John opened the door, and—everything looked ordinary, just the way he'd left it that morning.
And then he turned his head.
Sherlock lay on his back on the living room floor, surrounded by an excess of scarlet that had stained his white shirt and soaked into the carpet. The knife was resting inches away from his limp, open hand, and as John rushed over his eyes flickered open to look up at him.
He mumbled wearily, "I can feel it…"
"Shh, don't talk." John was aware that his voice wasn't steady, but there was nothing he could do about it. He fell to his knees beside the detective and quickly assessed the damage as best he could, what with all the blood.
From what he could see there were at least four dangerously deep lacerations on his forearm, right over where the previous scars had been healing. And if John's expertise as a doctor was anything to go by, he must have been laying there for several hours, at least.
That was a lot of time for blood loss.
Sherlock's eyes had begun to flutter closed again, and John reached out to pat his cheek frantically.
"No, stay with me. Sherlock, I need you to stay awake for now, okay? I know you're tired, but just try to stay awake." He worked as quickly as his shaking hands would allow, stripping off his own jacket and wrapping it around the detective's arm in an attempt to slow the bleeding, biting his lip as Sherlock hissed and winced at the pressure.
His dark curls stood out against his ashen skin, his eyes half-lidded, and his breaths tense and shallow. Two fingers laid against his wrist revealed a quick, feeble pulse.
Too much blood...
"Stay with me. You're going into shock. Just listen to my voice—don't you dare go to sleep. Don't you dare." He knew he was rambling, but he just needed to speak, to say anything, to give Sherlock a line to hold onto and keep him there.
John pulled his mobile from his pocket and dialled for an ambulance, continuing to talk all the while.
"Sherlock. Open your eyes. Come back. I'm right here, you dickhead—don't you fucking dare do this to me! Stay right here! Don't even think about giving up—we need you here. I need you." His voice broke, and he sucked in a deep breath.
Sherlock's fingers twitched and he let out a low groan as someone picked up on the other end of the line, and John quickly rattled off the address and gave them the necessary information.
Once he'd hung up there was silence for a long moment, and the air in the flat suddenly seemed unacceptably oppressive and difficult to breathe.
"Just hang on. They'll be here in ten minutes." He desperately hoped he was right—In fact, less time would be even better—because even with his constant reminders to stay awake he wasn't sure how much longer Sherlock could last.
"Sherlock? Can you look at me? I need to know you can hear me, okay?"
His fingers twitched again, and John was suddenly reminded of his days as an army doctor, holding the hand of an injured soldier, trying to keep him conscious as they waited for the field nurses to get there.
Sherlock made a tough soldier.
He reached down and put his hand over Sherlock's, ignoring the blood, and held it tightly.
He was still holding his hand and talking to him when the ambulance arrived, and stayed close by while the paramedics worked.
John paused in his pacing at the end of the hall.
It had been nearly an hour since Sherlock had been brought in to A&E, and with no word so far the minutes seemed to drag by unbearably slowly.
He leaned against the wall under the glowing exit sign and let out a heavy breath.
"Why…? Why me…?" He put his face in his hands, shutting his eyes. "Why him…?"
Life was not supposed to be this way.
Sherlock was not supposed to be this way.
John had thought he was strong. He'd thought he was fine, for the time being.
Fine, but not okay.
No.
Not even fine.
Not even close.
How could Sherlock do this to him? Didn't he ever stop to think what it might be like for John, coming home to find that? Didn't he ever think that that might hurt?
Just the other day he had said that meeting John had kept him alive.
Well apparently that wasn't cutting it anymore.
He gritted his teeth and slammed his fist against the wall, unable to suppress the anger welling up inside him.
He knew he was really just worried for his friend, but he couldn't handle being worried for so long, so rage seemed a suitable substitute. And it gave him a place to re-direct his emotions, to keep himself from feeling so trapped and helpless.
"How dare you. How fucking dare you. You arse—" He kept his voice low even though there was no one else around. "You idiot—how could you do this to me? How could you think this was alright? Well it's not. I hate this! I hate you!"
John stopped to keep from choking, and swallowed.
No.
He didn't hate him.
He didn't hate Sherlock Holmes.
He couldn't.
But he hated what he did to himself.
He hated that anything and anyone could make him feel like he had to do that.
He rubbed his sleeve over his eyes and took a deep breath as a door opened at the other end of the hall and a doctor came out and looked around for him. John paced over, keeping his jaw set in anticipation. "Is he…?"
"He's stable now."
"Oh Jesus…" John's knees suddenly felt like jelly, and all at once he was aware of just how tired he was. "Oh… thank god…"
"However, by the time he was brought in his body had started going into hypovolemic shock because of the blood loss. Even though we've done everything we can, there could be complications. We won't know until he wakes up."
The bottom felt as if it had dropped out of John's stomach.
Complications?
'Brain damage.'
Somehow that hit even harder than the 'possibility of death.'
Probably because it was fairly clear now that Sherlock would live. But that... for him, that would be a fate a thousand times worse than death.
And it would be his fault.
Not knowing was torture. The anticipation, the guessing and wondering, was agony.
There was no way of knowing until Sherlock woke up.
In the meantime, however, all John could do was stay by him, and wait and hope.
And it just might kill him.