Chapter 21- Fear
A/n: thank you to Exact Estimate and Starlit Revenge for your lovely comments I really, really appreciate it!
I also want to apologise for the really unacceptable shortness of the last chapter, I hope this one makes up for it!
Please read, enjoy and review if you have time xxx
JW
"Oh god,"
The room spun dizzyingly as I stumbled into the room, heart throbbing.
I was at his side.
"Oh god, oh god, oh god,"
All I saw in my mind was my dad's overdose. His body lying motionless on the floor. The needle pushed straight through his translucent skin into his bloodstream.
"No,"
My fumbling fingers went straight to the needle, wrenching it out of his arm and dropping it to the floor like I was letting go of a blood-stained knife. A small bead of blood welled up at the site. My vision seemed to swim as my whole body shivered.
"Sherlock!" I yelled.
I twisted him around to face me. His head lolled to one side, face blank and unresponsive. Eyes closed.
Fear grasped at my heart in a vicious freezing fist. My knees buckled, and I sank beside him… In my mind I saw visions of him lying on the pavement, his hair matted and blood soaked.
"Oh god, oh god, oh Jesus, no," my voice cracked, I shook his limp body desperately.
"Sh-Sh-Sherlock," I pleaded.
My mind kept flashing back to my dad lying dead in my old house, Sherlock lying dead on the pavement, the blood, the needle, lots of blood…
It was as if all my nightmares were flooding back to haunt me as I clutched at him. I felt my eyes sting. My heart pound. His face was so blank.
"God no,"
My shaking fingers went to his neck, desperately trying to find I pulse. I felt ill. I tried not to remember the last time I'd done this.
And found nothing.
He can't be dead. Not now. God please.
I waited my breathing harsh.
I couldn't feel anything.
"No! Sherlock please!" I felt a sob catch in my throat, "please,"
I collapsed on him, gasping for breath.
But then I felt it.
A tiny fluttering pulse.
The relief that crashed over me nearly knocked me down. I blew out a long trembling breath.
"Sherlock," I shook him gently.
The pulse was getting stronger.
Now that my blind panic was over, I could see the steady rise and fall of his chest. He was starting to come alive under my hands. I heard a small moan escape his lips.
"Sherlock," I breathed.
Finally, his eyes fluttered open, at first unfocused and blank, but finally settling on my face.
"John?" he croaked hoarsely.
"Oh god, Sherlock," I collapsed onto him again, tears streaming down my face.
"What happened?" he mumbled, voice slightly slurred.
Suddenly my relief was gone. Washed away and replaced by a burning fury. I was suddenly so angry that I wanted to kill him then and there with my bare hands.
"Well you should bloody well know you bloody b******!" I yelled, "Why the hell did you do that to me Sherlock? I thought- I thought- you b*****!"
Suddenly his hand was at my mouth, silencing me with shock.
"What. Happened?" he said, his voice stronger this time, though still slurred.
"I came in here to find this-" I pointed furiously at the needle, "bloody thing in your arm! Why the hell would you do that? I thought you were clean!"
He sat up, and stared at it incredulously.
"What the HELL!" he exclaimed suddenly, making me jump. He stared at me, and I thought I saw fear, and hurt flash in his eyes.
"John," he gasped, looking desperate, "you must believe me. I. Didn't. Do. This." his jaw was clenched.
But I was shaking with suppressed fury.
"Don't give me that, don't you bloody dare," I hissed.
"I swear," he pleaded.
I laughed bitterly to try and hide my hurt at his betrayal.
"Don't lie to me, Sherlock; it was in your bloody arm!"
His face was a mask, but this time, his eyes betrayed how hurt he was at my disbelief.
"I didn't, John," he begged, "I haven't- wouldn't- no,"
For a moment, he looked like a small, frightened child. But my fury overwhelmed my sympathy. I grabbed his arm, twisting it so his palm faced outwards and the injection site was clearly visible. I showed it to him viciously.
"How can you possibly say that that wasn't you? It was in your bloody arm!"
He stared at his arm as if it was something alien.
Then, a scientist's curiosity took over his expression and he peered at it closely.
"I didn't John," he said softly, "and I'm willing to bet that this-" he indicated to the small amount of gooey substance collected at the bottom of the syringe, "isn't any ordinary recreation drug,"
His eyes found mine, like grey-blue flints if ice and he gently peeled my fingers off his arm, all the while watching my face.
It took me a while to comprehend his movement, and finally, I managed to stand up shakily. My legs felt like jelly.
As soon as I stood up, he jumped up from the bed.
His knees buckled and he collapsed.
"Christ!" he swore as I managed to catch him just before his head collided with the bedside cabinet.
"I don't think you can stand on your own just yet," I said through clenched teeth, wrapping my right arm around his waist and slinging his left on over my shoulders.
"I'm fine!" he said haughtily, though he let me haul him out of the bedroom anyway. His feet dragged across the floor and his hand was clenched rather tightly on my shoulder. It felt like I was back in the war and I was with a wounded soldier.
I went to set him down in his favourite chair.
"No!" he gasped, speech still slurred, "no! I need to test-"
"No, you need to rest," I said firmly, "you can't work like that!"
"But-" he objected.
"No!" I said angrily. I watched him give in and slump down into the pillows, eyes closed, face slack. My mind immediately flashed back again to him on the bed, and then on the pavement. I felt the vomit rise in my throat and a hot flush passes my face. I needed water.
I went hurriedly to the sink; filled a clean glass with the cool liquid.
It flooded my mouth and I took a huge gulp. It made me feel a little better, though my hand still trembled with the aftermath of shock. I pressed the cold, smooth, glass to my suddenly clammy forehead and closed my eyes. Forced myself to breathe deeply.
Sherlock was fine. He was alive and well in the armchair.
He wasn't dead.
I repeated this to myself again and again with the glass against my head.
I made my way slowly back to my armchair and plumped up my favourite Union Jack pillow before sinking into it, putting the glass on the side table with a big sigh.
I glanced across at Sherlock.
He was fast asleep- for once. It was a shame that one of the only times he did sleep was when he was drugged. The sleep was drug induced.
It reminded me a little of when he'd been drugged by Irene Adler.
But Irene Adler was dead.
Did I really believe that someone else had drugged him? That he hadn't plunged it into his arm himself?
I wanted to. I really did.
But I'd read those emails. How did I know that he hadn't lied to me when he said he didn't actually use?
I stared at his sleeping face, relaxed and without his mask. It was only in his sleep that his guard was fully down and he looked- vulnerable. Really vulnerable. And so peaceful, his forehead smoothed out from its usual lines, as smooth as marble.
I couldn't help but smile. It had been a close call.
A/n: I really hope it was ok! Please tell me if it was ok if you can!
Please review if you have the time! X