Beep… Beep… Beep… Beep… S-s-shut Up-p… Shut Up! What is that infernal beeping sound?
Sherlock opened his eyes. Well… This looks a bit not good. Actually it looks very not good. Judging by the motions and sound I'd say ambulance. But why? Someone is holding my hand. Why?
He turned his head. Every movement felt like an earthquake.
Who is holding my hand? I can't see much but… It's a man… Grey h-hair… Strong grip…
"Sherlock! Oh my god! You're okay, alright? You're going to be fine"
L-Lestrade! His voice sounds distorted, it's too slow and sing-song. Why is he talking like that? Unless… he's not. I'm the one hearing it differently, then… But why?
"Sherlock? Can you hear me? You've had an overdose but it is okay, you're going to be okay!"
Oh no. I remember. The hallucinations. Mycroft. Moriarty. John!
"J-j" Sherlock makes a weak attempt at speech.
No. John… JOHN!
The beeping quickens. I assume the paramedics are reacting to the beeping. They seem worried. One of them is talking to Lestrade, he tightens his grip on my hand and buries his face in the other. The paramedic comforts Lestrade, she looks sympathetic. Another one shouts.
"His heart rate is too high, he's losing too much blood so we'll have to sedate him!"
Losing blood? Sherlock uses the last of his strength to look down at himself. His red shirt has been opened halfway down. Wait… I don't have a red shirt. Taking another look, he realises the lash gash by his ribs. Bugger.
A sharp sting in his arm, then the world goes black.
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John walked towards the doors, on his way out until—
"Excuse me sir!"
John stepped out of the way apologetically to let the hurried paramedics wheel a gurney past. There was a man in it but his head was turned away, however he seemed familiar. Never mind, probably a coincidence.
"John! When did you get here?" called out a guttural voice, Greg!
"Um, yesterday. Mary's having the baby premature, what are you doing here?"
The DI looked away for a moment to collect himself and then depicted the whole story from the start. At that moment, John could feel his life exploding into tiny fragments, destroyed beyond repair. So he let the darkness descend.
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"John? John, mate. You alright?"
Ow. My head and back… Feels like I'm being balanced on a garden fence.
"Sorry about the chairs, but y'know, it was that or the floor." Lestrade laughed half-heartedly.
In silence, they got some coffee from the cafeteria that tasted like coal.
"I'm sorry to hear that you're girl's premature."
"Yeah, she'll be fine though. It's Mary who's really in trouble. 'Probably won't make it"
"Sorry, mate" Greg enveloped John's shoulder in a large, reassuring bear paw.
"Excuse me, are you two gentlemen with Sherlock Holmes?" called out a young woman in purple scrubs, softly as she looked down at her clipboard.
Rising to their feet, alertly, they nodded, rendered speechless with a cocktail of anticipation and fear.
"Okay, well he's pulled through and stable at the moment," Greg could feel all the tension in John's sloped shoulders evaporate. "He overdosed on cocaine and the convulsions caused him to fracture two ribs, one fragment pierced through his left hypochondriac region and caused major blood loss. There will be no long term effects, however. He did have quite severe hyperthermia earlier, it has mostly been treated but he still has a minor fever.
"Um, before you go in, may I ask you a few questions regarding Mr Holmes' wellbeing?"
"Uh, yes, okay"
"Does he take care of himself properly? Like, does he eat regularly and get enough sleep?"
John shifted his weight onto his other foot uncomfortably.
"Well no. Not really. He, um, when he's on cases—he's a detective by the way-, he doesn't eat. They usually last 3 or 4 days. But I haven't seen him in two months so I really don't know." John averted his gaze, ashamed of abandoning his friend in his time of need.
"Okay thank you sirs. You may go in."
The two men entered the room. Sherlock lay on the cheap hospital bed, restricted by the iron bars of the taut blankets. His already gaunt frame was left skeletal and ivory, his dark hair was flaccid and was plastered to his damp forehead. Winding tubes did all of the living as the detective just lay in a suspended state of life. An IV threaded through his right forearm like marionette strings, a pulse oximeter clamped on his left forefinger and an endotracheal tube ran between his slightly bloodied nostrils. The suffocating smell of disinfectant burned through John's nose and random beeps of machinery echoed around his head.
Greg looked toward John, he couldn't read any expression on his face. Maybe he was in shock? Lestrade turned back to Sherlock and choked back tears as he saw the 19 year old, Police Academy dropout dressed in acid washed jeans and thread-bare hoodie.
He knew he recognised him somewhere. The semi unconscious teen proffered his wrist to be handcuffed without a fight. His eyes were glassy and bloodshot and his arm was lifeless and light.
"No it is ok, Gregson. I'll interrogate him myself." He sat the misty-eyed brunet in his office.
"So kid. What was a young man like yourself doing in a crack den?"
"Existing." He replied curtly.
Lestrade retained a chuckle. "Ok this is driving me crazy, where have I seen you before?"
"Three years, 2 months and 28 days ago at a stupid mandatory police academy for 'Troubled Kids' to get them interested in law enforcement. I was the annoying dick who tin foiled his ankle tag and left out of the window." He replied in his monotonous baritone.
What? This kid was extraordinary! Lestrade couldn't even remember what he'd had for lunch.
"I remember you! Sherlock Holmes! You were a genius, so why are you living in a crack den?"
"I'm not a freak there I guess…"
"What did you say that you wanted to be again?"
"Consulting detective"
"Okay, Sherlock Holmes! I'll let you off on a caution, you clean up your act and I'll let you consult on a case. How's that?"
He looked up, eyes boring into his with confusion "Why?"
"I don't like to see genius wasted, kid"
Greg hated seeing the kid who was just like a son to him in so much pain; even more that it was self-inflicted. When Sherlock arrived on Greg's crime scenes you could see the corners of his mouth twitch with curiosity and well concealed glee; you could see his mind reeling in the possibilities of the mystery. He wasn't thinking now. Barely living.
"Mr Watson! Please come quickly it is Mary!" A nurse burst through the door.
"Oh my god"
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Time of death 9:32. John held the cooling hand of Mary Morstan for the last time.
"How's the baby?" asked John, feebly.
"She is okay, a few minor respiratory problems but after a while in the incubator and she'll be okay"
John looked down at her daughter. She was frail but beautiful. Large blue eyes bore into his own like a perfect reflection. Her tiny starfish like hands reached out to grab his, they barely covered his fingertip.
Caitlyn Watson.