His First Breath
Heaven touched earth there in the intensive care ward. The nurses of the sleeping hospital stirred lively with the expectation of a self-fulfilling prophecy. Even they weren't aware that their eagerness and the room had shifted, changed. John was here alone now. If John was here alone, then surely Sherlock would wake up.
Being born again is a strange experience. To let go of who one was before. Whether you were great or wretched, good or evil, it was a trifle thing. Where you ended was the coma, and where you began was uncertain.
John stood at the foot of the bed on the swells of despair. This was a losing battle. It always feels that way at the ending of anything, or anyone. John was turning to go when it happened.
Sherlock woke up. As if out of a dream. He sat up, tore the intubation from his throat.
One gasp. One powerful rush of air, the sea to the shoreline. Sherlock Holmes, the greatest detective the world had ever known, was alive. For the first time, alive from the dead. Born from the river, swaddled in the euphoria of comatose. But given life only by the shadow of the man in the room.
Sherlock looked at John. For a moment they just stared at one another. Ice blue emanating the curiosity that comes after consciousness. It's a painful experience. To be born. To wake from the innocent dream of incubation only to realize the awesome responsibility of being alive. Of being a soul in a world of other souls that one may influence.
"John."
The newborn spoke his first word. Only one word would have fit. There were little pieces left of the man he'd been in the man he would be hereafter.
"Sherlock…" John was born again as soon as the word was said. As if it invoked a spirit. A spirit of companionship that had been missing since Sherlock fell.
Sherlock spread his hands on the white sheets, blinking.
"God, I've a long story to tell, don't I?"
John pulled up a chair.
"I've got time."
"First off, I'm sorry I lied." There it was. The ghost of the man who died. John shook his head.
"From what I've heard, you had your reasons. But here you are. Newly resurrected. So none of that other stuff matters now." John smiled.
Sherlock, this newborn Sherlock, laughed and pleasantly so. Never had a more musical sound graced John Watson's ears. It took his breath and hushed the roar of questions in his head.
Just as it came, the laughter trilled away to silence. Sherlock shook his head smiling still. He took John's hand and lay back in the pillows. It was as if he'd searched the Underworld for a pearl of great price, and found it in the end.
"Right, well, this all has to do with Moriarty and the disbanding of the Great Web."