Chapter 11
It was pretty hopeless; he hadn't lied to me about that at least. He was being kept in a large room devoid of natural light and filled with the same dark oak that had occupied my holding room down the hall all those weeks ago. Mycroft had transformed it into, from what I could tell was a state of the art unit to care for him. Or hide him.
"I know what you are going to say Doctor," –says Mycroft. A man I presume is one of the privately hired doctors managing Sherlock's care hands him a chart to peruse.
"He should be in a hospital", I say, shuffling closer to the figure in the bed whom I am told is my friend. I run a hand over the cold pale arm as a nurse prises open a heavy lid and shines a pen torch into a glass-like eye.
Mycroft looks up to see me with his brother and observes my hand touching his.
"Would you like to see his scans for yourself? I'm sure Dr Cobb here will…"
"Could you leave us please?" My cracked whisper is barely audible over hissing of the machinery.
I feel a slight hesitation from Mycroft, but he finally nods his consent and they all leave me to my misery.
I survey what I see before me then walk slowly up to where the ventilator does its work. He has old bruising to the left side of his skull and his dull black curls have been partly shaved for surgery to relieve the pressure on his brain. A clean dressing covers the scars. I'm totally stunned and unable to process the fact that the man in front of me was the same whose funeral I had nearly missed. The same I had pictured lying six feet under for near enough the last month.
I pick up the observation chart and make a conscious effort to think clearly.
No discernible brain activity. Pupils fixed and unreactive to light with a Glasgow Coma Score of 8. One incidence of re-emergence three weeks ago. Extremely agitated and heavy sedation and ventilatory support reinitiated. Unable to remove ventilatory support. No further re-emergence expected. Next of Kin advised to make 'end-of-life' arrangements.
End-of-life arrangements. They are advising Mycroft to turn him off.
I take a deep breath. It appears that the jump not only resulted in a massive head injury but also a fractured shoulder and wrist, along with a punctured lung. His arms were black and blue from countless needles for the many drugs that were keeping him alive and stable. But the blood was pumping and I felt my own heart refill with warm blood at that fact.
The thought of him waking three weeks ago and possibly being aware of my absence is horrid. I hope that if he was cognizant that he would have realised that it was through no choice of my own. Three weeks ago would have been about the time Mycroft had me locked down the hall in fear that I was about to harm myself over Sherlock's 'suicide'. I had been so close and not known it.
Still. I try to tell him I'm here, try and tell him that I'm sorry I haven't been and that it wasn't of my choosing. That I didn't know, how could I have known? Mycroft had disagreed with Sherlock's plan and he had been left without me when it had truly mattered. But no words come out of my mouth. So instead I pull up a chair, tangle my hands in his and rest my head on his forearm allowing hot tears to stream down his cool skin.
I suddenly realise how tired I am. It feels like I have been hovering above myself watching this sorry aftermath play on as if I should be somewhere else. Now I know where. Alcohol and sleeping pills had been a prompt for the little sleep received in the past few weeks of his 'death'. Even then the nightmares of Sherlock's outstretched hand from the top of St Bart's had haunted the flimsy unconsciousness. But now I feel true rest clawing at my eyes and I give in to it gladly, my head finally resting upon his bed.
This time I don't dream of Sherlock's bruised body or the outstretched hand. I don't dream of Baker Street and Mrs Hudson's wonderful breakfasts. I don't even dream of New Year's Eve with Sherlock playing the violin so beautifully that I had fallen asleep, only to be woken by him checking my pulse and brushing lips against my ear. Nor in fact the first true night we had spent in each other's company. Adler had drugged him and he had slept curled up against my side, willing the room to stop spinning and wishing me not to leave due to some fear that she would return.
I was back in our room at the Cross Keys Inn nestled in the Devonshire Moor. It was the night Sherlock had confessed his fear that Moriarty was watching us in London. He admitted that he hadn't wanted to make a move to resolve 'our little problem' while there was a chance it would leave us vulnerable to our enemies. As we had stood exploring each other in the half light of the country lane, I reminded him that we weren't in London at the present and not due to leave until the next morning.
His admirable resolve had cracked and we made our excuses to Lestrade who had been waiting for us to return to the bar and slipped up to our twin room. He had fumbled with the key in the door; a move quite unlike him as I breathed heavy words into his ear from behind in anticipation of the boundary we were about to trample on.
Once in after him I had lent my head heavily between his shoulder blades, panting heat there in a strange relief, trying not to bite the skin that was asking for my imprints. He leaned back into me then turned to raise his hands to my face. A long needy kiss. I had pulled him down on the bed and set-to quelling the pent-up tension that had tightened and twisted like a coil since we had first shook hands at Bart's.
It was shaky, sweaty and as desperate as hell itself. I knew better of myself to attempt to explain it in rational terms. Why seek to label it? I was neither gay or straight, nor anything that I could find a label for in fact. I did know however, that no one individual had ever come close to having the effect on me that he did. The need was intense to the point I thought we might combust there and then and live forever as elements; energy and heat with no one able to disturb us.
I had been with a few men at Medical school and it was clear that he had too. More than once we each had to slow the other so that it wasn't all over and done within minutes. If there was the risk of this being my only shot at sex with Sherlock I wanted more than a quick fumble to keep me warm at night in my lonely room above the seventeen steps. Besides, I had no idea when our work would take us out of London again allowing Sherlock to feel were free of the prying eyes that he believed would use it against us.
The only sound in the last few minutes had been breath, kisses and the friction of skin on skin. I began to say his name; quietly at first just mouthing the shape of the words on his neck and shoulders not wanting to disturb the beautiful stillness so differing to London. He heard me and it made him shudder under my touch. I spoke his name louder with his encouraged it and it had been that which had undone him.
We lay in the hot aftermath of sheets; his head low on my shoulder and defences even less existent than before. I would never of had him down as one for the afterglow. He suddenly reached up and turned my face towards his; eyes scanning as if in realisation of some new fact that had lain undiscovered for years.
"Your voice John."
"What about my voice?" I had asked lazily, summoning the willpower to remain awake.
"I don't think you realise that it will always be able to….."
I'm startled awake by the harsh sound of a door opening somewhere and lift my head quickly checking for any change in him that would have woken me. Instead, Lestrade stands just inside the door catching his breath and looking on in disbelief.
I'm still a little stunned from being ripped from the dream and return my head to Sherlock's arm for a second to rub my eyes. I had been about to remember what he had said to me in the early hours of that morning. But as the mist upon the moor cleared and our departure back to London hung in the air, he had reset his resolve and hadn't spoken of it since the night of the arrest. I wish my brain would clear enough to remember.
"God, its true then. I…I didn't know John. I swear I didn't know," says Lestrade. When I'm clearly unable to offer anything back, he adds "I punched him if it helps."
The Neurologist steps impatiently in behind him, clearly uncomfortable at the politics surrounding his patient. I have no doubt he's being paid admirably by his employer to make up for it however.
"Gentleman, we have our regular care to provide and we need to get ready to move him. I'm sure you understand."
"Move him? Where are you taking him?" asks Lestrade.
"My diagnosis hasn't changed. I'm still not expecting any change in his condition. But he's stable enough for travel. I have now been able to persuade Mr Holmes that his brother would benefit from other facilities that I cannot supply in this environment. It seems you are the only one he will listen to Dr Watson."
I let out a sigh and nod in relief as I turn back to my friend. I still can't quite believe where a few hours have found me. Now all I need is for him to wake. It doesn't sound like much to ask, not like the pleas of before. After all, what is asking someone to wake once pleas for them to return from the grave have been answered?
I grip the cold hand in a temporary goodbye. There were some words trapped behind that movement somewhere, but now that I had an audience I keep them for later.
So as I drag my sorry self away; head down low, my fingers come across a familiar object in my pocket. Something that I had placed in there this morning at the hotel before Mycroft had appeared. The Key fob from the Devonshire Inn. The same that Sherlock had squirreled away as a memento of that stolen night together. During the arrest, I had pressed it into his hand along with my offered glimpses of a future together. It had done my bidding and persuaded him to fight back and run for it.
I place it in his closed hand and squeeze a little as I had done that night. The recognition of it had shone in his eyes and I longed to see that at this moment. But there was only the continued nothing, with little hope of anything else.
Lestrade held the door open, indicating me to follow him out. I hesitate with one quick glance behind to catch black curls and bruised cheekbones.
In the corridor Greg stands with his hands on his hips, brimming with the need for some sort of fight.
"I'll kill him John. Say the word and I'll have him arrested for this." He has a horrid pity in his eyes.
I rub tired eyes. "What exactly would that achieve?"
"It would make me feel a hell of a lot better that's for sure." He pauses his tirade to take in my appearance and frown.
"You going somewhere?"
I pause reading some of the scans on the desk and look down. I was in my full Captain's dress.
"I was reenlisting today. About to leave for my sign-in when Mycroft arrived and…Sorry, I didn't tell anyone, it was…I was... God. I have to call someone or I'll be up on charges and I need to find out where they're taking Sherlock."
"You look a wreck John. It looks like we can't do anything here for a while. There's a car outside. How about I take you back to your hotel, you can make some calls, get showered and changed; I can imagine the choice words that would come from Sherlock's mouth if he woke to see you in that. Something about desertion I imagine."
"Greg, I… The chances of that are…slim."
A cough behind me signals Mycroft's re-emergence. "The Inspector is correct. There is no room to travel with him John, I did offer on your behalf. He's being transferred to the Portland. I will call you as soon as he is settled."
"No damn it. I want to be there when he arrives."
"John, I know you have little regard for my reasoning at present. But if you are planning to keep vigil as I know you will you will be better prepared by a trip back to the hotel to collect yourself."
"Do not make any…large decisions without me. Do you understand?"
He looks to the floor and I lower my voice and recapture control through gritted teeth.
"Promise me Mycroft. I am having trouble believing you right now."
"I promise that you are to be involved wholeheartedly from now on."
I give in and we brave the London traffic back to my hotel in silence. Once in, I thank Lestrade for the ride and promise him I'll get some kind of rest before Mycroft sends a car. The hot shower does little to wash the feeling that I was missing something in all of this. It just didn't make sense to me to see Sherlock so locked away. I know that as a Doctor I should be able to rationalise it; understand the observations and conclusions that had been drawn by his medical team. But the truth of the matter was that this was Sherlock. He hadn't intended on leaving me behind before the jump and I'm sure he didn't intend to do it now. If I could just reach him wherever he was, I could persuade him back to us.
I lie on the bed with a cup of tea and wait. It doesn't take long to the feel the weight of sleep to take me back to Sherlock.
We were in the dark of Kitty Reilly's flat awaiting her return. We had made the most of the handcuffs from the arrest. It had been hurried and difficult and I had been worried we would be disturbed at any moment and that the 'voicing of my enthusiasm' would give us away. But Sherlock had led the way to the sofa and my memory blurred into clouds at that point. He had whispered something in my ear just before we were disturbed. I wish to God I could remember what it had been. It had been important, I know it. It feels as though it would unlock something; to remember.
"You must know John. All I ever need is to hear your voice."
When Sherlock had woken three weeks ago, it had been to my voice shouting down the corridor at a room I thought was housing Moriarty. He was responding to my voice, he had to be. Twice he had told me that calling his name would always bring him back. My voice. All he would ever need was my voice and I had barely been able to find it to speak to him today. It didn't make any sense, but somehow it had to be true.
I wake as if from a nightmare as the phone stabs the silence and I spill my tea across the bedclothes.
"Mycroft. shall I get a cab now?"
-Nothing but a few muffled noises.-
"Mycroft?"
"John. I… He's deteriorating. There's… I don't think there's time."