Still not dead. Thank you for the reviews, follows and favs! :)
A/N: A bit shorter than previous chapters, unfortunately, but another one is on the way.
Disclaimer: 'Sherlock' belongs to all the important people that you know. You recognize it, I don't own it.
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The ride to the hospital passed in a haze of cold, pain and numbing fear. There were so many things that could go wrong, and Joan wouldn't wake up, ever. He couldn't accept this. He couldn't accept even the possibility of that happening.
His brain didn't register how they got into the emergency room, or who lead him to an examination table, or when dry clothes appeared before him, with Lestrade gently coaxing him to change. His mind had been stuck in a loop, replaying all events of the evening, of the whole week, searching for the missing detail, something that would have saved Joan. He was unable to find it.
He came back to himself in a gloomy waiting room, hunched on an uncomfortable chair. A lightbulb flickered unnervingly every few seconds. A soft snore to his left indicated the continued presence of one DI Lestrade. What is taking so long?
It was all your fault, drawled a bored voice that resembled Mycroft in the mind palace. John was shot, supplied another voice, wavering and uncertain. It was the voice of a frightened child.
Evidence: John had protected him.
Assumption: If she survives... DELETE.
"If" is unacceptable. "When", it has to be "when".
She will continue to place herself in harm's way to protect him. Something fuzzy and warm rose in his chest at this thought, but he squelched it mercilessly on the altar of rational thought.
Conclusion: Sooner or later, John's willingness to protect him would prove to be fatal to her. He couldn't repress a violent shudder at the thought. The helpless horror at the sight of the bomb and the red dot dancing on the blogger's chest was painfully sharp and fresh in his memory.
Recommended course of action, option A: keep functioning as normal. Pros – John's continued presence. Cons – high probability of John's untimely death. REJECTED.
Recommended course of action, option B: cut the ties with John. Pros – John's extended life expectancy. Cons – lon… He cut himself short at this one. I am not lonely, am I? Somehow, memories of the stale air in his old room at Montague street, coffee stains and dry bread, came to mind. It had felt safe and quiet, because no one had ever bothered to disturb him there… but then there was the dust waltzing through sun beams at Baker street, the hot tea and the constant nagging about keeping kitchen hazard-free, and there was this fuzzy feeling again, making him realize in a moment of lightning clarity how content he had felt for these few months, despite bouts of boredom (never quite that bad, actually, not like the ones before the rehab) and occasional bickering. So yes, he would be very lonely without Joan Watson in his life.
But then she'd be alive. Alive is very good, right?
Sherlock Holmes had claimed left and right to be a sociopath, and he was sorely tempted to use this excuse to keep his friend close, to selfishly put Joan in mortal danger just to not feel alone again. But he couldn't quite bring himself to make this decision. The image of his doctor, laying motionless at the pool side, trying in vain to remain conscious for his sake, sprung up to the front of his mind, overlaying the explosives and the red dots.
No.
He had managed alone just fine, for so many years. He would have to get used to it again, that's all.
# #
Joan woke up slowly, floating in and out of consciousness. Her body felt sore all over. There seemed to be no muscle or bone that didn't ache. Soft beeping and distant murmur of voices and clothes rustling were like a lullaby. At some point, a nagging worry came spoiling her dream-like state. She had to talk to someone, someone important. Couldn't quite place who exactly, though.
After an uncertain amount of time, her mind sluggishly identified the beeping as the heart monitor. Hospital. Why would she be in a hospital? Last time was harrowing enough.
Last time she had been discharged from the army.
The not-so-old painful memory sharpened her thoughts for a moment, bringing out other bits and pieces with it – coming back to London, meeting Sherlock, the pool, Moran.
The beeping intensified, and someone rushed into the room, fumbling with something over her head.
Feeling the warmth from a morphine dip spreading through her veins, Joan forced herself to crack an eyelid before succumbing to the numbness. But the light was too harsh, and she didn't even manage to see the nurse's face.
# #
The dreamless sleep dissolved very slowly. Joan felt herself emerging from the misty plains of unconsciousness, feeling slightly better than before her unplanned sedation by morphine. She blinked her eyes open, lazily cataloguing aches and sores. Her back felt especially tender, and she could barely feel her left arm, which was secured in a sling. The light was subdued, probably meaning that it was night-time. She sighed heavily, thinking of the long weeks she would have to be extremely careful with weight lifting and sudden movement.
A sharp intake of breath at her right surprised her more than it should have.
Sherlock had sprawled across a plastic chair, keeping silent vigil over his blogger. The position should have been very uncomfortable, but he didn't seem to notice it. He made it look like a very plush chair.
"Hey there" Joan whispered, suddenly realizing how dry her throat was, ghost memories of the desert heat flashing in her mind and dissolving just as quickly as they came. He looks so tired, and closed off.
Something indecipherable passed in Sherlock's eyes, and his hand twitched. "I will appreciate if you considered new living arrangements, once you are discharged, Joan." His tone was business-like, cold and carefully distanced. It was the second time ever he called her by the real given name.
"Pardon?" she managed softly. Residual drugs in her system seemed to stunt her cognitive process. Is he throwing me out of the flat?
"I will cover the additional fees, of course…" he carried on, dispassionately.
Joan shut her eyes tightly, trying to not feel her heart breaking. This cold voice was killing her. "Don't." Sherlock obediently shut up. "May I ask what brought this up?" Instinctively she adopted the same all-business tone as her unexpected tormentor.
There was a short pause, followed by a hollow explanation: "Recent events proved that your presence not only impeded my investigative process, but is a liability in crisis situations. I don't wish my Work hindered by incompetent bystanders." Her eyes flew open at the barely veiled insult. He strikes exactly where it hurts. But despite his cutting words, Sherlock wasn't quick enough to school his features into a blank mask. For a few seconds, Joan saw the raw pain and heart-break in his eyes. He was killing her, but doing so was shattering him as well.
Oh, that idiot.
That bloody idiot.
Raging anger burnt through drugs, giving free way to the emotional maelstrom she was currently in. Reigning in the outburst – wait for it – she enunciated quietly: "And how did you come to this brilliant conclusion?"
The genius hadn't caught up on the trap he fell in. "As I have stated, your presence is…"
Alright, no, screw this. The ex-soldier couldn't listen to more of this dribble. She sat up brusquely, feeling like her back was splitting open, (to hell with tissue damage, said a glum voice in her head), and violently pulled IV needles from her arms. Small droplets of blood stained hospital sheets, but she was above caring. Grimacing in pain, Watson swung her feet out of the bed, relishing the cold floor under her soles. Various monitors started beeping alarmingly all around them.
"John!" Sherlock protested, jumping up immediately, and losing momentarily his You are a nuisance mask. So, you do worry, huh.
Pushing back the pain from unhealed wounds, Joan marched up to her oblivious flatmate. He took a hesitant step back under her glare, clearly confused. "Do you mind telling me the real reason for this idiocy?" Sherlock sputtered in indignation. She grasped his collar with her right hand, pulling him towards her. "Tell me why you thought that I should hate you" she growled menacingly, not bothering to hide her outrage anymore.
Silver eyes widened in an almost comical deer-in-the-headlights look. The soldier didn't soften her grip. "I… you… you could have died" the detective finally muttered, looking everywhere but at her. That's what I thought. He assumed that I would prefer a quiet life to his company.
"Do you realize I had been dancing with death most of my life?" she hissed. "It is a choice I made before even meeting you." He opened his mouth to interrupt, probably to point out how much of a risk-hazard he was, but Joan was having none of it. "Stuff it. You're stuck with me. You're not going into danger alone. Ever." Seeing the understanding finally sink in, she released his shirt and swayed slightly on her feet.
The worried frown quickly replaced the mix of confused and smug emotions on the pale face. "John…" Hearing nurses running towards the room in the distance, Joan let go of her stubborn anger, and simply bumped her head against Sherlock's chest, seeking emotional and physical support.
"Idiot" she whispered tiredly. Her throat burned now.
Medical personnel burst into the room, frozen in shock at the scene inside. Watson could imagine the surprise of seeing a shooting victim standing up mere hours after surgery, head on the shoulder of a slightly dazed consulting detective, surrounded by a cacophony of beeping monitors.
"I'm sorry, John" Sherlock whispered for her ears only, before nurses nudged her back to the bed. It seemed sincere.
# #
She woke up the next morning to the sight of Sherlock leafing through her medical chart. "Anything interesting?" she asked groggily.
He looked up, a particularly smug look on his face. "Hilda." Ah.
"Shut up" she grumbled, irritated and amused at the same time, and pressed the button to call the nurse.
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A/N: Aaaand here it is! I hope the name didn't disappoint too many people ^^
I wanted it to be a bit outdated, enough for Joan to hate it, but have a good meaning ("Hilda" = "woman of battle", so it looks fitting).