Part Two
23-30 June 2016
Sherlock's car jacker case involves lots of running. John doesn't worry too much about running nowadays but the strain is showing with Sherlock. John knows muscle strain when he sees it but he knows that Sherlock cannot be happier than he is right now. John doesn't blame him. It is a case he would have loved to be a part of properly. John doesn't consider himself much of a petrol head but there have been some great car chases on this one. Ones conducted by Lestrade, whom John had never known had some advanced driving courses under his belt, since Sherlock had never seen the point of getting a driver's license when he lived in London.
John had every confidence that Sherlock could work a car as easily as he could hotwire or break into one but he is, for once, deferring to Lestrade's experience. Experience of course meaning that at one flick of a switch he could legally run through red lights and not be stopped. It is the first time that Sherlock has allowed himself to be seen in a police car while under his own power. It is priceless and John wishes he could be there with them properly – he's terrified for his existence sitting unseen in the back as it is and Mycroft coming in and informing Sherlock that if he got his fiancé killed hell would be the least of his worries was sobering as much as it was sort of funny. Especially since Lestrade was in the room rolling his eyes at the time.
John has always loved to see Sherlock busy and living. He is especially happy that Sherlock had continued to do both after he'd died. Since this past December, however, Sherlock has been sluggish. The suddenness of the parting had been hard on them both, John had been far from impressed when it taken him a few seconds to realise that Sherlock wasn't smiling at him anymore and wasn't looking at him anymore and that the sun was starting to stream through Baker Street.
He hadn't been able to speak to him or do anything to let him know he was still here since then. He knew that Sherlock was concerned that he may have left him. They were both in the most unknown territory they could be in – John knew he was here by choice and figured he would be here until he chose otherwise but he couldn't be sure about that; there weren't too many ghosts he was comfortable approaching to ask.
Aside from that Sherlock was moping in the presence of Anderson somehow getting another girlfriend despite getting dumped on live television by the last one and Lestrade and Mycroft's pending nuptials. It would be adorable if John could do anything to comfort him, or if anyone else could. Typically he wasn't letting Mycroft or Lestrade or even Mrs. Hudson anywhere near the topic of the pair of them.
Again, John was delighted that this case had come along. It had been a project on the go for the past few weeks and it looked like Sherlock was about ready to burst out of skin with triumph. The end was nigh.
Famous last words.
John shouts when the car comes barrelling at Sherlock. Of course he doesn't hear him, of icourse/i he doesn't hear him. He howls, he runs, he manages to reach Sherlock and tries to push him out of the way. He hurls through him so fast that he can't keep his balance and face plants into the street. That would have really, really hurt five and a half years ago but it has no affect on him now. He pushes himself up off the pavement, spins, and sees Sherlock go flying through the air and hit the ground with a horrifying, sickening, crack.
Then the car keeps going and runs him over properly. John has been screaming something; a part of him is trying very hard to figure what exactly he's saying. Then, as he staggers to Sherlock's side, he knows he's screaming for help and also screaming at the absolute horror of what is before him.
He forces himself to step back. Someone is calling the police and it looks like there's a paramedic in the crowd. John can't help here as much as he wants to. He pulls himself together as best he can and waits for Sherlock to show up. He needs to be calm for him.
When John had died it had been relatively instantaneous. One moment he was saying his goodbyes and the next he was standing beside Sherlock as hugged the lifeless, bloody heap desperately and screamed for John to come back. John remembered trying to oblige him, he'd tried to leap back into his body like it was a car or something and seize control again. It hadn't worked.
He's wondering where the hell Sherlock has gone off to until he realises that Sherlock's not dead yet. The paramedic has yelled out that Sherlock is still breathing. John is not sure whether he's grateful or not for that – John wouldn't have wanted to come back from that just by looks let alone what actual damage there is.
He's curious, professionally and personally, but refuses to move to the growing crowd. He waits until the police and paramedics come. He waits for Sherlock to appear and, when he doesn't, promises he'll be with him again soon and thinks of that car. He shuts his eyes.
When he opens them again he's sitting in the vacant passenger seat of Emmett Ryder, car jacker extrodinaire.
John doesn't know whether he has only just now regained his ability to influence the physical world or whether his rage and grief are making things easier for him but he throws a wrench at Ryder's head once they arrive at his garage and it certainly connects. Ryder stamps and curses but is mostly unharmed, much to John's ire.
He spends the next week making Ryder's life, what little John plans to allow him, as miserable as possible. He slams doors, he throws things, he locks things away, he whispers and yells what horrors will await him thanks to what he's done. He's especially active at night, of course. Ryder is a not a murderer, this was a rash act and something done distantly through a car because he thought it would be easier. He is not ready to face the reality of what he's done.
John is a killer and he is perfectly willing to kill again. He's killed for Sherlock several times in life and there were literally no repercussions for him to worry about now. He wouldn't need Mycroft's cover ups or Lestrade's omissions here. The decent part of John hopes the police find him before John's plans come to fruition but Ryder has remained at large so long for a reason.
Ryder hangs himself seven days after he hit Sherlock. Ryder's terrified ghost barely forms before he vanishes. Most people linger a full minute or two before disappearing if they have a choice. Ryder was either allowed no choice or he chose to go to the hell that John had promised rather than face him. John had told him who he was, who he had been, and what he would do to him if he ever faced him on an even playing field.
He is pleased with himself. Very pleased with himself. For the first time he understands that smile on Sherlock's blood flecked face as he had ripped out Michael Gray's heart. It had terrified him at the time he'd seen it but he understood how sweet a proper revenge killing was now. There was a special pleasure in that he'd made the man do it to himself.
God he was sick and Sherlock wasn't even dead.
That last part hits him like a punch to the jaw and he shuts his eyes and thinks of Sherlock again. He prays he finds Sherlock well.
When he opens his eyes he wishes Ryder had held on a few more weeks: he deserved far worse than what John had had the chance to inflict on him.
July 2016
Seven days have passed and he does look better but John knows a tough case when he sees one. He reads the chart hanging off the foot of the bed just to be sure but it doesn't tell him anything he doesn't already know. Brain swelling, very likely brain damage, crashed twice over the past week, Glasgow scale reading of 4 (no eye or verbal response, responds only barely to pain), on a respirator...he looks away and stalks over to the window of the private room.
He has seen people come back from worse and succumb to less and Sherlock is an extraordinarily stubborn and exceptional man. All that being said John can't comment effectively on anything until he sees just how much swelling and how much damage has been done. The fact that there is no DNR attached to the chart is promising. The fact that Sherlock would prefer death over living with anything less than his full mental acuity is surely well known.
Time is a bad thing when dealing with comas though. Everyone knows this. The longer you remain in one the less likely it is that you wake up. He has faith though; it's one of the few things that he has been allowed to keep.
"This is the part where you wake up, Sherlock," John tells him as he settles into the chair next to Sherlock's bed. Sherlock's respirator hisses in response. His monitors show a very slight peak but his eyes don't move. They're very slightly open; John can just see Sherlock's unfocused pupils. John's not sure if that peak is a response to him or not. He says Sherlock's name again and nothing happens but he goes on.
"I'm going to assume you're hearing me. That's never stopped you before and you have to still be in there because you're not out here with me."
That peak again.
"I got Ryder for you," he goes on. "Not sure if you knew that was him driving but I got him. He did it himself but I certainly forced his hand. I meant to and I don't regret it." He sighs and tries to take Sherlock's limp hand. Nothing happens.
The last time one of them had killed for the other Sherlock had cloistered himself away. It had been an attempt to atone for his actions. Not for himself, Sherlock had never doubted the rightness of his actions and had no regrets about doing it, but for any sense of John that remained that would say that this was more than a bit Not Good. Not that Sherlock had any belief or any inkling of how close to the truth he had been.
John had never told Sherlock that he'd witnessed the killing. He had also never said that he had avoided Sherlock during the court case and for the duration of his stay in hospital. For the first part he had legitimately been scared of Sherlock and his own situation and had needed some time to come back. He had tried to let him know he was still here in the asylum but, Sherlock being Sherlock, had unconsciously known that he was there and it had upset him. So he'd left him for almost the whole time. He'd only come back again near the end.
Part of John wants to hide away, to punish himself for what he has done, but he isn't going to leave Sherlock again. Not in what is going to be his greatest battle ever. Perhaps even his final one.
John had once told Sherlock that he was only dying after living a good and long life. This certainly did not qualify as a good and long life. "You're getting through this," he informs his friend. His heart is still beating and his brain is still working and as long as that remains true there is hope. "We've survived worse and we've done the impossible. We can do this. You can do this."
He squeezes his hand and Sherlock's squeezes back. John knows it's only a reflex action but he can't help but feel like he's been heard.
John had never been a quiet person in life nor had he been a talker but since crossing into the realm of Not Alive John finds he talks a bit more. To himself, mostly, but also to other people even though he knows full well they aren't going to hear him. Sherlock was the only exception to that rule and even that wasn't a sure thing. He had no way of disproving or confirming any results his voice had but John had lots of time and the knowledge that Sherlock had the potential of hearing him. Just because he wasn't reacting to Mycroft or Lestrade or anyone else didn't mean he wasn't reacting to him. The way John saw he had one foot on their side of the fence and one on his anyway.
Of course, though, topics of conversation were rather dull when one refused to leave the hospital grounds. His talks consist of what dirt he manages to dig up on the grounds, any interesting goings on, any ghosts he meets, or what Sherlock's visitors don't discuss when they're in his room.
"Anderson's single again," he's telling him now. "He's got his eye on Sally again and Sally is leading him on just so she can get a chance to either deck him or tattoo 'piss off' on his forehead. I'm hoping it happens here so I can see. Anderson does have a lack of tact sometimes that rivals you." Anderson hadn't come into visit yet but Sally had. She'd come with Lestrade and Molly once. Molly had fled the room in tears and Sally had pitched a few cases she had to him.
"Something for you to mull over in there," she'd said with conviction and borderline challenge. Good one, Sally. "I expect some answers once you're back with us."
Molly had never come back. Mrs. Hudson had come twice but looked like she wasn't long for the world herself both times. John is pretty sure that she actually nodded at him on her way out the last time but can't be sure.
Mycroft and Lestrade are both here now. The doctors and the nurses had taken Sherlock for some X-rays and some other tests a few hours ago and they were now awaiting the results. John had restrained himself from reading the images himself or following the doctors. He is pretty sure he knows what the answer is going to be but if he doesn't acknowledge it he can live (iexist/i) in denial for a little while longer. Sherlock would call this hopelessly illogical. John calls it survival.
The primary physician comes in and leads them out into a private room. Everyone knows it's bad if they're going in here so she doesn't insult them with dragging out what they all know.
Sherlock's Glasgow test results have dropped to three, the lowest possible score. If Sherlock were to wake up tomorrow he would need round the clock care. He would never get out of bed, he would never do more than blink his eyes at them and make a few sounds, and he would need to be fed through tubes. That being said they wouldn't know for sure about any of that until he woke up and those chances were less than stellar.
"Sherlock is not going to wake up." Normally when this conversation is had it's meant to be a bit more sympathetic and gentle. However this is Mycroft Holmes and Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade and she knows that approach will not be appreciated and it also needs to be said firmly without room for reinterpretation. The doctor doesn't say anything but John has gotten very, very, good at reading people in the past few years. She really hopes Sherlock does not wake up from this. She knows all about him knows how much of a blow this would be to him.
Professionally, however, she can say nothing and lays out the options. First she suggests a DNR, which Mycroft refuses to sign. He and Lestrade are silent when she speaks about nursing homes but when she gets to the option of taking him off the machines Mycroft adamantly refuses. "He's still alive."
"Not really," Lestrade says softly. "He's pretty much brain dead – "
"That hasn't been declared," Mycroft counters. "Has it, Doctor Llewellyn?"
"Not at present," Doctor Llewellyn agrees.
"Big mistake", John says. It's a matter of time and they all know it but she is too precise to say it. "His EEG still shows some brain activity –"
"There, you see?" The look that Mycroft casts Lestrade's way sharply reminds John of the looks that Sherlock would shoot his way when he was looking-but-not-looking for his approval. Lestrade does exactly what John would do in this situation: he asks Doctor Llewellyn to excuse them and lays the facts of the matter out for him like he would to a young, daft, new recruit.
"You know Sherlock wouldn't want this," he concludes in his best, authoritative Detective Inspector voice.
"Sherlock never knew what he wanted – "
"You know he wouldn't want this," Lestrade growls. "You wouldn't want this. I wouldn't want this. Why on Earth would you think he'd like this? He certainly is not going to thank you for it."
"Of course he is not going to thank me for it, Gregory," Mycroft bloody near snaps. "The doctor was perfectly clear on his vocal abilities once he wakes up."
"He's not going to, Mycroft!"
Mycroft stands, informs Lestrade that he was unaware anyone in the room possessed a medical degree. John mutters that he does and he agrees with Llewellyn's prognosis to what he thinks are deaf ears. He isn't sure but he thinks he sees Mycroft flinch just before he storms out of the room. Lestrade sighs heavily and folds his arms over top of the table and pillows his head in them. He sighs, heavily, and when he rises there are tears in his eyes. He brushes them furiously away. Then he leaves as well.
John sits still. It's all official now. He lets it sink in and contemplates the chair that Mycroft Holmes was sitting in. He very much wants to throw it. He does. It doesn't help. He heads back to Sherlock's room without even noticing if anyone came to see what the noise was.
If John believed in Hell he knows that being a man as brilliant as Sherlock trapped in that sort of state had to be it. Part of John snarks that maybe Sherlock should have actually written up some proper paperwork about this. John had often warned him that any medical decisions would fall to his next of kin if he wasn't able to decide for himself. John had long ago decided that Harry was getting no say in his treatments and had fixed that very early on. Sherlock hadn't known that John had named him next of kin in place of his sister until well after his death.
He hopes and prays that Sherlock is unaware of the state he is in. He hopes that, if he has to, that Sherlock lives out the remainder of his days in unawareness of what has happened to him. Despite that wish John fills him in anyway, knowing that he would want to know and knowing how much it will enrage him.
"You have two options," John whispers in his ear at the end of the debrief. "You either pull off a miracle or..." John shuts his eyes, and takes a deep breath, and says it. "Or you need to come with me. You need to let go, if you can, and get out of there unless you really want to be locked away in there forever. You have to either wake up to them or wake up to me."
There are no peaks on the EEG and no wailing of any alarms. John toys with mustering his strength and turning off the respirator but he holds his hand. As much as he knows what Sherlock would want, he knows this because Sherlock ihad fucking told him and of course the bastard didn't tell anyone else/i, he wants Sherlock to choose. John doesn't want some poor nurse or doctor to get sued for malpractice for his interference. Sherlock needs to choose himself if he's able.
Or better yet, if Sherlock can't, then Mycroft needs to understand that his brother is lost to him and he needs to let him go.
The Holmes brothers, John knew very well, were not good at letting anything go.
August 2016
John has never given it any thought before now but John knows that Sherlock would never have lasted this long if their positions were reversed. Sherlock was all one for observation but nearly six years of it with minimal influence or conversation? Sherlock thought people were boring but he needed someone around who would hear him when he complained about it.
Actually he might have this all wrong. Sherlock would make noise. He would become a poltergeist, John knew it. He'd have haunted him so badly and then berated him for taking him too long to figure out he was here.
Sherlock also would have waited for him too. He would have complained about it the whole time but he would have waited; waited until he'd died of old age and screamed at him if he'd offed himself or gotten himself killed by accident. Sherlock also would have caused a malfunction in the respirator as soon as he knew it was hopeless. Sherlock cared about him; John knew that without any sense of doubt. Therefore, if John gave a tenth of a damn about Sherlock that he claimed to he would have pulled the plug himself weeks ago.
It's been nearly two months since the accident. Sherlock's status has not changed one way or the other since John had killed Emmett Ryder. John whirls around on the office chair he's parked on in an empty consulting room. Haunting a hospital is duller than even he could have imagined but there is nowhere else he would rather be.
Routine has become very important. It didn't used to be quite so much but he's making it important in the case of Sherlock. He spends most of his time in Sherlock's room repeating the news of the place, keeping him apprised of the goings on, and now openly encouraging him to let himself go if he's able. He had thought before to let Sherlock choose it himself. Now John is acting in Sherlock's best interest. Sometimes, more often than John had previously thought, Sherlock would take his advice. That had even been while he was alive and Sherlock had always respected his medical opinion. His medical opinion right now was that Sherlock was by far better off dead.
Before he gives that speech, that well rehearsed speech, John does a round of the hospital to send a few of the ghosts he bumped into on their way or give them a few pointers. Lord knows he would have appreciated someone explaining how things had worked to him during the first few weeks.
Dr. John Watson, spiritual consultant. God it was awful. Thankfully he has no intentions of setting up a practice. Ghosts aren't really the type to stick around and talk to each other for the time that would allow for the forwarding of his name and location. Anyone who remains a decent length of time is far too preoccupied in whatever business they have that is making them stay than to bother with socializing or seeking any sort of 'professional' help.
You always know, though, when one is coming close to you so John is a little surprised to feel someone coming in right through the front door as he is leaving the exam room. In walks Mrs. Hudson looking as healthy as she'd been when John had first met her and she is looking straight at him. "Knew I'd find you here," she says merrily as she approaches him. "Is Sherlock with you yet?"
John shakes his head numbly. Mrs. Hudson had looked ill on her previous visits but she hadn't looked ithat/i ill. She tuts and hugs him once she is in arms length. "Allergic reaction," she tells him. "Would have gotten help if you or Sherlock were there but there you have it. Don't look so fussed about it, dear. I'm not. I've had a good life."
John hugs her tight in return and expresses his condolences anyway; it still seems the polite thing to do. "You staying?"
"Just to drop in on you two then I'll be off. I was very much hoping that I'd find Sherlock with you though. I thought he must have given up the ghost by now, pardon the expression."
"Pardoned." They walk up to the nearest lift and settle in with the first pair of people it opens for. Once they disembark John closes the doors and punches Sherlock's floor number. Mrs. Hudson looks quite impressed with him but doesn't ask how he did it. It was always a sure sign when he wasn't asked about his abilities that the person (ghost? Ex-person?) he was talking to had no intention of sticking around. Ghosts are a very practical lot and it makes John quite comfortable on the occasions he has dealt with them. Of course he supposes they can't be all practical if there are ghosts like him around who hang around for years waiting for loved ones.
John knows that he can't be the only one, knows full well that he isn't, but it is a lonely business. Usually that doesn't bother him but many things that are unusual for him have happened in the past two months. They don't speak until they enter Sherlock's room. Mycroft is just leaving, probably to meet Lestrade for lunch or check back with his minions, and he breezes through the pair of him. John is more than used to it by now but Mrs. Hudson is more than a little rattled by the experience. "That was unpleasant," she gripes after she is done shaking. "I don't plan on repeating that. Why do put up with nonsense like that, doctor?"
John doesn't answer and of course Mrs. Hudson knows what it is. She settles in the chair by Sherlock's bed and tries to touch his hand. She shudders as her hand falls through. "You're really being unreasonable here, Sherlock," she chides once she collects herself. She looks back at John. "Can he hear me?"
"I like to think so."
Mrs. Hudson nods, understanding. "Get moving, Sherlock," she says with greater authority. She almost sounds like one of John's commanding officers. "There's nothing for you here. You'll go mad in there." She hisses, pained. "He's not mad is he?"
John shakes his head. What handicaps Sherlock was sure to have if he ever woke up alive were certainly not madness. Madness would not bother Sherlock so much. "Think of him as a very young child, Mrs. Hudson."
"He's always been a child, dear."
John isn't quite sure if Mrs. Hudson was ever told the precise prognosis or if she's just forgotten it. He reminds her, gently, that Sherlock is never going to wake up and that if on the off chance he does he will never be the same man that they knew and loved. There was no reason to deny it and Mrs. Hudson had loved Sherlock in the way that a grandmother loves even her most disruptive grandson. She tries to pat his hand again, fails, and tells him on no certain terms he is to get on with it and die right this instant. "You're driving John spare," she says. John glares at her but doesn't say anything about it. Of course he's mad. He's been mad since 26 January 2010. Probably before that.
For the first time Mrs. Hudson actually properly notices the respirator. She glances at the tube connecting Sherlock to the machine and then looks at John's hands, then at John himself. "Why don't you do it?" she asks. "What if he can't get himself out?"
"I don't want to get some poor idiot in trouble." He also doesn't want to admit that he can't touch the respirator. A few days ago he gave up and tried turning it off after profuse apologies to Sherlock. His hands would not connect with the machine. He's tried to innocently touch the thing every night since then but to no avail. If ever the thing was out of his hands, it was out of his hands now.
Mrs. Hudson softens and doesn't question it. She looks at Sherlock again and then looks at him. "There's a bit of symmetry in some of what Sherlock does," she announces, suddenly. "I think you'll find him with you soon enough."
"Did I mention Mycroft has proxy?"
"I said soon enough, love, not tomorrow. Would you mind walking me outside?"
John doesn't. He takes her out to the front and finds it's a gorgeous day in London. Sunny skies, mild cloud cover, and John is sure it's warm out. Not that he can tell of course, it just looks like it. His old landlady regards the street like an old friend and then slowly nods. She hugs him once more and they say their goodbyes. John doesn't try and convince her to stay. She does say to make sure to stop by and see her once they pair of them leave. He asks how she's so sure that there will be a them and a her and a place to stop by in the whatever.
Mrs. Hudson says it's because she says so and to leave it. She vanishes with a perfectly fiendish triumphant smile.
John has never popped in on Mycroft Holmes since he'd died. Originally it was because he didn't want Mycroft to be the first person that figured out that he was still around. Sherlock had grudgingly mentioned once that Mycroft was a quicker and better thinker than he was and John didn't want to chance that being true. Afterwards he just didn't see a point. Mycroft had been a mostly unwanted constant presence in his life and, quite frankly, he was rather enjoying the break. Also he wouldn't put it past Mycroft to have some psychics or ghost busters on staff that would either end him or somehow send him off for study. Preposterous and he knows it but there it is.
He wonders if perhaps those fears are justified when Mycroft suddenly starts speaking to him. He's not looking at him, he has no idea where John in the room, and he has only just finished talking to Sherlock. John himself has only been in here for the last few minutes or so; he doesn't like hanging around when Mycroft visits. Eavesdropping is a part of his life now but, again, he is very cautious where Mycroft is concerned.
"I know you're there, John, so would you do me the courtesy of acknowledging me?"
John's better sense says to say and do nothing so of course John finds a discarded bit of note paper, balls it up, and bounces it off Mycroft's head. He's half surprised that Mycroft doesn't catch the thing without turning around. John moves to perch on the end of Sherlock's bed and faces Mycroft.
"Rather juvenile wasn't that, doctor?" Mycroft isn't looking at him. Good.
"What did you want me to do?" John asks, not caring whether Mycroft hears him or not. "Rattle some chains and moan?"
Mycroft doesn't react one way or the other. John is irrationally annoyed and is considering turning that ball of paper into a spit ball (assuming he can make spit) when Mycroft starts talking again. "I appreciate the fact that you have not shut the machines off, nor have you made any attempts to end Sherlock's life prematurely. I thank you for that and ask that you continue to do so."
"I'm a doctor, remember?"
"I also would like to ask that you not encourage him to come to you. While he still lives his place is here and I know you know that."
John raises an eyebrow and kicks his leg out so Mycroft's chair shoves away from the bed. His expression is priceless and worthy of a good laugh (and a photo if he'd had a camera) but he can't spare it. "Do you actually call this living, Mycroft?" he snarls. "Would you want this?" He's not sure whether Mycroft hears the first part but he certainly hears the last, or at least John thinks so. Mycroft is still stunned from the shove that it's hard to tell whether the blink is still an effect of that or of hearing him speak. His mouth works for a few moments before he gets up and leaves the room. He's on his phone looking busy but John's seen this quite uninventive cover up from Sherlock. He's rattled him.
"Yeah, you run," he mutters and moves the chair back. He's just settled back into it as best as he can when he hears a new voice call his name.
Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade stands about four feet from the doorway. He'd passed Mycroft in the hallway and had kept going to see what had had the elder Holmes so worked up. When he'd walked in he'd seen the chair move and that had sold him on whatever Mycroft had to have told him. Of course Mycroft had told him – John knows Sherlock would have told him if things had been reversed.
"John?" he asks again. "Say something, mate."
"Something," John replies. Lestrade doesn't react; nor does he react when John tries to clasp his shoulder. Shoving Mycroft's chair had been stupid and John kicks himself for that. Lestrade sighs and moves over to the chair, settles in and regards Sherlock. Sometimes John forgets that Lestrade has known Sherlock longer than he has, that he knew Sherlock when he was a drug addicted genius looking for quick thrills and his next fix. Heaven only knew what had possessed Lestrade to trust him, John remembers being more than baffled himself when he'd first met Sherlock and Lestrade. That had especially been considering he'd just been told that his brilliant, fascinating, flatmate had done something so stupid. He'd asked Lestrade why he'd put up with him and Lestrade had answered that he hoped that one day Sherlock would be a good man as well as a great one. John likes to think now, at what is certainly the end of Sherlock's life, that he was a good man. Is a good man. Whatever. He also likes to think that Lestrade knows that as well.
"Well," Lestrade says, speaking to Sherlock now. "I used to live in utter fear that you'd end up like this because of the drugs or because of some ridiculous stunt of yours. I never thought it would actually be an accident or that one of those guys would actually manage to get you." He laughs, bitterly, to himself. "Serves me right. I thought the same thing about John and look what happened to him."
John had always known he'd die for Sherlock, with Sherlock, or because of Sherlock and it had all been fine. Sherlock had also known that his chances for a long life were diminished by his choice of career but, both of them, had hoped they'd be able to beat the odds and make it to retirement together and in one piece. They had never spoken this aloud but John knows that they'd both hoped for it. So much for that.
John hears his name again. Lestrade is still talking to Sherlock. "John's here, do you know that?" He lets out a rusty chuckle. "Of course you do, you've probably known for awhile. You probably didn't believe it at first – you should have heard Mycroft last night – but as you say 'if you eliminate the impossible...' "
Lestrade laughs a little again then scrubs his face with his hand. "I am going to miss you, you know that? Not just because you solve all my cases but because I like you. I hope you know that."
John whispers that he does and he thinks Lestrade might have heard him this time.
"I'm not going to miss you even a tenth as much as you've missed John, though." His voice is cracking now, slightly. "If you're in there, and if you have any say at all in the whole living versus dying thing, you should go to him. You are going to despise what you wake up to and Mycroft...well Mycroft loves you. I really hope you know that too. He doesn't want to give up on you. That's what he sees pulling the plug as."
Again, John tells Lestrade that Sherlock certainly knows all this and again he's not sure if Lestrade hears him. He whispers something in Sherlock's ear, something that John does not make any effort to overhear, and then looks at the respirator like he wants to shoot it. Then he abruptly stalks out, furious. Mycroft, John decides, it about to get an earful. He hopes it helps.
Mycroft, however, does not come again until the end of the month. He does not direct any comments to John and does not appear to be any closer to even considering letting Sherlock go.
23 September 2016
John is the last one to see brain activity on the EEG. John is giving his daily report to Sherlock and he just happens to look at the monitors. He doesn't look away for whatever reason and watches the readings read nothing. Then watches them stay that way for a good ten or fifteen minutes. Sherlock, naturally, is still breathing with assistance and his heart is still beating but the EEG informs him that Sherlock's brain has finally died.
John can do nothing except smack the call button. He knows that the fact that no one was there to push it will be lost of the flurry of activity that will ensue once the nurses figure out what has gone on. Soon enough the doctor is called in, Mycroft and Lestrade are called, and paperwork is filled out. All this time John is looking around to see if Sherlock has popped up beside him yet. Nothing. He supposes he has to wait until the machines actually turn off.
He steps back to just outside the door when the doctor speaks to Mycroft and Lestrade and explains, needlessly, to them what brain dead is and what it means. Mycroft can't argue with this and is told which button will turn off the respirator. He leaves Mycroft and Lestrade alone with Sherlock as they speak to him one final time and John only comes back in the room when he hears the respirator stop.
He ignores Mycroft and Lestrade as best he can, it's a private grief and private lowering of barriers on Mycroft's end and John knows how much that is costing him. He grips Sherlock's hand as best he can and waits for the monitor to flat line.
When it finally does the sun is just coming up. The nurses come and turn off the machines, usher the two men out and get about shipping Sherlock down to the morgue. John remains in the room well after it's empty. Sherlock is still not here.
"Come on," he whispers. "You didn't go on without me did you?"
Usually everyone is around for a moment before being swept up. Never, yet, has he seen anyone just not appear. Something has gone wrong, or else Sherlock ran the hell out of that body so fast that he didn't care about who was with him. John wouldn't blame him for that and he could join him right now if he wanted to. He considers it but something tells him that Sherlock is not here nor is he there. He's ended up somewhere else and in this world not the next.
He casts himself back to when he'd been killed. He'd been right beside himself, right by the last thing he saw which was Sherlock...
The last thing he saw! Of course! The last thing Sherlock had seen hadn't been John or this hospital. He'd likely seen that car. More likely the street.
He thinks of that street and hopes he's right.