John watched as the constable dragged Culverton Smith away. The man was surprisingly compliant and didn't resist arrest, even as the handcuffs had been slapped on him with rather more force than had perhaps been necessary, but there was a part of John which gleaned some small feeling of satisfaction from seeing the repugnant man flinch in pain.
Did this make him a hypocrite? He wondered.
Probably so, as only a few hours before he had himself reduced his friend to the broken remnants of a man – what he hadn't already reduced himself to that was – a pool of blood beneath Sherlock's crumpled body, and he had felt a sense of reckoning to see him reduced to a crumpled heap on the floor.
Sherlock had made a vow – a vow which he had then broken.
Or had he?
John had been wondering since he had seen the face of his wife starring back at him from the TV screen, and had listened to the message Mary had left for Sherlock. The sight and sound of her voice cut deep like a knife. Sherlock had vowed to protect her – to protect all three of them. How could he have let her die?
But he hadn't. What had happened hadn't been his fault.
It had been unfair and unjust of John to blame Sherlock for something it had not been in his power to prevent. He knew how much Mary had cared for Sherlock – what she had done had been out of her own love for him. Nobody could ever make her do something she didn't want to do. He doubted she'd even thought of the potential repercussions of jumping in front of the bullet – but the fact remained that she had died saving Sherlock's life, and because of him her sacrifice had come very close to being in vein.
Norbury had pulled the trigger that evening, and if he hadn't sent Mary ahead whilst he'd tried to find a sitter for Rosie it could just as easily have been him with Sherlock at the aquarium as the gun was fired.
If it had been him in her position would he have done the same? He thought.
He knew that he would have.
As an assassin she'd taken life, but as Mary Watson she had saved it.
She had seen John grieve for Sherlock three years before, and she had known then as John realised now that he wouldn't have been any less grief stricken had it been Sherlock who had died that night. Either way John had been fated to have his heart ripped out.
Sherlock or Mary – it would have made no difference. The outcome would have been the same.
He'd almost lost the only other person in his life who meant as much to him as Mary, and on his way to the hospital he had started to wonder if his marriage could have survived had it been Sherlock who had died instead of her. Or would he have blamed Mary for bringing a.g.r.a into their lives, in the same way he was blaming Sherlock now?
He realised, as he'd broken the speed limit to try and reach his friend in time – to save him from the demon he had pitted himself against – that the answer was probably yes.
Sherlock had never broken his vow. John was wracked with guilt and self-loathing over betraying Mary, and now he'd betrayed his best friend too.
All Mary had had to do was ask, and he had driven himself to the brink, risking his own life to save John's – fulfilling his wife's final wish.
Now it was John's turn to try and save him. Culverton Smith hadn't succeeded in killing him – but he knew that he wasn't out of the woods yet.
John had been surprised by how quietly Culverton Smith had gone with the police. Perhaps the man was arrogant enough to believe that he would get off, despite his recorded confession, or maybe he'd simply resigned himself to the inevitable. Perhaps there was even a small part of him which was glad that he'd finally been caught – although if there was it wouldn't be out of any sense of morality, John decided. Men like Smith didn't have a conscience.
Whatever the reason John didn't want to dwell on the fact that it was him who had driven Sherlock into the path of Culverton Smith.
He realised that there would come a time when he too would be forced to meet with his demons and address the broken part of himself which had driven him to beat his best friend to nearly an inch of his life, but he didn't feel strong enough to make sense of it right now, and his skills were needed as a doctor.
As if to remind him of how much he was needed a deep groan emitted from where Sherlock was still lying in the bed, and John turned around to see that his friend's face was contorted in an expression of pain – his hand clutched his side as he tried to change position. His other hand gripped the metal bars of the bed – knuckles turning white – as he tried to create some leverage. It was evident that now that the adrenaline had worn off movement wasn't coming as easy to him as it had before.
The fight with Smith seemed to have drained him physically.
John hadn't even bothered to so much as glance at Sherlock's chart when he'd visited him earlier in the evening for what he'd thought at then had been the final time, but the subconjunctival haemorrhage was evidence enough of the beating he had sustained at John's own hand.
The doctor made his way around the other side of Sherlock's bed to have a read of the report Nurse Cornish had left on the bedside table. Its contents painted a serious if not entirely bleak picture of his overall health – but Sherlock had been in no way exaggerating when he had outlined his condition to John. He was severely malnourished and he theorised that he would probably be on high dose supplements for a while. He would also be vulnerable to secondary infection and a lengthy course of anti-biotics seemed likely. There was moderate double kidney involvement, multiple cracked ribs on his right side – which John knew were of his making – and severe bruising to his chest and abdomen. Scans had shown no sign of internal bleeding, but John would feel happier once he received the required clearance to order his own tests – especially as it didn't look likely that they would be able to transfer Sherlock to another hospital, at least until the morning.
He had no doubt that Mycroft could arrange that for him.
He would prefer to have him treated at Bart's where he knew the terrain, but as a compromise he resolved to have Sherlock transferred to another room in the hospital as soon as he was able to be moved. Nurse Cornish seemed nice, but he didn't know who he could trust, and that made him feel uneasy – he didn't like not knowing if any of the other doctors or nurses could be in the pocket of Culverton Smith.
"J…oh…n." Sherlock suddenly gasped, and when John looked over at him he saw that his face was pale and that he was hunched over in bed. The monitor at his bedside started to beep erratically, signalling a sudden increase in heartrate, and John immediately found himself standing over his friend, his eyes assessing his condition.
"Sherlock, are you in pain?" He asked him, knowing the answer to his question before the words had even left his lips. It suddenly occurred to him that Sherlock had been without pain relief now for several hours – having had Nurse Corish switch the bag of morphine with harmless saline as insurance against Smith's actions. John reached up to hit the emergency call button above Sherlock's bed.
Sherlock – his voice evidently evading him momentarily – nodded, and seeing that he seemed to be having a bit of a hard time breathing he took the oxygen mask from the wall behind him, and hooked it over his head.
"Don't worry, we'll have you back on the good stuff as soon as possible." John tried to reassure him.
"I… I thought you wanted to wean me off the strong stuff." Sherlock mumbled, the vaguest hint of a smile on his face.
John sighed, he wasn't so much concerned about the potentially addictive properties of morphine as he was about making sure that they got Sherlock's pain under control as soon as possible.
"Let's just focus on making you more comfortable for now, shall we?" He said gently. "We'll worry about the rest when we need to, not before."
At that moment Nurse Cornish hurried into the room, and John explained to her what had happened with Smith – advising her that he needed an IV infusion bag of morphine. When she protested – quite rightly stating that she couldn't without the proper authorisation sanction the medication – John dialled Mycroft's number. He'd been expecting her to respond in this way and therefore had prepared for it.
The elder Holmes brother picked up immediately – almost as if he'd been expecting John's call. There was no trace of surprise in his voice when he spoke – but unlike Sherlock John didn't think he'd ever seen Mycroft appear anything less than composed and collected, no matter what the situation. There may have been the vaguest hint of sadness or fear in his eyes if the situation called for it, but his voice and body language never betrayed him.
"Pass me over." He said to John, his voice monotone. He almost sounded disinterested – despite the fact that John knew better. Regardless of the tense relationship between the two men Mycroft would move mountains for his brother, and John had seen him do just that on many separate occasions.
He didn't seem to need to know the details of what had led John to call him. He already knew that what he had to say would get the doctor the clearance for anything he needed.
John handed the phone over to the young women, and then turned his attentions back to Sherlock, who was still clasping his side and moaning intermittently. He seemed to have given up on his attempt to try and change position for the time being, and instead seemed to be attempting to stretch out where he lay.
Sherlock didn't know which part of him hurt the most, and at that moment he didn't much care to do a mental assessment of himself in order to find out. His chest, back, and stomach hurt, and he had a headache. His right side throbbed as the muscle rippled over his fractured ribs. His hips and pelvis ached and his insides burned. He'd already been pretty out of it by the time they had brought him to his room but he had thought he heard the doctors say that they had found no sign that he'd suffered any internal bleeding. Feeling as he did now however Sherlock wasn't so sure he trusted their judgement on that matter – it felt as though something had burst inside him.
It had been Culverton Smith himself who had insisted that Sherlock be given room 7A – his favourite room in the hospital. It had been a big room – Sherlock would give the man credit for that – but it had been almost too big for a hospital room with little more than a bed and a bedside cabinet in it. Sherlock had seized his opportunity and had asked Nurse Cornish to switch the bags. He hadn't known how or when Smith would make his attempt on his life, but he hadn't wanted to make it too easy for him.
After all Sherlock may have driven himself to a precipice, but he hadn't really wanted to die.
He groaned again, feeling his stomach twist itself into a knot. He'd felt it, the moment his body had imploded in on itself – that moment on the bridge with the woman he'd believed to be Faith. He was beginning to think he had imagined her.
His groans turned into a whimper – a pathetic sound, and Sherlock felt the shame of it. He wasn't doing a very good job of removing himself from his emotions, and in that moment he wished he could detach himself from his infuriatingly weak and fragile physical body.
He didn't know how much longer he could take the pain.
"I'm sorry." He apologised, as he felt John next to him, and opened his eyes to see his best friend – his eyes assessing him again as if to try and determine the primary source of Sherlock's distress. The damage was too extensive however – between Sherlock himself, John and Culverton Smith, he'd sustained any number of serious injuries, and it was the amalgamation of them all which was causing him the pain.
"What are you apologising for Sherlock?" John asked him with a frown – aware of the fact that if either of them should feel the need to apologise it was him.
"Should… do… better." Sherlock faltered weakly, his voice sounding strained as he clenched his jaw and gritted his teeth to get the words out.
"Sherlock, you're in hospital mate." John sighed sadly, immediately understanding his meaning. "You're in a really bad way. You've been badly injured, just cut yourself some slack. You're going to be here for a while I'm afraid."
Nurse Cornish handed his phone back to him, and John wasn't surprised when an IV bag of morphine was pushed into his hand a few minutes later. As he was quickly granted access to everything he needed John reflected on how Mycroft's word really did seem to be all the authorisation needed to make almost anything possible, and not for the first time he found himself wondering just how powerful the man really was. John had known him for seven years, and he still found it hard to get his head around how it was possible that one man should carry so much influence – but not for the first time he was grateful for it.
John attached the bag of morphine to Sherlock's IV and also ran a new bag of saline through the same line. He didn't trust Culverton Smith not to have tampered with the one he had already been hooked up to, as a little insurance of his own. To his relief, as the morphine started to work its magic on his broken body Sherlock started to relax a little, and the moaning and whimpering became less audible. His eyes started to close and after a couple of minutes John realised, by his shallow breathing and the gentle rise and fall of his chest, that he had finally fallen asleep. He hated to have to wake him.
"Not yet Sherlock." He said gently, patting his shoulder – and Sherlock startled slightly as his eyes flew open again. There was a look of panic in them and his pupils dilated in response to the perceived threat, until they came to settle on John's face, and the doctor felt his stomach twist and tighten into a knot. Sherlock relaxed slightly and John realised that in his own subtle way he was looking to him for comfort and reassurance. He still trusted him even after everything he had done.
John smiled sadly down at him, and Sherlock nodded weakly.
"I know you're really tired." John acknowledged sympathetically. "But I need to check you over first."
When Sherlock didn't immediately respond he asked, "How's the pain now?"
"Better." Sherlock told him.
"Good." John nodded, pleased. That would make this next part easier on both of them.
He drew some blood to check for himself exactly how advanced Sherlock's kidney failure was, and instructed that it be sent to St Barts – and Molly – instead of being analysed at the hospital's own laboratory. This wasn't difficult as Sherlock wasn't exactly adverse to needles, and the puncture mark was just another addition to the track marks already running up the length of the vein in his arm. John couldn't disguise his grimace as he looked at them.
He also ordered a full blood count and the full range of panel testing to assess the state of his general health – which he could already tell just by looking at him wouldn't be great. The results would probably flag up a lot to be concerned about, but John was prepared for that.
He remembered Molly's words – that she had seen more healthy people on the slab – and a cold shiver ran through him.
The veins on Sherlock's arms were fragile due to his weeks of drug use, and John concluded that they would need to limit their use of hypodermics in order to reduce the risk of them collapsing – all medication would need to be administered via his IV canula.
A small bruise began to form at the puncture site, where John had drawn the blood from – varying shades of black and blue against Sherlock's canvas of pale skin – and he deduced that he was almost certainly anaemic.
Sherlock tried once again to change position, and moaned – the sound quickly transcending into another whimper leading John to suspect that the morphine wasn't working quite as effectively as Sherlock had said. He had been without pain relief now for several hours and so it was inevitably going to take time for the drugs to build back up in his system. John was handed a stethoscope and, being careful of the bruising to Sherlock's torso, he placed the buds in his ears before pressing the bell to Sherlock's chest. His skin was dry and cool – no sign of a fever, which was a relief – but he noticed Sherlock begin to quiver slightly and realised that he was shivering. Turing to the nearest nurse without even taking the time to observe her face, he asked for an extra blanket, before returning his attention to listening to Sherlock's heart and lungs.
Both of Sherlock's lungs sounded clear – confirming the other doctor's findings as John had read in the chart on the bedside table. It appeared that Culverton Smith's attempts to suffocate him hadn't done any permanent damage, and his broken ribs had, for the time being, remained stable. There was no sign of a punctured lung, but his heart was racing.
John stood back, taking the stethoscope out of his ears and slipping it into his pocket. Sherlock's eyes had closed again, but this time his breathing betrayed the fact that he was still awake, and he observed where his hand had come to rest loosely against his stomach with a concerned frown.
"Sherlock." He called to him, watching as his friend's eyes cracked open slightly to look up at him, and he observed the exhaustion written in the dark crescent shaped shadows beneath them. "Does your tummy hurt?" He asked him.
Sherlock swallowed hard, and nodded, John's lips setting in a serious line as he sighed – a sinking feeling in the pit of his own stomach.
"Sherlock, I'm just going to have a little feel." He told him, gently moving Sherlock's hand out of the way as he carefully reached beneath the blanket and his friend's hospital gown to have a feel of his abdomen, "You just let me know if it hurts OK?" He said and Sherlock's reaction was instantaneous as he flinched as soon as John put pressure on his tender stomach – but he made no attempt to move away from John's touch, and allowed him to continue with his examination.
This in itself was concerning – under normal circumstances Sherlock wouldn't have tolerated this kind of intense scrutiny, even from John. It was another indication of just how rough he was feeling, but to John's relief he felt nothing particularly abnormal to cause him any immediate concern as he palpated Sherlock's stomach gently.
Even so, when the nurse returned with the extra blanket he had requested, and handed it to him, he asked for a portable ultrasound machine to be brought up to the room. He then covered Sherlock over with the blanket she had brought and his lips twitched upward at the corners as the detective smiled up at him from his bed. There was a sadness in John's eyes – he could feel the lump in his throat – but then there was also a sadness behind Sherlock's too, as well as a vulnerability John wasn't used to seeing there.
"How are you feeling?" John asked him again, trying to ascertain whether his condition was stabilising, and whether the medication he'd received was working or if he was feeling worse.
"Probably very much as you might imagine." Sherlock confessed honestly, the sadness spilling over into his voice, which broke slightly, and John instinctively took a step towards him, closing the physical space between them – he wished it was as easy to bridge the emotional gap as his hand hovered over Sherlock's shoulder but stopped short of the reassuring squeeze he wanted to give it. Instead he drew a chair up to his bedside – it grated shrilly across the floor like a scream – and sat down.
He looked around. Now that the immediate emergency had passed most of the staff who had rushed to Sherlock's aid when John had pressed the emergency call button had left, and he exchanged a look with Nurse Cornish, who nodded in understanding and discreetly withdrew from the room.
The uncomfortable silence persisted however, the unspoken tension between the two men lingering in the air like an invisible wall between them. Now that the adrenaline had started to wear off John could feel a storm of emotion begin to swirl and swell in his heart. The anger he had felt in the morgue returned, but only briefly as the veil was lifted and an outpouring of pain and grief burst forth within him. He bit back the tears which threatened to fall, and looked up to see Sherlock starring at him.
He had taken the oxygen mask off, but seemed to be breathing somewhat easier now, so John wasn't overly concerned, but there was something else concealed in his expression. He looked lost – like he wanted to say something to make things better between them, but he didn't know what – and this made John hurt even more, because there was nothing he could do or say to make things right again. He thought of the letter he had written to Sherlock in the days following Mary's death – blaming him for what had happened and declaring that he never wanted to see him again. He'd known that this would hurt him – he'd wanted it to. In the heat of the moment John had wanted to cause Sherlock as much pain as possible, because he'd been hurting and Sherlock had had the power to prevent it – or at least John had thought so at the time. He hadn't even had the courage to give it to his best friend personally – he'd asked Molly to do it on his behalf.
Mary would not have wanted any of this. She would not have wanted John to blame Sherlock in the way he had been. She had loved him too.
John got to his feet and made his way back over to Sherlock's bedside. There was fear and concern mixed up with the confusion on his face and John wagered he could guess what was on his friend's mind.
He still wasn't sure what John's true motives for saving him had been – had it been out of some sense of moral duty, or did he still actually care about what happened to him?
John wanted to tell him that he had never stopped caring.
He sighed, looking up to the ceiling as his jaw tightened around the words he wanted to say, but Sherlock spoke first.
"I thought I was going to die." He said. His voice was monotone, and it wasn't spoken accusingly – he sounded afraid.
The incident had clearly left him shaken. Whilst there was no doubt in John's mind that he'd absolutely been prepared to die in the process of executing his plan, it was clear that he hadn't foreseen that things would go so far. For all of his intellectual brilliance he had still underestimated the complexity of human emotion – he hadn't accounted for the depths of John's anger, or the limits of Smith's patience.
It was a mistake which had almost cost him his life, and as John looked down at him he turned his gaze away, and blinked.
"I know." John nodded.
"I want you to know John, this." Sherlock said, turning his focus back at him, and the intensity of his gaze made John's stomach sink – there it was again, the pain Sherlock was trying so hard to hide. The emotional scars were as evident as the physical ones and there was an urgency in his need to convince John of the reasons behind his reckless actions. "I didn't do this because I want to. I really – don't want – to die." His voice shook, betraying him. He knew how it might appear – as though Mary had sacrificed her life to save him and he had wasted it. He'd implored Culverton Smith's daughter – the woman he'd believed to be her – not to take her own life.
"Your life is not your own." He'd told her, and neither was his, anymore. He had no intention of throwing it away.
John swallowed hard, feeling his own heart breaking as tears flooded his eyes.
"I know. I found Mary's message." He told him, his voice strained.
"Her sacrifice…" Sherlock's voice broke.
"Lets not do this now Sherlock." John told him, stopping him before he could say anymore. The fresh wave of emotion was raw, and he hadn't counted on discussing Mary with Sherlock just yet. His current priority was making sure that he would be OK – he had to focus on that otherwise he would fall apart – and whilst he knew it was a conversation he was going to have to have eventually, the timing was all wrong. "We'll talk about it when you're better." He assured him.
"I need to." Sherlock said – uncertainty creeping into his tone, unsure if he should be pushing the issue. He didn't want to risk driving John away from him again.
"I know." John nodded – acknowledging for the first time that Sherlock was still grieving for Mary too. "I'm not… ready to talk about it yet though mate." He faltered.
"I'm… sorry." Sherlock apologised, stumbling over the words as he tried yet again to change position and this time succeeding. It was clear that the movement cost him deeply however as his grimace became more pronounced. He stretched out in bed, arching his back slightly as his hand slowly moved from his stomach to his side. Everything hurt.
"Nope." John shook his head.
"What?" Sherlock frowned, swallowing hard – moving had definitely been a bad idea and he started to feel the vaguest hint of nausea.
"Sherlock, you never apologise," John said, "for anything. Not even when you have something to apologise for."
John didn't immediately notice when Sherlock paled. His complexion was already such a ghostly shade of white that it was hard to tell, but the nausea worsened.
"John, I don't feel very well." He said weakly.
"Which is exactly why we're not doing this now." John told him.
"No, John…" Sherlock's voice wobbled as a look of panic spread across his face, and he swallowed reflexively to try and hold off the rising unpleasantness which had settled in the pit of his stomach. "I mean, I don't feel very well."
"Oh…" John said, this time realising Sherlock's meaning as he noticed how grey he'd become all of a sudden, and the man in the bed struggled to sit up further as the doctor grabbed a nearby bowl. He thrust it beneath Sherlock's chin just in time as his friend was violently sick, and John held it in place as he reached down to press a button to bring the head of the bed up further to meet him. This time when his hand hovered over Sherlock's shoulder it made contact, and he gave it a reassuring squeeze. Sherlock's expression betrayed the agony he was in, but John's calming influence seemed to have an effect on him and he seemed to quietly accept it, waiting until the bout of sickness had passed. John muttered reassuringly to him, making gentle shushing noises, and consoling him that everything was alright.
A nurse arrived with the portable ultrasound machine just as Sherlock flopped back in bed, exhausted, and after discreetly covering the bowl's unpleasant contents with a paper towel John handed it to her to dispose of, taking another out of the bedside cabinet and placing it on top in case it was needed again.
"Do you need a doctor in here?" She asked him, observing Sherlock with concern.
John glanced down at her staff pass and observed that she was a junior nurse and not one of the team he recognised from earlier – then again he hadn't been paying much attention to the faces of the staff who had responded to his call for assistance.
"I am a doctor." He told her politely, with a small smile. "But we may need an antiemetic in here. Can you get someone to arrange that for us?" He asked her.
"I'm afraid I don't recognise your face." She frowned suspiciously. "I haven't seen you working here before."
John sighed – even with Mycroft's level of clearance it seemed it wasn't going to be easy for him to get everything Sherlock needed. Under normal circumstances it would be such a massive breach of protocol, and the young woman was justified in being suspicious of him – but it was just another reason why they needed to get Sherlock transferred to another hospital as soon as they possibly could.
"No, I don't." He admitted patiently. "But if you check his records on the computer you will see that I have been given power to prescribe. My name is Doctor John Watson."
He turned to look at Sherlock who's hand had returned to the left side of his stomach, and frowned. There was now a thin sheen of sweat evident upon his pale face and John reached out to feel his forehead with the back of his hand. He was relieved to still feel that there was no sign of a fever.
The young nurse still looked a little unsure, but she left the room and returned a few minutes later with a clipboard in hand, full of sheets of paper, which on closer examination John discovered were medicine request forms.
He smiled as he took them from her.
"Thank you." He said, and she nodded timidly.
"How do you feel now?" He asked Sherlock, as the young woman then turned to inspect the monitor at the detective's bedside. "Still nauseous?"
Sherlock shook his head.
"Ok, good." John remarked. "Let's get this over with then, shall we?" He said, already drawing the ultrasound machine up to the edge of Sherlock's bed, and tearing a few sheets of paper towel from a roll on the trolly to drape over him. He seemed to have gone uncharacteristically quiet and John was growing quite concerned.
"John… it feels like something's burst inside of me…" Sherlock moaned quietly, and hearing these words made John's blood run cold. Sherlock's vitals certainly didn't support anything like this having happened – his heartrate was rapid, but not abnormally so considering what he had been through, and his blood pressure was stable. The doctor in John was reassured by the stats in front of him, but the human part of him which loved Sherlock, and was wracked with guilt over what had happened to his best friend, could feel the anxiety rising.
The young woman looked to him as though silently enquiring whether he needed anything else, and when he dismissed her with a quiet "thank you" she quietly withdrew from the room, leaving the two men alone in each other's company for the first time in weeks.
"Sherlock, this won't take long." John did his best to try and reassure him as he plugged the ultrasound machine in and switched it on. "I just need to make sure that you haven't sustained any internal injuries. I need to be sure that the doctors didn't miss anything earlier, especially as you've mentioned that you've got abdominal pain." He explained. "If you feel sick again, or the pain gets any worse just let me know, ok?"
Sherlock nodded.
"Can you tell me how bad the pain is now?" John asked him.
"The morphine makes it bearable." He responded.
John nodded.
As the hour was late the room was already shrouded in a semi-gloom and the doctor flicked a switch on the panel behind Sherlock's head to extinguish the ceiling light above his bed and plunge the room into complete darkness. He then pressed the button to lower the head of the bed. The gel was cold and Sherlock shivered slightly as John applied it to his skin and ran the small probe over his sides and abdomen. He flinched as John pressed a little too hard over a particularly painful area, and paled somewhat – but when the doctor enquired as to if he was feeling sick again he shook his head. John moved the bowl slightly closer to him just in case.
Finally, when his examination was over, he wiped the gel from Sherlock's stomach and covered him back over with the blankets again. To his relief the scan had shown no signs of any bleeding, or that he'd sustained any serious internal injuries, but there were signs of significant bruising and areas of inflammation, which were probably contributing to his pain. John had made a mental note of the medication he had already been prescribed – simple saline and painkillers – and taking a pen he started to write on one of the medicine request forms.
Antiemetics.
Anti-inflammatories.
Anti-biotics.
He also ordered a sedative to help him sleep.
"It's over now Sherlock." He told him gently, switching the light back on but dimming it slightly to try and reduce the glare, hoping that this would help Sherlock relax enough to allow him to get some rest. "You can sleep now if you like."
Sherlock's eyes slipped closed and John started to make his way quietly towards the door, the medicine request form in hand. He could tell that his friend still wasn't sleeping. His position hadn't changed much from before he'd examined him – his hand was still resting lightly on his stomach. Although his eyes were closed they were scrunched together, his forehead bearing faint lines, and mouth set in a tight line. As John's hand closed around the doorhandle his eyes flew open and he looked at him.
"John… please stay. I… don't want to be alone." Sherlock said.
The stiffness which had permeated through his whole body stopped him before he'd barely raised his head from the pillow and he shuddered, barely perceptibly, in pain. This didn't escape John's notice however and he made his way back over to his bedside.
"Sherlock, I'm not going anywhere." He promised him. "I just need to put in a request for some additional drugs for you, and we need to try and get you transferred to a different room. I'll be right back. I promise."
Sherlock looked uncertain, but as his eyes bore into John's he could see the sincerity within them. There was no indication of any intent to abandon him, upon his face, and he appeared genuine in his disclosed intent. Sherlock looked to the wall on the opposite side of the room, where he knew Smith's secret entrance to be, and then to the door. He knew that Culverton Smith was no longer a threat – he was where he belonged in police custody and his chances of being released were about as likely as Sherlock's. It would be a while before he would be allowed to go home, and John would disapprove if he was to discharge himself against medical advice – let alone Mycroft – but the thought of being left alone in this room made him feel nervous. He tried to divorce himself from the feeling of it, he told himself it was irrational – Culverton Smith presented no threat to him or anybody else anymore – but he couldn't, and it made him feel ashamed. He tried not to think of what Mycroft would say if he could see him now.
John recognised something in Sherlock however, which he could not see in himself – the very human part of him which he tried so hard to divorce himself from. When he'd first met him Sherlock had once described his brain as a hard drive, because he had wanted to see himself as a machine – not because he actually was immune to the influence of feelings – but Mrs Hudson had been right in her assessment of him when she had said that he was "more emotional". Even Mycroft was given to the occasional indulgence of his affections – he referred to their mother with the term of endearment "mommy" and had moved mountains to protect Sherlock in the past. He had even used his influence to get him off a charge of murder in the case of Magnussen – even if the alternative had been a suicide mission which would have in all likelihood resulted in Sherlock's death within a matter of months. Even the likes of Mycroft Holmes couldn't wield the terms for a crime so serious in its nature entirely to his advantage, and he had done his best. John watched as Sherlock's hands started to shake, and observed that there were genuine tears in his eyes which he was wrestling to suppress.
"Yes ok…" He said, trying to calm him. "It's ok. I'm not going anywhere." He pressed the call button on the small remote beside his bed, summoning Nurse Cornish back into the room. He handed her the medicine request form and also asked her to arrange for Sherlock to be transferred to another room – telling her that if she had any problems effecting this request she should refer it to the offices of Mr Mycroft Holmes, of the British Government. He then sat back down, and waited, noticing how Sherlock's hand gravitated to his injured side where his broken ribs were obviously paining him, as his eyes slowly closed again.
Less than an hour later Sherlock had been transferred to a very nice private room in another part of the hospital – apparently one of only a few parts Culverton Smith hadn't had a role in the construction of – and once he'd been settled back into bed he swallowed the pills John handed him whilst the doctor injected the sedative into his canula.
The nausea seemed to have subsided for now, and so John had the antiemetic stored in the drugs cupboard at the nurses station in case it was needed again. He then watched his friend, monitoring him as the sedative took effect – it didn't take long however and within a few minutes of him having administered it Sherlock had finally fallen asleep.
Lestrade arrived a short time later.
"I thought you might like to know that we've booked Culverton Smith." He told John, who got to his feet as the Detective Inspector entered. There was a very nice armchair in the corner of this new room, which John found most agreeable. The nurses had kindly provided him with a blanket and a couple of pillows and he'd made a rather nice little nest for himself in the oversized seat. At least he wouldn't have to worry about waking up with a bent spine and a crick in his next, he thought, or an ache in his shoulder where it had been set in place in his sleep.
Lestrade looked at Sherlock in the bed – his expression baring an equal blend of horror and bewilderment. The monitors had been reattached and were issuing a gentle rhythmic beat to add to the sad picture. The Detective Inspector hadn't seen Sherlock in weeks – the man had stopped accepting new cases as he'd become increasingly fixated on Culverton Smith. It hadn't been for want of trying – he'd brought him the most intriguing, most baffling and juiciest of cases Scotland Yard had to offer to try and tempt him, but all to no avail. To him it had almost seemed as if Sherlock had been under some kind of spell, and whilst Lestrade – for what little his opinion counted – had always found the man to be a bit of a creep, there was nothing to elude to the fact that Smith was the criminal mastermind Sherlock seemed to have had him marked for. Whatever the nature of the case he'd brought him, he couldn't be dissuaded from his fixation, and eventually Lestrade had stopped trying. He was relieved to see John back at his friend's side.
"He's currently festering in a cell at the station, and we'll be interviewing him as soon as I get back." The DI continued. "I just wanted to come and get a statement from you both first, and… see how he was doing." He added, his gaze falling on Sherlock asleep in the bed.
He hadn't been entirely sure what he had been expecting to find when he had left to visit the two men at the hospital. He'd been somewhat surprised to receive the call that Culverton Smith had been arrested on suspicion of the attempted murder of Sherlock Holmes. He had no idea how diligently the man had executed his plan and how seriously Sherlock might have been injured – if at all. His chief priority and the main reason for his visit had been to make sure that his two friends were ok.
It had alarmed him when he had arrived at Sherlock's room to discover it empty, until a very nice young nurse had told him where he had been moved to.
Lestrade pulled up a chair and sat down – his attention drawn to the cut just above Sherlock's left eye – whilst John returned to the comfort of his armchair. The doctor looked tired, and the Detective Inspector observed the heaviness of his eyelids just as he did how gaunt Sherlock had become since he had last seen him. He was ashamed to admit to the fact that he hadn't continued to keep an eye on the consulting detective – even when he hadn't heard from him in weeks. It hadn't been uncharacteristic for the Sherlock of old – of the early days after Lestrade had first met him – to disappear for protracted periods of time, but he had certainly been conspicuous by his absence from public life, and Lestrade knew that he should have realised that something was wrong when Sherlock had refused the cases he'd given him – seeming to turn his back on the work he lived for.
"Well, he's not doing great right now," John explained, leaning forward in the armchair in which he was sitting – his elbows resting on his knees – as his eyes wondered from Lestrade to the figure of Sherlock in the bed. The corners of his lips turned upwards fleetingly in a brief smile, before they set serious again. "But he's alive which is the main thing." He conceded. His voice wobbled and in the same breath he cleared his throat as he refused to allow his mind to dwell upon what might have happened if he hadn't reached Sherlock in time. The consequences of a delay of even a few seconds were just too hard to contemplate. "He won't be able to give you a statement tonight though I'm afraid. He's not up to it." He explained.
"Yes, I can see that." Lestrade puffed out his cheeks, and released a long, slow breath. "What exactly happened here tonight John?" He asked him.
"Culverton Smith," The doctor sighed quietly, and Lestrade noticed him shudder at the mention of the man's name, swallowing hard as though the words left an unpleasant taste in his mouth. "He tried to kill him – overdosed him, suffocated him… This was all about me Greg." He faltered with tears in his eyes. Lestrade frowned – wandering at his friend's meaning.
"I'm afraid I don't understand." He told him, the frown creating creases in his forehead. John seemed to be blaming himself for something, but he was confused as to how any of this could be his fault – he hadn't seen Sherlock in weeks and had refused to have anything to do with his best friend. It led the Inspector to suspect that he was blaming himself for not preventing something which had happened to Sherlock, rather than having done something to the man himself.
"Mary, she left a message for him," John explained, "in the event that something should happen to her – it's as of she always knew…" His voice broke and his explanation trailed off as Lestrade noticed that his hands were shaking.
John looked down at them and balled them up into tight fists, before relaxing his fingers and flexing them. He slowly rubbed his palms together and held them out in front of him – when he did the Detective Inspector noticed that they weren't shaking anymore – and when the man next spoke he appeared much more composed. Lestrade realised that this was the mark of a solider. "She told him to do this. She told him to pick a fight with a bad guy Greg." He concluded.
"But why would she do that?" Lestrade asked.
"To save me." Came the simple reply – as though it was the most obvious thing in the world – and whilst Lestrade didn't entirely understand the reasoning behind any of this, he accepted it without question. It was evident that both men had been though a really rough time, and he didn't want to be the cause of anymore pain for either of them. There was obviously more to the matter than John was currently prepared to say, but Lestrade wasn't going to be the one the force it out of him. He was clearly exhausted – he needed to eat and to sleep, and Sherlock too clearly needed rest. He hadn't stirred once since he'd arrived.
"Any idea how long he'll be in here?" Lestrade asked John instead, inclining his head in Sherlock's direction. The doctor followed his gaze.
"A while yet I'm afraid." John responded, and sighed sadly. "His kidneys are failing right now so we'll need to wait until they are working properly again, and also make sure we can manage his pain at home. He's on a high dose of morphine at the moment, so we'll need to wean him off that and see how he responds to a more milder painkiller before we can even consider discharging him." He explained. "I'm going to try and get him transferred to Bart's tomorrow so at least he'll be somewhere familiar. He seemed quite agitated before the sedative kicked in, which isn't surprising given what happened to him here tonight. I don't think he will feel safe for as long as he's here though, and to be honest neither will I!"
"Any particular concerns?" Lestrade asked. "There seems to be something more on your mind." He observed.
John sat forward in his chair, abandoning the comfort of the cushions and blankets he had arranged for himself and watching absently as one of the cushions fell to the floor.
"His stomach is very sore, which I would like to keep an eye on." He explained, looking over at Sherlock, and for a moment it seemed as though he might get up and make his way over to his friend's side - his legs twitched restlessly, but eventually he appeared to decide against it, not wanting to disturb his sleep. "But that's not my main concern right now." He sighed sadly, instead leaning back in the armchair – his eyes remaining fixed on Sherlock. "I just don't know what I'm going to do." He explained. "I can't stay with him around the clock anymore Greg, I've got Rosie. But I don't want to leave him alone either."
"Oh," Lestrade gasped – suddenly realising why John appeared so heavy of heart. Now that he had said it, it seemed so obvious. Of course the man was feeling conflicted – he had always been there for Sherlock when he had needed him in the past, but his best friend was no longer his only priority or the most important person in his life. It was bound to have left him feeling torn. The Detective Inspector realised that they were all going to have to pull their weight in the weeks, and possibly even the months ahead, to support them. Judging by Sherlock's appearance he was going to need care for a while to come. "Of course," he nodded, "John, don't worry. We'll draw up a rota, we'll help take care of him." He assured him.
He knew that it wasn't going to be easy, John was still in mourning for his wife and Sherlock hadn't even begun to address his own grief over the loss of Mary – but since when had life with Sherlock ever been easy?
Even so this appeared to reassure John enough that he sat back in his seat, appearing to relax a little, and he nodded.
"Thanks Greg." He smiled, his gratitude evident in the expression on his face, and Lestrade returned the gesture.
"I'd better get going." He said getting to his feet. "They'll be wondering where I am back at the station. No, don't get up John." He said, watching as the doctor made a move to stand up from his chair. "I'll see myself out." He told him, and John nodded gratefully. Lestrade suspected that it wouldn't be very long before he too joined Sherlock in sleep.
By the sound of it it was going to be a while before Sherlock would be well enough to be released from the hospital, but when he was the Detective Inspector knew enough to realise that that would only be the start of his recovery. Even so now that it seemed that the rift between the two men had been healed, both would, given time, find a way through – together.