Thanks to everyone who has taken the time to read my story. Hope you're liking it! :)
Doctor John Watson had received a phone call at six o'clock from St. Bart's to inform him that his patient, Amy Farringdon, was in a critical condition and if he would like to see her, now was the time. Of course, John had left 221b Baker Street immediately, but Sherlock had been first out the door.
They sat in her room on either side of the bed. She was asleep, and despite Sherlock's less than subtle attempts, she did not stir at their presence.
They had been there for three hours, just watching and listening, the beep-beep-beep of the monitor's reassuring them. Sherlock was lent forward, his elbows on his knees, fingers steepled and resting on his mouth. He watched her chest rise and fall so slowly, so painfully slowly. Up and down, up and down, up and… there was a pause in her breathing, and Sherlock sits blot upright, his long, slender hand finding her small one.
'John!' he said, in a panicked whisper, standing up.
John looked over and stood up. He was about to call for the nurse when Amy exhaled, and inhaled. And John and Sherlock did the same and resumed their places beside her bed.
John drifted in and out of sleep. But Sherlock remained ever watchful. He was unsure why he felt so attached to this woman. It confused him, and in strange way delighted him. She had always taken him exactly as he was. He liked that she never questioned his ability to read her, and he liked that she was so calm and level-headed about her condition. In just over a week, he had become as attached to her as he was to John. As he watched, and waited, he replaced his hand over hers.
Eventually, Sherlock's silent vigil gave way to uneasy sleep, draped semi-elegantly over the visitor's chair.