This is the third attempt to write this chapter, it really hasn't been easy hence the delay. I've just been trying to perfect it and hopefully, it is just right and isn't entirely awful. Thank you for the patience, for the reviews, for the favourites, just for keeping up with this and being supportive.
"Please! He's my friend-he's my friend..."
John tried to clamber into the ambulance that Sherlock had just been loaded in, this cold whirring panic stealing over him when the notion of being apart from the detective struck him. Someone grasped his shoulder, and then someone else held his arm and, gently, pried him away. He was numb to the exasperated shouts from the paramedics inside the vehicle that were telling the others to move John so they could get Sherlock to the hospital as quickly as possible. John was numb to these words until these ones claimed the air.
"—do you want this man to die?"
John froze. He wasn't certain if it was directed at him, or the men and women behind him who were now peeling him away from the inside of the ambulance like a plaster, but nonetheless it made his heart glitch. The doors slammed on him before he was barely out, and then it started and tore off, the sirens screeching. John's breathing turned thick as if the oxygen was clotted and not stirred thinly enough.
The first rays of daylight peered nervously through the blackness of night, checking to see if the coast was clear so it could come out and declare a new day had begun. The ground was gleaming, slick with rain that had now ceased to fall, and although everything was over, John still felt he was dragging the remains of yesterday's terror with him. He hadn't yet let it go, and he wasn't sure, when he would be able to. When he'd be able to stuff all of those events into the past and focus solely on the future. He couldn't even focus on that, he couldn't focus on the fact that Moriarty was gone or that he had his friend back. All he could think about was that he wouldn't ever be able to move forward if Sherlock died, if that man's heart, whose existence had been the focal point of debate for many years, somehow stopped, John's life would along stop with it.
John's legs sagged beneath him as if a screw connecting the joints was removed without his knowledge, and he crumpled down to the ground. The dampness soaked through his trouser legs, nipping spitefully at his vulnerable skin, and he was dimly aware of people flocking around him, asking him if he could stand. He gave a short twitch of a shake of the head, and it drooped, his forehead softly banging against somebody's shoulder. John closed his eyes, hearing the world rattle loudly around him and not wanting to be a part of it, not at all curious as to what was going on.
Please be okay, please be okay, please be okay...
For me, Sherlock, please...please be okay...
[SH]
It was more of a sensation that of which he was experiencing. He felt his eyeballs twitch in their sockets yet all remained decorated exclusively black, and not even a ghost of a light tinted his lids. It felt like someone was gripping tightly onto his upper arms, holding onto him with all their might as if he would suddenly gasp into a cloud of dust and disappear for good. He wondered if his body would dissolve like that, just break apart into a trillion flakes, and scatter themselves everywhere. He wanted to, for some absurd reason. He wanted that to happen to him. The only way to describe it is that his insides felt shredded up. If a piece of paper were torn to shreds, no one would even bother attempting to fix it back together. It would be thrown away, so why should anybody try to put him back to one piece? Sherlock didn't feel in any way shape or form whole.
The only sight he was capable of beholding, were fragments of memories that scratched his brain like shards of glass being sprinkled over it. They weren't even precisely his memories; it was more of an out-of-body experience as he saw his own back having fingers dragged down it, as he saw his own head slumping lazily away unable to sustain the weight. The only vision that felt his own was the one where he brought his own hands to his eyes to find them stained with blood, his blood.
It was uncomfortable witnessing these images and he wanted to delete them but was unable to, as he couldn't find them once they cut across his mind. They would disappear as soon as they occurred, leaving this burning trace behind. That was what Sherlock truly wanted to erase. The mark they left on him was so hideous and unbearable. He hadn't a clue how long he laid victim to these dreams, but it felt as though it had gone on for years, and all knowledge of time was a dirty smear.
[SH]
Mycroft's appearance in the hospital startled many of the doctors who had, in the past, confronted his intimidating manner. He'd only visited this specific hospital once before, when Sherlock had been here when the pool had been bombed, and that one single visit alone, was enough to have the doctors excuse themselves into patients' rooms to pretend they had urgent work to attend to, and even for one nurse to let out a tiny squeak and scuttle off in the opposite direction.
Only one doctor approached him, albeit with knocking knees and a brow coated in perspiration, clipboard trembling in his hands. Mycroft regarded him, taking in the information like one would when reading a brief summary of a book. Good education (though still dim witted), expecting first daughter, been a doctor for just under a year therefore not qualified.
When the man went to open his mouth, Mycroft cut him off bluntly. "You won't do, send someone else up with a bit more intelligence please."
The doctor blinked and looked stung. "I assure you, Mr. Holmes, I am more than qual—"
"Just. Do. As. I. Ask." Mycroft snarled through ground teeth, leaning ever so slightly forwards to loom over the other.
Beetroot red, the doctor handed over the charts to Mycroft gingerly and then skirted around him, putting as much space between then as possible.
Shifting his jaw like he'd bitten into something hard and distasteful, Mycroft felt the immense weight sinking down inside of him. The last time he was in this position, the last time he'd nearly lost Sherlock—it'd nearly killed him. He'd never admit it, he'd never put his hands up to it, but he'd watched his little brother almost die too many times...four to be exact. The first two were on Sherlock's own accord; the other two were because of Moriarty. It was intensely painful for him to stand here again in a hospital, deeming every doctor useless when it came to securing his brother's continuing existence. He knew that if they failed, he would feel that blame, that blame that he didn't find someone better. As selfish as it sounded, Mycroft didn't want that guilt.
[SH]
His eyes eventually creaked open, and the sight of the white ceiling poured over his face like cold water. He stared for a couple of seconds without blinking, his eyeballs turning stale. He just wanted to drink in reality.
His brother was sitting at the foot of his bed, reclined in a chair reading a newspaper as if he were merely in a waiting room awaiting for his named to be called so he could get his appointment over and done with. Despite this being somewhat of a harsh interpretation on Sherlock's part, he noted that Mycroft Holmes had most likely not left his bedside. He needn't deduce this from the fact that the clothes were at least three days old and the hands shaking ever so slightly indicating lack of food, the newspaper he was poring over was battered from plenty of folding and unfolding, and from being so thoroughly read. He knew because Mycroft had done it before.
"Careful, Mycroft, you worry if showing," Sherlock huskily commented. He strained his voice by uttering these six words, and he grimaced as he wondered how he would cope with being unable to speak at length for a while.
Mycroft raised his brows, creasing his high forehead as he folded the newspaper in half with a loud rustle. "Well, that was a tad kinder than what you said last time."
"What did I say last time?"
"Piss off."
The siblings caught each other's eye and for a split second, the hospital eroded away so it was just a setting, merely a space in which this moment was being exchanged and they both shared laughter for the first time in years. It was only a brief instant, that reluctantly passed into an awkward silence as the white walls raised themselves up again, and the noise of the living and breathing hospital sounded in the halls.
Sherlock eased himself upwards into a sitting position, that was bowed and uncomfortable but unlike in past occasions, Mycroft didn't care to ask his brother to amend his posture. "Why are you here, Mycroft?"
Mycroft licked his dry lips prior to speaking. "I'm visiting my little brother," he answered softly, reclaiming his umbrella that had laid dormant at his side as he had been reading, twisting it round in a nervous manner. "Isn't that what family are supposed to do on occasions such as these?"
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "You didn't visit the last time I was in the hospital. I know you came here for a reason." When his brother went to deny these accusations, Sherlock added, "I'm sure the office would want you back as soon as possible, dear brother," he bit these final words out sourly. "So don't procrastinate. What do you have to say?"
Mycroft swallowed hard as he sealed his lips, and he turned away to glower off into space. He looked utterly defeated, and hesitant to reveal the true purpose to his presence at Sherlock's bedside. It was as though he had wanted a fleeting moment of playing older brother, a real older brother. He hadn't really had the chance to fill out that role growing up. He fulfilled the role of mother more than anything, a fact that Sherlock resented him for. Any attempts he made at being the reliable, devoting older brother, were always torn to bits the minute Sherlock had figured out what he was trying to do, like Sherlock was batting him down, telling him he'd had his chance and it was too late, so he needn't bother.
"You need to disappear, Sherlock," Mycroft explained lowly, rising to his feet.
Sherlock frowned for a millisecond and then it clicked in his brilliant mind. He grinned widely, which looked particularly unsettling with his ashen complexion, grey shrouded eyes and gaunt features. "Ah I see."
"Moriarty has many men at his disposal," Mycroft pressed on, approaching the younger Holmes. "Although he is dead, he is sure to have left orders to them to finish you off if he failed to do so. He wouldn't allow his only—his only equal to live whilst he did not. You need to disappear for a while. I have people ready for the job of faking your death certificate, and an identity for you to adopt, at least until they forget about you."
"They'd never forget me," Sherlock was shaking his head, shoulders bobbing slightly in quiet laughter. He glanced up at his brother, who looked furious. "You want me to pretend to be dead? You want me to go into hiding until this whole thing blows over like some bad storm?"
Mycroft shifted his jaw. "I need you to do this, Sherlock. If not for me, then for Mummy..."
Sherlock's features darkened. "Don't play dirty, Mycroft. Don't you dare bring her into this just to bully me into going with your plans." Mycroft blushed at this. "You want me to take John into hiding too?"
"No, as a matter of fact, the doctor must be convinced that you are deceased. Moriarty had no interest in John, he won't be a target, but he needs to believe that you are dead. If he believes, Moriarty's men will believe." Sherlock went very still. "If you continue to—exist so to speak in the public eye, John will be at risk. If you ceased to exist, he will be protected."
Sherlock's voice came out thin and shattered, sharply puncturing Mycroft's eardrums and thus injecting him with a due amount of vast guilt. "I never thought you'd do this to me, Mycroft." He'd never heard Sherlock sound so hurt, so blatantly injured in his tone. He cast his eyes down. "The one person I care about more than anyone..." Sherlock bit his bottom lip hard. "You know he's the only one...you know how much he..." he trailed off, unable to finish.
"I'm sorry," Mycroft offered sincerely. "But you know I'm right, which is why it hurts so much. Why should John's world stop...he has family he will hurt if he disappears, Sherlock...friends...the few people you are capable of hurting will know, Mummy and I."
"What about John? What would this do to him?"
Mycroft felt indescribably horrific, like he was a poison setting into his little brother's life. He knew Sherlock wouldn't believe him if he told him, but he was pained by the entire situation. He was pained by the concept of giving his brother this agonizing choice, the choice to abandon the only person he'd cared for or the choice to stay with them only to lose them to someone else. Either Sherlock 'died' or John did, and the latter would be for real.
"He'll be looked after," Mycroft turned his back to him and drifted around the room aimlessly. "I give you my word, I will continue to watch over him, keep you..." he searched for the correct word. "...informed."
Sherlock closed his eyes as he felt his entire form sag down, sinking into the bed he was once keeping afloat upon. The gradual pain zipped gratingly across his chest, the knowledge that either way he was going to lose John too much to bear. His 'death' wouldn't be permanent. When it all blew over, he could return...but he had no idea when that would be, and John would never forgive him.
[SH]
"Where's Sherlock?"
Lestrade started at this, letting out a short "Jesus" when he saw that John's eyes were open and staring directly at him. Grimacing as he gently stroked his own wounded shoulder, Greg hesitated, knowing that the doctor wouldn't and couldn't be fed false words of comfort. He repressed the urge to change topic to state that there was a bit of déjà vu in this scene they were playing out now, and instead mulled over what he could say.
"Still unconscious," he offered in the end. "But eh, he's still alive if that's what you're wondering."
"Where is he?" John said again, jolting up in his bed. His heart skittered in his chest, the image of Sherlock bleeding profusely on the staircase embedded like a blade in his mind. He could almost still feel the blood staining his hands and even checked them, rubbing them hard against the sheets despite not seeing anything. Why was this man's blood always on his hands?
"Whoa take it easy, mate," Greg rose to his feet as John made to stand though staggered instead, directly into the detective inspector's arms. "What do you think you're doing?" he added firmly as the doctor weakly shook him loose.
"I need to find him," John stated this as if there was no question about it. When Greg stood in front of him, blocking his route, he narrowed his eyes dangerously. "Don't try to stop me, detective inspector."
"There's nothing for him you can do right now," Greg insisted desperately, contemplating reaching out to offer a soothing touch but discarded it briskly. "You need to fix yourself up first and you're not going to do that by...by being a bloody idiot."
John flushed at the remark. "I need to be with him...you have n..." he exhaled heavily through his nose, clearing his throat and hung his head, suddenly unable to look the detective inspector in the face. He puffed out his chest and gradually looked up again. "You have no idea what it's been like...not knowing where he is or if he's okay and right now...no matter if it's bad I need to be there so I know. I don't want to be told. I want to be there when it happens."
"When what happens, John?" Lestrade asked.
"I don't know," John admitted. "Either he wakes up..." his voice broke and he pursed his lips, nodding slightly. "...or he doesn't."
Lestrade glanced down, his turn now to feel uncomfortable. "Will you let me take you at least?"
"Sure," John accepted this offer even though he'd rather be alone, as he was just simply grateful to be permitted to go at all.
He did need a little bit of help getting his legs to shift at first, and he was greatly embarrassed when he stumbled and wound up clutching onto the other for support, his face and neck burning. Lestrade didn't seem to care so John did his best not to either. Greg turned his back as the doctor, with a bit of difficulty, changed into a fresh set of clothes that had been brought there by Anthea on Mycroft's orders, as he seemed to know exactly what John would want to do as soon as he woke up. John just about managed with his fingers in a splint, and he noticed the blooming bruises scattered over his torso, only then feeling the whining pain of them when he saw them.
Once he was dressed, the two men began their walk, which seemed to go on for miles even though it took them only two-minutes tops. John tried to pay no heed to the exhaustion eating up his strength as he went. His body seemed to be rejecting its usual intake of energy and settling with the minimal amount, desperate for him to go back to bed and sleep so it could mend. John kept telling himself that he would be able to sit down when he got to Sherlock's room, the thought of even just seeing the detective left him wrought with apprehension. He didn't know what he'd see, or what it'd be like, and now the concept of being there if things took a turn for the worse shook him to the core. How would he feel being nudged out of the room when the doctors rushed in after the line had turned flat? Would be able to act fast enough? To jump up to press the emergency button when Sherlock's chest stilled...
Greg paused a few feet away from the door, fidgeting on the spot as he tucked his hands into his pockets and watched the doctor's pallid face. "I'll be just down the hall if you need anything," he said. "Just give us a bell if you need something or just someone to talk to."
"Thanks, Greg," John just about managed, smiling faintly.
Lestrade nodded and, after long consideration, patted the other on the shoulder, turned and walked away. John looked after him almost longingly, now desperate not to be by himself. Curling and uncurling his unbroken fingers into his palm, he stood there staring fixedly at the ground, ignoring the curious looks he got as people, doctors and patients alike, passed him.
"You listen here, you better be okay. Because—I don't know what I'd do without you...you just think about that, alright? You hear me, Sherlock Holmes...you understand..."
These words waltzed around his head as he tentatively approached the door. It was Sherlock's door. That fact nearly hurt. It hurt to know that he'd gotten his wish and there was no going back now, and that after everything nothing was keeping them apart but his own selfish fears. He needed to be there for Sherlock. No matter how much it frightened him. He grasped the handle.
His brow furrowed as he could swear he heard voices. For an instant, his muscles went lax and his face sank, and everything was okay. The cracks and splinters in his world were blended and washed over, they no longer existed, and things seemed, for the first time in the longest of times, okay. Then he realised it wasn't Sherlock's voice he was hearing. The voice was loud, and far too light, and he knew immediately it was Mycroft.
"... You to do this, Sherlock. If not for me, then for Mummy..."
Do what? John didn't understand. He silenced even his breathing so not to miss a thing, practically with his cheek pressed against the door just to ensure he didn't miss anything.
"Don't play dirty, Mycroft. Don't you dare bring her into this just to bully me into going with your plans. You want me to take John into hiding too?"
Sherlock's voice was like a breeze passing over John, yet he couldn't discard the unknown meanings of the words he was saying.
"No, as a matter of fact, the doctor must be convinced that you are deceased. Moriarty had no interest in John, he won't be a target, but he needs to believe that you are dead. If he believes, Moriarty's men will believe. If you continue to—exist so to speak in the public eye, John will be at risk. If you ceased to exist, he will be protected."
There was a brief pause, a pause that almost killed John whose world becoming fractured once more and this time, it seemed it would truly break apart.
"I never thought you'd do this to me, Mycroft." Sherlock sounded, if John wasn't convinced the detective would never portray this emotion not even to his own brother, hurt. "The one person I care about more than anyone...you know he's the only one...you know how much he..." he broke off.
"I'm sorry, but you know I'm right, which is why it hurts so much. Why should John's world stop...he has family he will hurt if he disappears, Sherlock...friends...the few people you are capable of hurting will know, Mummy and I."
"What about John? What would this do to him?"
"He'll be looked after," Mycroft turned his back to him and drifted around the room aimlessly. "I give you my word, I will continue to watch over him, keep you..." he searched for the correct word. "...informed."
John felt like he was drowning in the sharp edged words that were pouring down on top of him. He gripped the door handle hard, restraining the trembles that threatened to zigzag down his arm so not to rattle it and draw attention to his presence. This was all happening on the other side of this door. Part of it was about him, and he wasn't even involved in this decision, this massive decision that would distort his life just as much as it would Mycroft's or even Sherlock's. John wanted to be a part of it, yet his answer was blatant. He didn't care what happened to him, just so long as he could be by this fantastic man. He wasn't ashamed to admit that Sherlock Holmes had become a part of him. Like water in the human body, a mass of the material in John was in fact Sherlock. Without that, he would lose the ability to function properly. He couldn't believe that Sherlock and Mycroft were talking about faking his death so to keep John safe...a massive, gargantuan lie that would devastate John beyond repair to ensure he was still physically living. What about emotionally?
John didn't want to hear Sherlock's response. He considered running away, fleeing down the halls and the very hospital in fact and just leave it all behind him so he'd never have to hear that lie wind itself around him even though he knew the truth. However, John knew he couldn't leave because that, also, would result in a world without Sherlock Holmes. Broadening his shoulders, he turned the handle and shoved open the door.
[SH]
Mycroft started as the door swung open, and his face went taut when his eyes landed upon the dishevelled doctor, who was standing there livid and shaken, staring hard at him and only him. Mycroft clenched his jaw and tried to lift his head higher as if he was above caring, as if trying to stay afloat of the guilt but failing miserably. He lowered it and cast his eyes down to his shoes.
"We were only thinking of what was best for y—" he began tenderly.
"Get out," John interjected, his tone lower than either of the Holmes brothers had heard it before. He kept his gaze trained on Mycroft, despite feeling Sherlock watching him like one would feel a tap on the shoulder. If he looked at the detective, he knew he would crumble and he didn't want to do that in front of Mycroft.
Sherlock had never seen John look like that before. He was aware that the doctor had never been really intimidated by his brother, which was one of the various things about him that impressed Sherlock, but this was very different. John looked like things could turn ugly if Mycroft dared to put a foot wrong or dared to offer any words of falsehoods or apologies. For once, the older Holmes brother had no retort and no smugness in his features, and while Sherlock felt joy at seeing his brother look that way, he was mostly filled with remorse and fault. He saw the anguish cut into his friend's face, and that in turn cut itself into him.
Mycroft bit the inside of his cheek and gave a minute nod. He wouldn't skirt around John as the doctor had done to him a few days ago now, he still had a tad of pride remaining. When the two men were standing shoulder to shoulder, Mycroft glanced down to John who was still staring fixedly where he had once stood, refusing to grant him even half a glimpse.
"I am sorry, John," Mycroft murmured.
Before John could respond, Mycroft strode out of the room, closing the door quietly behind him.
The silence that possessed the room was excruciating for the pair of them. John bowed his head, breathing heavily, and Sherlock was sure that he was trying not to cry. The consulting detective wanted to stand, to touch his arm, and force him to look at him so he could read those eyes and find out what was happening but he couldn't shift. The tiniest of movements was agonizing, and it would probably make matters worse than better. Therefore, he allowed John to take his time despite the slowness of it all was driving him surely insane. His heart throbbed even in his throat as he watched the doctor's back, not even blinking just in case he missed something.
"Would you have said yes?" John finally spoke. Sherlock caught his breath. John heard it and closed his eyes as though he had been punched in the gut. "Just answer me that, Sherlock."
Sherlock came close to seeing the very fine thread connecting himself and John at that instant. It was so delicate, so frail, that if he was too brash or said a single thing wrong, it would snap in half and he would lose John for good. Mycroft probably would have hissed in his ear that that was what they needed; they needed John to leave so he could be safe but right then Sherlock cared very little about any of that. He thought only about their relationship and that, above all, was precious to him. To think he would overthrow reason to ensure the safety of a relationship with a fellow human being...it seemed preposterous even to him.
"John," he started, noting how the other flinched somewhat as he spoke. "I—I would have done anything to ensure your safety." He swallowed hard. "No matter how much it pained me." His voice snapped like a dry twig and he clasped a hand over his mouth in a kind of shock at hearing himself falter. He could never explain why he found it so damned hard to speak right then, why the contents of his heart were not as easy to exhibit as those of his mind. Something always jerked him back. It was too much of a vulnerable position to put himself in, that concept of being so hideously exposed was utterly terrifying to him. He hastily dropped his hand from his mouth and pressed on. "Even if that meant hurting you...lying to you...I was not comforted by the fact that, once Moriarty's connections were dismantled, I would be able to return to you...because I knew you'd never be able to look at me the same way you do now without thinking that I was the one that lied and hurt you. Then I would truly lose you. I've never...needed anyone let alone wanted anyone."
The tears welled in John's eyes. "So you're saying..." he rotated moderately, still not meeting the detective's gaze. "You would have said no?"
"No...I would have said yes..."
John closed his eyes. Was it possible to feel his heart wilt and fall apart the way it was then? Was it possible to feel it fall apart into these broken halves and feel the hideous gap in between them?
"As I said, I would have done anything to make sure you were safe," Sherlock continued. "I'd have risked you hating me until the end of your days so you remained alive. It would have killed me...but I would have done that..."
"For me?" John finished for him, finally locking their eyes together, a look that felt more physical than if they were holding hands.
Those pale eyes watched him closely, more intently than they had done before and more intent than John had ever seen them even when he was at a crime scene. This was a different kind of attentive, a kind that John didn't think he'd ever see in Sherlock.
"There was only me once," Sherlock forced himself to speak, inhaling shakily after he confessed this. "Only me I had to think about and I didn't even do that much. I never cared for myself let alone anyone else. This is..." his mouth clamped shut in a last feeble attempt to amputate the words and dispose of them but he opened it again. "...really scary for me."
John's shoulders sagged in defeat. "Scary?" he echoed.
Sherlock's high cheekbones turned a light shade of pink as he nodded. "You've scared me, John."
John bit the inside of his cheek and when Sherlock went to speak again, he held up his hand, silencing him. "Let me have a word in this," he said gently, even smiling wryly. "I didn't mean to scare you. It wasn't my intention. When I first met your brother, he told me that walking the streets of London with you, meant I would see the battlefield. You told me once that I shouldn't go looking for a new war, that I'd been sent back to England to leave that all behind me...maybe you're right, like you always bloody are, but I don't care. I know...that you're the best thing that's ever happened to me, and people go to hell and back to keep the best things they have, in their lives. Maybe not the kind of hell we go through, but hell all the same, and I guess that I'm willing to do anything to stay with you."
He cringed at every word he uttered, not knowing the entire time whether these were things Sherlock wanted to hear. Everything he said, he wondered if Sherlock was panicking and getting ready to back out again. When things got too close and too emotional, he would step back and do everything he could to keep it out, adding extra bricks to his already tall wall to ensure the same mistake wouldn't happen again. Although the possibility of him scaring Sherlock away was reasonably high, John couldn't stop. "If you try to push me away again, I will just come back. No matter what shitty things you say, no matter what shitty things you do to keep me out, I won't let you."
Sherlock didn't say a word, and John's entire head felt like a balloon filled with scalding hot lava, a blush scathing his cheeks as he stood there, awkwardly awaiting a response. When nothing was said for some time, he felt an icy puncture in his stomach and he cleared his throat. "You must be tired; I'll let you get some rest..."
As John went to go, Sherlock said, "Let me see your hand."
Simply relieved that the detective had spoken and hadn't just told him to leave him alone, John complied. He moved rigidly over towards the bed, his stomach flipping as if there was no weight to it at all when he saw closely how exhausted and drained his friend looked. Just looking at him reminded John that he had been holding this man in his arms not long ago, and he was dying. He was losing him and now they were in this place together and neither of them was dying now. They were both fine...
He winced as his broken fingers were shifted as they rested into Sherlock's palm. It took John a second to get over the fact that Sherlock was touching him again, and his skin was warm and real beneath his hand. Sherlock studied the injury, ensuring to keep his movements to a minimum to prevent causing his companion further pain. His face was unreadable, and John strained to figure out what emotions were going haywire behind those pale, still eyes that looked ever tranquil though fizzing with thoughts.
"Are you in a lot of pain?" Sherlock inquired gently, leaning his eyes up to brush against John's.
John inhaled shakily. "Not as much. To be honest I didn't really care."
"Why's that?" Sherlock said automatically even though the answer was already sitting there like a brightly wrapped present in his head. However, he refused to open it. He wanted to hear it. He wanted to hear John say it.
"I was worried sick about you," John admitted.
For a second, the right hand corner of Sherlock's mouth tilted upwards into a secret smile and then it smoothed out like a crease in a garment of clothing. Of course, John saw it, but played along by feigning ignorance. Then he suddenly switched into a serious mode.
"Asking how I am, you idiot," John said abruptly, even surprising Sherlock. "You're the one..." he seemed at a loss as to what to do, settling on trying to persuade him to lie down. Sherlock only watched him, straight-faced and curious as the doctor stumbled over his words.
"John," he tenderly spoke. "I'm fine."
Dissatisfied with this reply, John continued. "Do you need anything? Want anything? I can get it for you?"
"Just sit down," when John went to collect the chair, he added, "On the bed, John."
John looked bewildered and, frowning slightly, did as he was asked, sitting down on the very edge of the bed rigidly. Sherlock decided this would have to do and he kept a hold of John's hand, which he had been holding the entire time. John, seemingly have forgotten about it, remembered it now and his face went another shade of red.
The world in which Sherlock was missing, lingered in John's mind. That world seemed more of a disturbing, distant dream now, unable to creep into this place of warmth. That was the only way to describe what this instant was like. It was warm, it was familiar, it was right, and nothing could penetrate it right then. As cliché as it sounded, it was only the two of them, and John wouldn't have minded that being true. He wouldn't have minded existing in a world where it was just him and Sherlock. He could imagine Sherlock going insane with the lack of cases, but he knew he could handle it. John would gladly handle every fit of rage, every episode of boredom, every biting remark because all of that was better than having none of that at all. That was what he had come close to. He had been on the brink of living in a world without Sherlock.
Tears brimmed in his eyes before he could put a stop to his miserable train of thought, and he hung his head so to conceal them. Just as John had seen Sherlock's smile, Sherlock saw the tears fogging the doctor's eyes. He wasn't certain at what to do at first. He was never good at handling crying people, yet this wasn't exactly just another person. It was John, and Sherlock acted on instinct when he soothed his thumb over the back of the other's hand.
"I'm tired, John," Sherlock said after what felt like a very long time. "Will you stay with me?"
"I really wasn't planning on going anywhere," John replied, sniffing as he went to stand only to be pulled back once again.
"Lie with me?"
John regarded Sherlock carefully, and then cleared his throat, abiding to this request. Sherlock shifted to the left to lend John more space, and the doctor remained on top of the covers whilst Sherlock lay under it. The consulting detective appeared to be struggling to find a persuasive argument to get John to join him, so instead he kept his mouth shut and accepted this.
They faced one other. John grazed his eyes over the detective's nose and his Cupid 's bow lips and curls resting over his forehead. Sherlock ran his fingertips over the splint of John's fingers, paying great attention to how much pressure hurt and what comforted the broken bones.
It wasn't long before Sherlock had given up trying to stay awake and had drifted off to sleep, and John continued to watch him. He didn't want Sherlock to fade into nothingness, and if he closed his eyes, he feared exactly that would happen. He felt a bit uncomfortable lying on top of the covers in a hospital bed next to his very male roommate, though it didn't bother him enough to leave or move. He knew it would be a long time before he was okay with being...with feeling the way he did about Sherlock Holmes, but for now this wasn't about him or even them. It was about Sherlock singularly, and it would be that way until they were back home...
[You can sink to the bottom of the sea
Just don't go without me]
TBC
That was an exhausting chapter to write if I'm completely honest. I just wanted it to flow nicely and now I am somewhat pleased with it, I almost can't believe I finished it though simultaneously thrilled. I wrote this chapter so differently in one version, it was very brief and I am sort of sorry there are so many feelings and angst in this chapter, though it was necessary I think. I think I needed to show everyone's feelings, and how hard it would be for all of them to recover from this. A few chapters left to go, around four or maybe even five if I find enough to talk about within reason. I just want to thank you, once more, for your patience and I hope you continue to review and favourite and I will do my best not to have such a delay between now and the next update.
The lyrics at the end are from a beautiful song called 'C'est La Mort' by The Civil Wars and have become my sort of John/Sherlock theme song. It just connects gorgeously to their story and how John will literally follow Sherlock to the ends of the earth no matter the consequences. I insist you listen, I beseech and implore you to. You won't regret it unless you have an objection to beautiful meaningful music.