Chapter Fourteen
He had never felt this relieved in his entire life. The noise around them was drowned out. It was only them for that moment, only two men, happy to be alive.
"Does it hurt?" He wanted to say so many things, but he knew that this was neither the right time nor the right place. He leaned over Sherlock to check on the wound and found that his skin was impossibly white in contrast to the red blood that was seeping out between his fingers.
"Fuck." He jerked his hands back in shock. He still had the other man's blood on his hands and he was being anything but sanitary right now. But then again, there was dirt and blood in war, and this was an emergency. Nevertheless, he pulled down Sherlock's shirt again to use as a layer between his dirty hands and the wound.
He felt his muscles move under his hands. Sherlock was impossibly skinny, and yet, he was surprised to feel such strength under his fingers. But of course his physical control had to come from somewhere, and he had seen Sherlock do things that not even stunt men would do without being paid extra.
"It's okay." Sherlock tried to calm him down. He was the one bleeding from a wound that he had put in his side and he was trying to calm him down. John bit is tongue as to keep his calm.
Finally he was ready to face the world around them, lifting his head to see the whole hall full of police. They had shattered one of the glass fronts and he was pretty sure that they had followed Moriarty up onto the roof. With a sinking heart he understood that Moriarty had managed to get out of this alive. He should have killed him. One more second of his total concentration and he could have killed James Moriarty, who took sadistic pleasure in hurting everyone around him.
"I need some help here," he yelled. "I need a doctor."
Sherlock's hand was on his wrist. He was trying to get his attention. "I want you." He said it, matter of factly, and John stared at him in disbelief until something in his head clicked and he understood that Sherlock wanted him as his doctor. He felt his ears burn.
Trying to talk his way out of the embarrassing situation, he started to ask him questions.
"Did he drug you? What did he give you? Do you need anything? Water? They'll be here in a minute."
"John!" Demanding.
"You haven't eaten anything for days, have you? Your pulse is weak but alright. And a few stitches should do. I'm so sorry, but I had no choice and…"
"John." He spoke loudly, cringing in pain. "Just shut up for a second." His eyes seemed dangerously bright and John remembered that he had not been the only one shaken by the prospect of the other dying.
Somehow, his brain did not function properly. He just stared at him, unable to think about anything else than the way he had looked at him. He had never seen Sherlock sad. Never.
"John?" A different voice. Lestrade. Thank God!
"John, are you alright?"
He looked up at him, meeting his eyes. "John, are you okay?"
"I'm fine. I'm fine." He was far from fine, but Sherlock was the one that needed saving right now.
"God, what happened to you?"
"Never mind, please, we need an ambulance."
Lestrade took one look at Sherlock, whose hands were still bound and whose lips were raw from the tape that John had ripped off in panic, and pulled out his walkie talkie. Then he knelt down and cut the tape that forced Sherlock's hands together by the wrists and walked back towards the entrance, ordering medical staff to come in.
"John?" Sherlock sounded incredibly tired. "John, are you okay?"
John felt the tears come. He did not have the strength to fight them back anymore.
"No." He gasped. "I'm not okay." He leaned down, pressing his forehead against Sherlock's chest, keeping his hands in place. A sob escaped, and soon he was crying. He cried like he had not done since he was a child. He did not care about anyone watching him and he did not care what Sherlock might think. All the pain and anxiety and frustration and hatred and love came pouring out, overwhelming him.
He felt a hand on the back of his head. Sherlock's fingers gently curled into his hair. He didn't say anything, and John was thankful for it. Nothing he could have said would have made it better. He took a while to recover, but eventually he lifted his head again, the headache now back full force.
John did not want to look at Sherlock, but then again, he wanted so very much to look at him.
Sherlock had his eyes closed, and for a second John panicked again. Then the hand that was still in his hair tightened its grip and a second later moved around to his face. A long thumb was wiping away his tears. The moment was so intimate that John's heart seemed to explode. Something in him just snapped; something that seemed to have been there all this time and that now bubbled to the surface.
"John, move away." Lestrade had brought in a doctor, and he saw them roll in a stretcher.
"Are you hurt, John?" He only now noticed that Lestrade addressed him by his first name. Why was he doing that, he never called him John.
He adamantly shook his head, feeling it spin. Maybe he needed some water. Water would definitely be good.
The next thing he remembered was the sharp pain of a needle in his arm. His eyes flew open. Relieved he realised that he had only passed out for a short time, seeing Sherlock being hauled onto a stretcher. He needed to get up and follow him.
A doctor held him down with gentle pressure. "Don't move. You were unconscious for a minute and you have a fever, which seems rather bad. We'll get you something to drink and then take you to the hospital. Do you feel okay?"
John looked at him. He could feel the fever now. His whole body ached.
"I'm fine. I need to go with him," he murmured, his arm pointing into the general direction of where Sherlock was being wheeled away.
"I'm sorry, but you are in no state…"
John's look hardened. He might have passed out, but he would not leave Sherlock. For all he knew the doctor might work for Moriarty. He would not let Sherlock out of his sight.
"I have to." He pushed himself up, unstable for a second, but at least he had a goal he could make his way towards. Inhaling deeply, he followed the stretcher.
The cold wind outside shook him out of his dreamlike state. It was freezing, occasional snowflakes drifting down from an orange London sky. He could have cried again. He was alive.
John closed his eyes and enjoyed the cold against his face, but soon caught himself again and walked straight towards the ambulance that was waiting to take Sherlock to the hospital. "I need to go with him." There was no question.
The doctor looked at him, checking his state. "I would rather take you in on a stretcher, but if you think you can sit…" he waved his hand into the general direction of the ambulance.
"I can." John said, sure that his fever was not bad enough to cloud his judgment.
He climbed in after they had rolled Sherlock in.
"Can I stitch him up in here?" John was serious, but the doctor just regarded him with a critical look.
"I mean it." John was starting to feel desperate. His body was working against him and he needed to make sure that Sherlock would be okay.
"You can't. You've got blood all over you and your hands are shaking. You need to go to the hospital just as badly as he does, and as a patient!" He sounded resolute.
So instead of asking again, he leaned forward, taking Sherlock's hand, at least trying to pretend he was feeling for his pulse. He opened his eyes to look at him, no hint of pain. "Did you give him something?" he asked the doctor.
"It appears that he is under the influence of something, so no, sadly we couldn't give him anything."
John looked at him. "Sherlock," he inquired, scared that whatever Moriarty had given him might still kill him in the long run. "Stay awake, okay? I'm here, just stay with me."
Sherlock smiled. "I'm not going anywhere." With that, he drifted off.
It took everything John had to not freak out. He kept his hand on his pulse and after a while he pushed up his shirt again to see if he was still bleeding. They had taped the wound up, but the plaster was already soaked through.
The doctor looked at him, worried. "What happened to you?" he inquired, taking John's hand from Sherlock's arm, checking his pulse.
John tried to stare him down, but realised that we must look everything but frightening in the state he was in. Instead of arguing or explaining, he asked for water.
It made him feel better, and eventually he leaned back, trying to force his body to calm down. He knew that they would be separated as soon as they reached the hospital, and no matter how exhausted he was, he would not fall asleep.
When they finally reached the hospital he forced his mind to stay clear. The water had helped, but it was obvious that it would not suffice to actually make him better. He envied Sherlock, who slept peacefully now, and not even the rummaging and pulling could wake him up as they moved him out of the ambulance and into the emergency wing.
John shot up, and unasked, followed them. "I need to fix him." He said, trying to sound resolute. "I need to be the one who stitches him up."
The nurse that had taken the raw end of the stretcher, pushing carefully, just gave him a doubtful look. John did not let that discourage him.
"Can you tell me where I can clean up, I'll do it right away." The nurse frowned, pushing harder.
"Please!" He knew begging did not work with medical staff. He had enough experience and he knew that she wasn't the one to call the shots anyway.
"Let him." He was astonished, stopped for a second only to fall into a jog to keep up with the stretcher being pushed down a long grey corridor. "I want him to do it."
Sherlock was awake and talking. He had not slipped away in a drug induced coma to never wake again. The rush of adrenaline that he had felt when Sherlock had first talked to him after the shooting was back, giving him the necessary strength.
"Please." He repeated himself. This time more calmly. "I'm his doctor."
The nurse looked him up and down and then nodded. "I think he's up for it," she informed the man on the other end of the stretcher. "He needs to clean up, though."
The relief that flooded through John was almost too much. Sherlock was wheeled into a surgery room and his shirt was opened with caution, not the way he had hastily pushed it out of the way. He found himself next to a sink, letting hot water run over his forearms and hands. He took a few seconds to enjoy just that feeling and then he started scrubbing away as if he was infested with a deadly disease. It only registered in the back of his mind that he was actually allowed to operate on someone while he himself was in need of medical care, but he could not think about this too deeply, focusing on the task at hand.
The doctor told him that Sherlock was clearly under the influence of something and that they had taken blood tests, but that they could not risk giving him anything. He would feel everything.
John welcomed the help of the nurse as she handed him the instruments.
"Sherlock?" He tried to wake him up, making sure that he was still there. He knew that he would possibly feel less pain if he was asleep, but he needed to know he was conscious. "Sherlock?"
Sherlock opened his eyes, trying to sit up. John was quick to press his hand to his chest and keep him down. "Don't move," he advised him, finding his voice steady and professional. "I'm going to fix you."
He looked at Sherlock's face to make sure that he was okay and prepared. "I'm going to hurt you, but I'll be quick." He tried to sound reassuring.
"John?" Sherlock's voice was weak.
"Yes?"
"Go ahead." Something told him that Sherlock had wanted to say something else, but he focused on sewing up the wound he had ripped into his skin. With a sigh he started, hearing Sherlock gasp when he disinfected the wound and again when the needle pierced his skin, but after a few seconds he didn't make any noise. John rested his hand on Sherlock's stomach, trying to apply pressure in order to decrease the pain for him. It took him exactly ten stitches to close the wound.