea," John says, and Sherlock positively beams at him, perking up a little much to John's relief. In his enthusiasm, John even lets him pick out a stuffed animal, and after searching for something other than the generic teddy bears that Sherlock deemed too boring, they settle on, of all things, a plush hedgehog.
"His name is Mike because of his stef-o-cope," Sherlock says, tugging on said stethoscope before pressing the fuzzy hedgehog close to his chest along with his bumblebee. John laughs, and the clerk lets him hold it while she rings them out, a soft smile on her lips.
Sherlock was much too excited after that and wanted to deliver the presents he picked out straight away, his right hand squeezing John's despite any discomfort he may have still been feeling in his arm. They make their way past A&E, and down the corridor that leads to recovery, Sherlock trying his hardest not to get too far ahead of himself. One of his shoes is untied, aglets clicking along the linoleum with every eager step.
"We have to be quiet in case she's still asleep," John says as they stop outside her door.
"But…" Sherlock says, looking between the flowers and the hedgehog with a crestfallen expression. "If she's asleep, how will she know it's from us?"
"Oh, I wouldn't worry about that," comes jovial voice from behind them. John turns at the sound and finds Stamford with a paper bag, and a warm, if not tired smile. "She's been up for the past three hours complaining about hospital food. How's the arm, Sherlock?"
"Good. Thank you Dr. Stamford," Sherlock says shyly, leaving the 't' inadvertently out of his name so it ends up sounding like Sam-ford. He grips onto John's trouser leg, pressing against him.
"We were actually going to make a stop by your office for one last check-up, and perhaps a new brace. Ours ended up getting lost."
"Ah. Well, Michelle will love to see you, please come in, come in," Mike says, opening the door for them.
"Mike?" comes Michelle's voice from behind the privacy curtain. "Did you make sure to get the pastrami I like?"
"Of course I did, love. Also brought along some friends while I was at it," he says, drawing back the drape.
Michelle sits propped up, thick gauze around her head, looking no worse for the wear aside from post-op swelling and bruising.
"John! Oh my goodness, I didn't know you and Sherlock were coming by," she says. "You brought flowers."
"Of course we came by," John says, setting the flowers on the table next to her. "These were Sherlock's idea." Michelle smiles, and John lifts him up so he could sit on the edge of the bed.
"Are they?" Michelle asks. Sherlock nods, not meeting her eyes. He holds out the hedgehog instead.
"He also picked this little fella out for you as well," John prompts when Sherlock doesn't say anything.
"This is wonderful! Thank you, sweetheart," she says, settling the hedgehog beside her. "He'll be perfect at keeping me company during the night."
Sherlock nods and shuffles closer, sitting on his knees with hands folded in his lap. "His name is Mike because of his stef-o-cope," he says quietly. Stamford who was busy unwrapping a sandwich, chuckles robustly, drawing a hesitant smile from Sherlock.
"That's very clever of you," Michelle says laughing as well.
"Your head is better?" Sherlock asks after a moment. He leans forward a bit and just barely brushes his fingertips over the gauze against the side of her head. She catches his hand when he begins to lower it, and kisses his knuckles, causing him to giggle.
"Yes, much better," she says, her smile fading slightly. She shares a look with John, and he in turn glances at her husband. Stamford tightens his jaw slightly, but nods before setting a plastic cup of water down next to the prepared lunch.
"I'm going to go see about that dressing for your boy's arm," he says a little gruffly, and without anything other than a strained smile, he exits the room.
Michelle sighs. "He's still mad at me for not telling him sooner."
"It's understandable." John tries to say it with some modicum of delicacy, but he doesn't quite manage to smooth all of the hard edges that have crept in involuntarily. After all, Mike wasn't the only one who had worried about her. He clears his throat, and tries again. "I am glad you did, though, Mich."
"I am too," she says, breathing out steadily as she blinks away the moisture in her eyes. She kisses Sherlock one more time on his cheek, and John helps him hop off the bed so he could put the hedgehog next to the flowers.
"Are things…going well for you two, besides?" John asks.
"We've decided to see someone; a counselor," she confirms, and John nods. "What about you? Have you found anyone yet like we talked about?"
"Er, no. I haven't," John says shifting awkwardly where he stands.
"John," she admonishes. "It's important. And in this case, quite necessary."
"Ta, for that."
"Don't be that way, you know what I mean. You didn't exactly have a rosy childhood, and now with this contention of custody, well. You know this Holmes is going to use anything as fodder against you."
"Ah, so you know about that, then," John says, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Of course I do. I'm Sherlock's social worker."
John gives a lengthy sigh. He lowers his voice. "You've seen stuff like this all the time. Tell me the truth: do I even have a chance?"
"You have a chance if you quit being a stubborn arse and listen to me," Michelle says.
"No, I'm serious. Holmes is next of kin and I…I'm just—"
"If you say 'nobody' I am going to beat you," she says, shaking her head. "Look. It is true courts will want to try and keep as much of the original family unit intact when it comes to the child's emotional well-being. But according to you, Holmes wasn't even aware of Sherlock's existence until recently. Until after you had been made his primary guardian. From an objective standpoint, he's just as much a stranger to the boy as you are. Even more so."
"Yeah, but, you don't know this guy. He's a government type; one of the higher-ups. I've seen him alter permanent records, for chrissakes."
"I don't care if he's the bloody Queen, I am not going to let some stuffy bureaucrat hustle me when it comes to the system. I've seen it all, and I have practise in laying some serious red tape from here all the way to Wales if I wanted. You forget, I went to school at first to be a solicitor, John. I can shuffle paperwork with some of the best."
John chuckles, allowing himself to be optimistic for once in light of her tenacity. "My god. You can be quite frightening, do you know that?"
"I do," she grins, and they both laugh. She grabs his hand, sobering. "Really, John. You might think the past is in the past, but if you haven't aired it out, it will only fester and explode. This is more than my profession opinion. You sometimes forget I was there; I was the one whose house you ran to in the middle of the night when you were scared and hurting. And then when we got older, I watched as you turned callous and distant."
"That wasn't necessarily a bad thing," John says, dully, remembering all the times it was necessary to disconnect from certain situations. Often times it was about pure survival in the end.
"You didn't even cry at the funeral," she says in a hushed voice as if she hates herself for bringing it up. And in that moment, John hates her a little bit, too. He pulls his hand out of hers.
"You expected me to grieve him? Him of all people?" he says, voice incredulous and low.
"No. I don't know. I expected you to react like a human being, I guess," Michelle says, clutching the dressing gown she was wearing a little closer to her. "It was like the straw that broke you somehow."
John clenches his jaw. She was wrong about that. His father's death was what finally set him free in a way; it freed him of his twisted sense of obligation, and spurred him to leave the wreckage behind and do something important with his life. He joined the Army shortly after, and he said he would never look back.
"I know you think you did the right thing by leaving," she says, summoning her uncanny ability to see right through him, "but even when you came back, you were listless and unreachable. You stopped taking phone calls, wouldn't see anybody, and decided you didn't want to be a doctor anymore. For a while we all thought we had lost you for good."
Her eyes shine again with tears, and he feels the anger drain out of him. "You didn't."
"I was worried, though. Greatly worried. Still am most of the time. But when I see you with Sherlock, I don't doubt that you've found your purpose again, and believe me when I say nothing gives me greater joy than seeing you smile for real." She seeks out his hand again, squeezing in a silent apology before her watery smile fades back into a concerned frown. "But you can't put all of that expectation on Sherlock, John. You can't just live for him; it doesn't work like that."
John swallows hard against the defensive indignation that wants to rise to the surface. The only reason he doesn't offer up a bitten off reply or a tepid denial is because, deep down, he knows she's right. A fission of shame coils low in his gut when the image of his sister comes to his mind.
He tried, oh did he try. As the oldest, John tried everything he could to protect Harry and his mum when his father flew off in a drunken rage. He got good at recognising when the old man was spoiling for a fight, and he would intentionally piss him off just so he could take the brunt of his fury.
This protector instinct inside him only grew into a conflagration when their mother died. He did what ever it took to get them both out of that house, gaining custody of her when he was barely eighteen, and she sixteen.
What he didn't anticipate, however, was that the one person he would ever fail to protect Harry from was herself.
Her self sabotage drove him to a fury he didn't even know he harboured. How could she do this after all he had done? After the beating he took in her place when it came out that she was a lesbian? After waking up after that in hospital with three broken ribs, and a concussion that nearly killed him? For her to willingly kill herself the slowest way possible, and then force him to watch as she succumbed to an empty bottle - the very thing that made him hate his own father. It was just too much.
So, he enlisted, washing his hands of her completely, and that was that. Or so he thought.
It wasn't until after he was shot and nearly bleeding out on the sand that he realised his whole life he had been living for others, and for once —Please, God! Let me live! — he wanted to just…
"Are you saying…I drove my sister to drink because of the expectations I placed on her?" John asks, voice flat.
Michelle's eyebrows fly upward, and her mouth drops open slightly in shock. "Christ, John, no! Absolutely not. Harriet has made a mess of her own life, don't you dare blame yourself for that."
"It makes sense, in a way," John says, feeling cold. "My mother — the official record said she died due to diabetic complications. But underneath it all I didn't buy it. Not really. I don't think Harry did either. I mean, how everyone could have overlooked insulin poisoning is beyond me. The signs were clear, and I know for a fact Harry blamed her for abandoning us." He stops here, and Michelle grips his hand again, sweeping her thumb over the tops of his knuckles. "After she was gone, it was just the two of us, and I would be damned if I lost her, too."
"Oh, John," Michelle says.
"But I think that may have been my problem," he rushes. He has to continue, to get it out. Confess. Because it's all so blindingly clear to him now. "I held on too tight, and she felt like she was drowning, and god, I didn't see."
John is embarrassed to feel tears stinging his eyes, and he gives a half-aborted chuckle, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"Do you believe me now when I tell you therapy will help? Because it sounds to me like Harry isn't the only one drowning," she says, face earnest and full of compassion.
"Yeah," he says hoarsely. "Yeah, I —"
"Knock, knock," Stamford says just then, entering with a new splint and a takeaway cup. "Not interrupting, am I?" he asks when he looks between the two of them.
"No, not at all," John says, releasing Michelle's hand.
"I leave you alone for ten bloody minutes, Watson, and of course you're chatting up my wife," he says good-naturedly. "What was that nickname you got from your squaddie days? Three Continents?"
"All right, that's enough out of you," Michelle teases. "What took you so long?"
"Decided to double back for some hot cocoa. I hear it's one of Sherlock's favourites. Where is the little bugger, anyway?" he says.
John looks around in horror, realising for the first time how quiet it is in the room. "Sherlock?" The only evidence of Sherlock having been there is the stuffed bumblebee sitting on one of the plastic chairs.
"But, he was just here," Michelle says in confusion.
"Sherlock?" John says, ducking down to see if he was under the bed. No such luck. He tries to calm his nerves, and he straightens up. "He must have got curious. It's not like him to go too far. I'll find him," he says, trying to tamp down the sudden bright panic flashing through him making his fingertips tingle, and his heart pound double time.
John exits the room swiftly, trying to reassure himself that no one in their right mind would let a little boy walk out of a hospital alone, and he's reasonably confident that Sherlock wouldn't just go quietly with any stranger. Especially not after yesterday. But just in case, he picks up his stride. He rounds the corner at a slight jog.
When he nears A&E, he has to slam on the brakes. A team of frantic doctors are shunting a young man on a gurney down the corridor towards the ICU, one pumping an ambu-bag, and the others taking vitals and shouting out directives.
The young man was coding, and John nearly forgets where he is for a moment, the urge to jump in and help nearly overwhelming.
The moment passes, however, and after the emergency team runs by, John spots Sherlock standing just a little ways from him. He follows the team of doctors with wide, wet eyes, face pale and lips bleached white, and from this distance John can see he's trembling slightly. There is also something clutched in his hands, held close as if his life depended on it. The doors to the ICU bang open making him flinch violently and it's as if the spell over him breaks, releasing him from his frozen terror.
John is at his side in an instant just as the tears spill over, and he tries to sink to the floor in a silent wail.
"Sherlock! Hey, it's all right, I'm here," John says, catching him as his knees suddenly turn to jelly. The near collapse in itself is worrying, but he pushes it to the back of his mind and focusses on the matter at hand, mainly trying to get Sherlock to breathe through his shuttered, wracking sobs. "Take a deep breath, Sherlock. You're going to make yourself sick, there's a lad."
"Joh — John!" he says, taking in huge gulps of air, and shaking in earnest. He's still clutching that thing to his chest, and John tries to pry it away. It's a shoe, he realises. The left half of a pair of trainers, white with blue stripes on the side. "It – it fell off. When they brought him in. It fell off, and I picked it up and I–I —" Sherlock stammers, letting John set the shoe on the ground.
"What, the boy? The boy dropped his shoe?" John asks, looking back at where the rubber doors are still swinging on their hinges.
Sherlock nods, and starts crying again, hunching in on himself like he usually does when he's desperately trying to stifle his tears. "It's my fault, John! M-my fault!"
"Oh, love, no. It's nobody's fault. Accidents happen. I'm sorry you had to witness that, but I'm sure he's going to be just fine," John says, trying to gather him close, but Sherlock struggles in his grasp, little hands pushing insistently on his chest.
"No! No, John, no! N-not a accident! My fa–fault. He helped me, John! And now…now he's going to die!" Sherlock says.
"Helped you?" John says, frowning. Sherlock nods and desperately clutches the front of John's jumper trying to get him to understand.
John looks over his shoulder once more, something niggling in the back of his brain. The young man on the gurney…he looked familiar, didn't he?
Sand. Desert. Afghanistan. A woman in an alley clutching her dead son to her as mortars explode in the distance…
'Please! You are a doctor! Help my son! Help my son!'
John shakes his head. No that wasn't it. He's in London, now. Not in Afghanistan. He looks back into Sherlock's face, reading the fear written in his eyes and he places it. Yesterday at the park, a young boy with jogging shoes in town visiting his aunt. He was training to be a lifeguard.
"Carl Powers?" John says. Sherlock's chin trembles and he lets out a strangled sob. His cheeks are flushed scarlet making his eyes look fever bright, and John checks his temperature with the back of his hand. He is warm.
"My fault," he whispers.
Yep...I killed Carl Powers. Sorry guys.