Emblazoned
CHAPTER THREE
John ran his hands through his hair over and over again. Lestrade and Donavan were to his left and right, respectively. They had been in the hospital waiting area for a God awful amount of time, and not a word was said between them.
A doctor finally approached them. John stood immediately.
"Is he ok?" he asked, wringing his hands.
The doctor sighed.
"Well, yes and no. So far the tests we've done indicate that he didn't contract any diseases, but there was some tearing. Minor tissue damage."
"How bad?"
"Nothing that won't heal with time. Just might cause a bit of discomfort. We have him on painkillers and some antibiotics just in case he gets an infection, but it shouldn't be anything to worry about."
"Is he awake?"
"No," the doctor said dismissively. "But he will be in the next hour or so. As for the rest of the damage-"
"So you're sure he's gonna be ok?"
The doctor sighed uncomfortably.
"Yes, Doctor Watson, he'll be fine. Just two busted ribs and some bruises. He had to get some stitches in his head, but otherwise, he'll make a normal recovery."
John sat. He was exhausted. He was stressed. He was worried. Lestrade thanked the doctor and nodded. He looked at John, then at Donavan.
"I've got to get back to the Yard," he said regrettably.
John nodded once, and Donavan told him they'd text if they heard anything. It was nearly 3 in the morning.
The two then sat in silence. Donavan was the first to break it.
"You ok?" she asked, looking at John. He sighed heavily.
"I've never seen anything...as horrific..." John's voice was quiet, weak.
"I'm sorry..." Donavan offered. She put a hand on John's shoulder. "But he'll be ok."
John shook his head.
"No, Sally, he won't be," he said. He looked at her. She was some what surprised. "He won't be ok. That was...you can't be ok after something like that. You can't be."
Sally swallowed.
"You'll be there for him," she said quietly. "We all will."
"Oh come off it, Sally," John suddenly said, angrily. He narrowed his eyes sharply at her. "You hate him. You can't even call him by his name, let alone show concern for him. The man was raped, Sally. He was a virgin and he was raped. Multiple times. In front of me, his best...his only friend. And I just...I could just watch."
There was a cold silence. Sally's heart was in her throat as the doctor came back again.
"If you wanted to see him, he's not conscious but we're done for the night."
John stood and made his way down the hall, and Sally followed at a distance.
They entered the room. Sherlock was there, completely still, eyes shut. Tubes and needles were attached to him here and there, and his chest moved slowly. John approached the edge of the bed and looked at him. He took his hand.
"Sherlock," he said quietly. Sally stood behind John, and she brought her hands to her mouth.
He looked so clean now. So normal.
When they had finally arrived at the warehouse, Lestrade and her, they had seen merely a husk of what Sherlock Holmes was. John had had him wrapped in his coat, that stupid coat that made him look so mysterious and so tall, but when she saw that coat held tightly around that fragile, shaking body, she saw Sherlock Holmes.
His face was blank, his eyes were blurred. Tears and blood were smudged around his canvas white face like mixed paints, and as John helped him towards the ambulance, each step he took made that face contort and wince. The lights of the police cars blinded him, each body that brushed against him made him flinch so violently that John had to steady him, and when they finally reached the ambulance itself, Sherlock had practically collapsed onto the stretcher, grasping for John's hands. And that doctor was there, his strong arms supporting his feeble friend, his rough hands clasping tightly to Sherlock's thin, pale ones. Sally watched as the paramedics then began to move John out of the ambulance, and she watched as Sherlock frantically reached out for him, John, struggling to stay with his friend.
"I have to stay with him, you don't understand!"
"I'm sorry, we can't have you in here, you need to go sir."
"I'm a doctor! I need to be with him! Please!"
"John? John?"
"Sherlock, it's ok, I'm here! I'm here!"
"John!"
The doors had shut then, and John Watson stood, angry, while Lestrade tried to usher him towards the police car. The scene was chaos. Sherlock Holmes had been subjected to brutality, and John Watson had been the only witness. The one who had to bear the sight of that brutality. And it was chaos.
"John..." Sherlock said hoarsely. His eyes had fluttered open and he was faintly looking at John. John gripped his friend's hand.
"I'm here, Sherlock," he said calmly. Sally smiled weakly.
"I'm here, too," she said. She put a hand on Sherlock's bandaged wrist. Sherlock swallowed.
"Sally," he whispered. "Why are you-"
"Don't try figuring it out, Freak," Sally said, sniffing and wiping her face. "I'm here. Deal with it."
Sherlock smiled just slightly, a smirk of sorts that said that he had no intention of figuring it out to begin with. John put his other hand on Sherlock's shoulder.
"You feeling ok?" he asked. Sherlock blinked and breathed deeply.
"I don't know," he said, clearing his throat. He licked his lips. "How did I get here?"
"I called Lestrade. He sent a squadron over. We brought you here," John said delicately.
Sherlock looked at his friend.
"You haven't slept," he said gruffly.
"I've been here, waiting."
"Why?"
John sighed and smiled.
"Don't worry about it," he whispered. Sherlock swallowed hard and cleared his throat again.
"I need water," he said uncomfortably. Sally nodded at him and said a quick "I'll get it," then left the room.
John and Sherlock were alone.
After a seemingly long silence, Sherlock breathing lightly and John mindlessly stroking his hand, Sherlock spoke.
"It's not your fault."
John felt a lump form in his throat.
"What?" he asked feebly. Sherlock looked at him with his bright, calculating eyes.
"It's not your fault," he said, his voice breaking just slightly. "I know that you would have done something if you could have. But you couldn't have. And it's not your fault."
John swallowed. He shook his head.
"I could have tried-"
"Stop."
"Sherlock I could have done something if I-"
"John stop."
John gripped his friend's hand and shut his eyes tightly.
"I've seen men," he said slowly. "I've seen them burned alive, shot in the back, bleed to death. I've seen my friends killed, brutally killed, in front of me. I've seen children with guns, people blown to bits, death in innumerable measure...but...Sherlock what I saw...when they..."
His voice broke and he stopped to take a calming breath. Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed deeply. John felt him tremble through his hand.
"What they did to you," John continued, staring at Sherlock with glassy, red-rimmed eyes and a heavy heart. "I can't forgive myself for letting that happen to you. There is nothing in this world that can erase that image from my mind, and I can't forgive myself for witnessing that and doing nothing more."
Sherlock swallowed. He opened his eyes and looked at John. He was in pain, John knew. He was exhausted in mind and body, and he was being choked with emotion.
"It's not your fault," he said in a brittle whisper. "Alright?"
John looked down at his hand, gripping Sherlock's tightly.
"I'm going to keep you safe," he said. "I promise."
Sherlock gave a small, nearly inaudible whimper and then a tiny "ok."
John then smiled at him and turned on the TV, and they proceeded to watch an episode of Top Gear in complete silence.