Just a little one shot I got in the mood to write. Not really related to my other stories. Wanted to write something from Sherlock's perspective and how I imagine he would deal with the shock of possibility losing John. It's a bit different for me so I hope you enjoy it. Feedback is greatly appreciated.
The tea cup had slipped out of his hand, cracking when it hit the ground.
"Sherlock. I'm on my way. Sherlock?..." The voice on the phone faded.
Sherlock watched the tea soak into the carpet. It would leave a stain.
.. ..
"Sherlock?"
Looking up from the stain on the carpet and the broken cup he saw Mycroft standing in front of him. Why was he here? He vaguely remembered that his brother had called. Sherlock was still holding his phone.
"Get up Sherlock. We have to go."
Go where? The phone call, something had happened and Mycroft had come to take him...where?
Sherlock looked at his other hand, it was empty. He had dropped his cup of tea. Mycroft was still talking but Sherlock just stared at his hand.
Mycroft pulled him out of the chair.
"Sherlock, put your coat on. We have to get to the hospital."
"Hospital?" His voice cracked. The hospital? John was at...where was John?
He recalled hearing the porcelain crack when the cup hit the floor. Mycroft grabbed his coat and guided him out of the room. Sherlock turned to look at the tea cup, the handle was broken.
.. ..
"Drive faster!" Mycroft was acting odd. Why was he in Mycroft's car?
He felt a hand on his shoulder.
"It's OK Sherlock, we'll be there soon."
Be where soon? Where were they going? Mycroft had called...coming to take him to...the hospital. Something had happened.
The tea had soaked into the carpet, the stain would be permanent. He should have tried to clean it, maybe asking Mrs. Hudson to help.
Mycroft squeezed his shoulder.
"You need to focus. If John pulls through he's going to need you."
John? If..if...
He had lost his grip on the cup. That was shock, a startle response. He had read about that once.
.. ..
It was bright and there was too much noise. Mycroft was yelling. He rarely raised his voice, something must have upset him greatly for him to yell.
"Then find me someone that does know."
He was angry with a nurse. Why? Where were they? Sherlock saw more nurses, white corridors, people rushing about. They were in a hospital?
Mycroft was being too loud. Mycroft had been quiet on the phone. Telling him...something about John. John was at the hospital...he had been...it was too loud here.
Loud, like the sound of porcelain breaking; sharp, brittle. He thought about that sound as Mycroft kept arguing.
It was quiet again. Sherlock heard whispered, hushed words.
His brother was talking to someone. He looked like doctor, a surgeon. There was blood on his uniform.
Mycroft saw that Sherlock was looking at them and pulled the man away.
Hushed words. "pierced his heart...lost a lot of blood…too early to tell"
Nick, ding, hairline, fracture; words for cracks in porcelain. A porcelain tea cup with a broken handle.
.. ..
"Let someone else handle it." Mycroft was on his phone, pacing, he seemed troubled.
"Lestrade get over here now!"
Had Lestrade upset his brother? Why would he call the DI?
He remembered Mycroft had called him, something had happened. "Sherlock, John was attacked. He was..." Then he only remembered his cup of tea falling, cracking as it hit the floor, tea soaking into the carpet.
Lestrade was apologizing. For what? Why was Lestrade here? Where were they?
"We''ll find whoever did this Sherlock...Sherlock?"
DI Lestrade, Homicide division. Homicide...
The tea had darkened as it dried, a yellowish stain that would never come out.
"How long has he been in surgery?"
"5 hours."
"Will he make it?"
Mycroft turned away from Sherlock.
How long? From his hand to the floor, it took less than a second for the cup to fall before it hit the ground. Less then a second from whole to broken.
.. ..
Lestrade, Mycroft, they were agitated, worried. Had something happened?
The DI asked his brother, "Any word from the doctor?"
Sherlock remembered words from his phone, words about his doctor, about the only thing that mattered, John. Mycroft had called, something had happened to John. "Sherlock. John's been attacked. He was stabbed. It's very bad, they're taking him to the hospital." Then the tea cup had slipped from his hand.
More words, quiet, far away. Mycroft walked over to him. He looked concerned, sad.. Was John...?
The tea cup was slipping, it kept falling. It would always be broken, couldn't be repaired. A permanent stain in Sherlock that would never heal.
He was walking, hands were guiding him down long white hallways, white like porcelain.
"Sherlock, focus. He's going to need you now." That didn't make sense. The only one that had ever needed him was...broken.
Focus? Closing his eyes as he was placed in a chair he could only see a broken tea cup lying on the floor.
.. ..
It was dark. Fingers, cold and weak, lightly touched his hand. He heard a different voice; tired, hoarse, straining.
"Sherlock?"
He was falling, John was broken. Nothing left in Sherlock but a stain.
"John...I'm sorry."
"S..sorry?"
It sounded like John but it couldn't be, John was broken.
"The tea cup. It dropped...it's broken."
"Sherlock?" Was that John?
John, his John. He was supposed to do something, someone had told him to focus. Focus on not falling? Focus on John?
He felt John's hand. John was there, looking up at him from his hospital bed. He stopped falling, the stain was healing. John was damaged but had been repaired, he wasn't broken.
"Sherlock."
Sherlock smiled and held his hand tight. "I'm here, John."
"Tea cup?"
"Nevermind that, everything is ok now."