Ticking clocks are the stupidest clocks in Sherlock's opinion. He has been glaring at it without noticing the time. Who would put such an annoying monstrosity in a hospital waiting room anyway? The ticking feels similar to a countdown to something horrible. John has been in surgery for what feels like hours. It feels wrong. Everything feels wrong.
Thoughts, deductions, sentiment, are flying through his head at a rapid speed but the only one that matter is John. I'm going to lose him. It's an unbearable thought and one that Sherlock can only think of feeling similar to losing a limb. You know it should be there, but all the sudden it's gone. Now you're lost and fumbling your way through life with a whole piece of you missing. The haze of loss not even making sense to you.
The panic has reduced itself to a dull ache in his chest. A knot has formed in his throat that he can neither sallow around nor cough out. It feels vile; constantly on the edge of vomiting, but not having the energy to do so.
"You ok?"
Sherlock blinks the haze from his eyes to look at Greg. Though he would never say, Sherlock appreciates the man's presence and support. It's probably written all over his face anyway. He has already given up putting on a mask after tonight's events; his mask ripped entirely off his face in that horrid alleyway.
Sherlock shakes his head, a short jerking motion, still blinking his eyes. Moisture is gathered at the corner as it has been all night, as though someone has turned on a tap inside him.
A rough hand lands surprisingly gentle on his shoulder. Greg hesitates for a moment and Sherlock knows that he can feel the tremors wracking through his body.
"Sherlock.." He trails off and Sherlock looks at him again, trying to deduce him. Anything to rid the thoughts of John not making it from his head. "If you feel another…Just let me know and we'll go somewhere quiet, yeah?"
Sherlock nods, trying his best to look grateful. "Thank you," he whispers, the roughness of his voice shocking him. The words burn in his throat and it makes his eyes well up all over again. Greg looks worried and Sherlock does all he can to sallow around the knot and calm his features.
Somewhere in the back of his mind he knows it's a terrible idea, but before he even thinks about it, Sherlock is staring at his hands. His blood covered hands.
John.
John's blood.
The urge to throw up isn't just a distant feeling anymore and in a frantic moment, Sherlock is away from Lestrade's comforting presence and shoving his way into the bathroom. The stall door bangs against the wall as he falls to his knees and everything in his stomach forcefully comes out his throat. Just the sound of it makes him gag again, the knot burning and the moisture finally forming into tears in his eyes, falling down his cheeks. He slams an angry fist into the floor as he heaves again, breathing harshly through his nose. The burning of his knuckles is a surprisingly welcome distraction so he does it over and over.
Shortly after he hears the bathroom door being pushed open, knees appear in his peripherals. A hand blocks his next punch to the floor and another rubs up and down his back.
Sherlock sucks in a rough breath through his nose. He recognizes those hands. He had thought it would be Lestrade coming to his aid once more. Instead it is Mycroft's hand that he weakly punches once more.
His vision is blurry, but he can just barely make out Mycroft's worried expression. His brother isn't even trying to hide his concern and that alone make Sherlock feel sick all over again. "It was supposed to be me," Sherlock gets out, before he is heaving into the toilet once more.
"I know."
A/N Part Three coming soon.