AN: Wow! I cannot believe how many of you have alerted or favourited my little story! *flails uncontrollably* I love you all. A lot.
Big licky love must go to TSylvestrisA who reviewed and told me where I had gone wrong with my first aid info. I have subsequently edited Chapter 2 based on the feedback. Ta. They also said that they found it hard to believe that Sherlock would take a shower if John had been rushed to hospital. Allow me to share with you my thoughts on this matter. I imagine that Sherlock is completely shocked and therefore acting a bit out of character. It hasn't quite sunk in yet what has happened, and I just had this image in my head of him sitting alone in the flat on the floor in a pool of blood, looking like a lost little boy. So you don't have to agree with me as to if that is how you think he would react, but that is how I imagined him reacting for the purpose of this tale. Apologies for the really long author's note, but I wanted to convey this information to you all. Because, as I already said, "You must allow me to tell you how ardently I do admire and love you."
As always, reviews are much appreciated.
Sherlock stood in the hallway of the hospital, clothes sopping wet, still shaking. Everything had gone so terribly wrong. He was supposed to be sharing a joyful reunion with John right now, not watching him lie in a hospital bed, limp and unconscious, separated from him by a pane of glass. John looked...fragile. Gone was the stalwart army doctor, and in its stead was something infinitely more breakable. He was ghostly pale, his eyes closed and shadowed, sunk deep into his face. His hair was streaked through with grey, more so than when Sherlock had last seen him. Sherlock's chest ached at seeing his friend reduced to such a state. He stretched up a hand and touched the glass, reaching out to John's lifeless form.
The ache in his chest worsened.
"You had to go, Sherlock. You had to leave him."
A figure stepped out of the shadows, behind Sherlock, and crossed over to where he stood. The figure raised a hand, as if to touch Sherlock on the shoulder reassuringly, but stopped and withdrew it. Sherlock did not turn round, but continued staring at John.
"Nobody could have known he would react like this. That it would end like th-"
"I asked you to look after him."
The first man stopped in his tracks, words dying in his throat.
Sherlock still didn't turn round.
"I asked you to do one thing, Mycroft, and you didn't do it."
He stayed looking at John, motionless, his voice quiet.
Mycroft cleared his throat and stepped closer.
"You know as well as I that-"
Sherlock exploded with rage, interrupting Mycroft's excuses. "Did something come up at work? Is that it? Because that's always been the case before, hasn't it? Even when we were kids! You never had time for me – there was always something more important. Our parents were gone and I was left alone. And now you've caused this. Because of your neglect."
He wheeled around and faced him, his eyes wild and livid with fury and pain. "All you had to do was keep an eye on him! You should have known this was going to happen; there would have been warning signs. But I suppose you were too busy to notice." He spat out the words, hurling them at his brother, wanting to hurt him in whatever way he could. He felt so much pain. Too much. He didn't fully understand emotions, and now he was besieged by them. He was confused and hurting, and the only way he could find to cope was to hurt others.
Words were like the blade John had used, slicing flesh, pouring out blood. Sherlock stabbed Mycroft with his words, wanting him to hurt as much as he did. He continued to shout at him, accusing him, blaming him. He didn't care that other people were beginning to be attracted by the noise, didn't care that he was in a hospital and supposed to be quiet – all he cared about was John lying still in the next room, and making the ache in his chest go away. Reverting to his usual habit of shouting at Mycroft seemed like a good option to try.
So he kept shouting. Ugly things.
Mycroft's face crumpled slightly, the only external sign of the damage the words were doing. Eventually, he turned and walked away, leaving Sherlock to shout at his retreating figure. Sherlock continued to shout until he was out of sight – and then shouted some more. A nurse came out and tried to calm him, but he only screamed at her, frightening her back into her office.
He shrieked one last time before collapsing on the floor in a heap, curled into a foetal position, arms wrapped around his head, trying to protect himself from the world and all the pain it brought. Shouting hadn't helped. New emotions surged over him, dragging him down. Guilt consumed him. Mycroft had picked him up from Baker Street and taken him to the hospital the instant he had heard about John – and how had he repaid him? Sherlock felt he had gone too far this time – the things he had said were harsh, even by his standards. If John had been there, he would have said "Bit not good". But he wasn't there. Sherlock's throat constricted.
He lay on the floor for some time, his eyes tightly shut, enveloped in his coat. The only noise was his juddering breath and the incessant beeping of the heart monitor.
After a while, Sherlock sat up. Throwing a tantrum wasn't going to work this time – if only because the person that would usually have stopped him lay unconscious in the next room. The pain crashed over Sherlock again and the ache in his chest worsened, threatening to swamp him entirely. He closed his eyes again, reeling from this fresh surge of emotion – but then they snapped open.
It was unlike Sherlock to care that he was being self-centred – but John had changed so many things about the man. John needed him. He was alone. Sherlock felt a fierce need to stay with John, to protect him from further harm. Using the wall as a support, he pushed against it, legs shaking, until he was standing. He made his way into the room John was in and sat down heavily in the chair next to the bed.
The heart monitor beeped steadily.
Sherlock watched John breathe. He was alive, that was all that mattered, he told himself. John looked so small, even smaller than usual, when surrounded by all the monitors and tubes and other medical equipment.
Sherlock suddenly grasped John's hand from where it rested on top of the covers, although it was covered in bandages. He held onto the hand tightly, firmly, as if it were the only thing stopping him from falling over the edge into a bottomless abyss.
The steady beat of John's pulse thrummed through Sherlock.
Still holding John's hand, he drifted into sleep, lulled by the consistent rhythm of his beating heart.
A while later, Mycroft returned, and was greeted by the sight of his brother slumped in a chair next to John's bed, his head lolling on his chest. His hand had slipped from John's in his sleep. His face was drawn with exhaustion and etched with worry and fear, his emotions showing through even more plainly in his unconscious state.
Mycroft withdrew, closing the door quietly behind him. He picked out his phone and arranged for people to watch the room, to ensure that the two were not in danger. He had not forgotten that Moriarty's organisation was still very much in existence, despite the main dangers having been eliminated. It would not do for the two to get shot now. Not after everything. It would be such a waste. And although he would never admit it, Mycroft felt horribly guilty about John. Sherlock's words had had more impact than Mycroft had let on. Ensuring their safety was his way of apologising, of paying penance. He would never apologise to their faces –a Holmes would never confess to such weakness - but he could at least do this one thing. He had failed miserably before, and he would make up for it in this way.
He watched the pair for a few more minutes before turning and walking smartly away down the corridor. He nodded curtly to a passing doctor and walked out of the hospital entrance. Mycroft slid into a large black car, speaking a few cursory words to his driver - and then melted away into the busy London rush hour.
