A/N: Merry Xmas you guys, and happy holidays to all those who aren't celebrating xmas. Forgive me for any mistakes you may find - I'm practically falling asleep at my desk. And thank you all for your kind reviews!
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters.
27 hours ago…
Mycroft wore a look of worry as he stepped out of his trademark black car, barely glancing at the archaic building with its grimy walls and intricate markings along the main entrance, the statue of King Henry VIII sitting proudly atop the gate.
He normally enjoyed studying the oldest hospital in the UK whenever an errand brought him here. He was, after all, fond of history and had spent boundless time reading various books on England's architectural history during his youth. Something exceptionally dull, as his younger brother loved reminding him.
Today however, was vastly different. There was an unusual urgency to his gait. He swung his black umbrella a little harder than he would've preferred, his shoes thudding insistently on the ground as he made his way into the hospital.
His men had informed him of Molly Hooper's current schedule, placing her in the morgue at this moment. He would have called, but even he was aware that the news he possessed was distressing enough to warrant some physical interaction.
The solemn man peered through the circular window of the morgue doors before pushing them open. It was a pity Miss Hooper wasn't alone.
The two doctors were much too engrossed in their work to notice his presence. He cleared his throat subtly.
As expected, Molly Hooper was the first of the pair to acknowledge his company. Mycroft rarely admired people, but this woman was making him break his own rules. Her seemingly silly and earnest vulnerability masked a sharp and perceptive mind that he only had the pleasure of observing occasionally in others. Her colleague took a whole second longer to notice him.
The smile on her face faltered when she saw him. He gave her a tight smile in return. They both knew that his presence never bode well.
"May I help you?" her colleague asked politely, shooting him a curious stare. "I'm sorry, but you're not allowed to be here. The morgue is only accessible to staff."
Mycroft ignored the young man.
"It's ok, Joe. He's a…friend of mine," Molly said, the barest sign of a frown on her face.
Joe took the hint and diverted his attention back to the body. Wrinkled, pale and thin – quite possibly an old man who'd been sick for a long time, Mycroft observed absently. Boring. The man, Joe, seemed oddly familiar though, but Mycroft couldn't place his face. With his light brown hair and eyes, it was possible that many others looked like him. Mycroft shrugged off the nagging feeling.
He ushered the pathologist to the corridor impatiently.
"What's wrong?" she asked, wringing her hands together. "Is it Sherlock?"
He shook his head.
"It's Doctor Watson. He was involved in a car accident."
Molly was aware of Mycroft's moving lips, but she barely comprehended anything. All she caught were the words 'John' and 'accident'. She was having trouble standing.
"W-what?" she stammered.
The older Holmes sighed, "John is currently in a coma. The doctors are not able to determine when he'll gain consciousness, if he ever does. I need you to go over to Brisbane since Harriet Watson's going through rehabilitation for her alcohol addiction now and is effectively useless in such a situation." A look of disdain crossed his face and Molly had the impression that he viewed such things as a weakness.
"Miss Hooper?" he prompted.
"Of course…I'll…I need to pack and…"
Mycroft flashed her one of his rare reassuring looks. "A private jet will be made available. I'll send someone to pick you up in two hours. My car is waiting outside, I'll send you home first."
"O-ok."
Her tears wouldn't even fall.
Present…
The man before her was almost unrecognisable. His face had countless cuts and scratches, each one a jarring stain against his tanned skin. His head was heavily bandaged, hiding his fair hair. A machine beeped softly in the background, the sound rhythmic and consistent as it measured John's heartbeat.
The accident had occurred during the wee hours of the morning, when John was on the way home after pulling a late shift at the A and E. It was presumed to be a case of drunk driving. Fortunately for John, another vehicle had been nearby to send him to the hospital. Molly shuddered to think what would've happened if no one had been around.
His condition had stabilised for now, although as Mycroft had stated, no one could know when he was going to wake up. She was trying not to entertain the possibility that he might be in a permanent vegetative state.
Stay positive, that was what she had to do. She'd subscribed to that motto during the years when her father battled with his illness, and she would stick to it again.
She stifled a yawn, glancing at her watch. She hadn't slept since she left London, and her eyelids were stubbornly trying to force themselves shut.
Light footsteps just outside the door alerted Molly of someone else's presence. She sat up straighter on the hard chair.
A petite woman with blonde hair and greyish-blue eyes walked into the room. Her delicate face fell upon seeing John, lips set into a thin line. She blinked once, twice, trying to contain her tears, before realising that she wasn't alone.
Mary Morstan jumped.
"Sorry to startle you," Molly said, her voice slightly croaky due to the lack of use. "I'm Molly Hooper. I called you just now." Mycroft had given her Mary's number.
"Right, yes," the blond said, on the verge of tears. "I…thank you for informing me." She took a shaky breath and sat on the other side of the bed, clasping John's hand, swiping her fingers gently across his knuckles.
Molly would've offered her some words of comfort, but she had never been well-versed in such things, always guilty of putting her foot in her mouth. Conversation was not really her area, as Sherlock had once informed her. That she'd have to agree with. Why else did she choose to work with the dead?
"You're John's friend?" Mary enquired after a beat.
Molly nodded.
"You're a…pathologist, right?"
Molly raised her eyebrows, surprised that Mary was aware of that fact. Mary gave her a small smile.
"John talks about you. He said you were a shoulder to lean on after…you know."
"Well, we actually met through Sherlock. Does he talk about him often?"
"Not for a while. It was difficult for him of course, but he was just starting to open up about his friend, and he was healing. And now -" A tear slipped down her cheek and she hastily wiped it away. "Will he be alright, you think?"
Molly worried her lower lip. "I'm not sure," she answered truthfully.
Mary sighed, looking crestfallen. "He's such a nice man. So sweet and kind and just good."
"He is," she agreed. "Pretty brave and loyal too. He -" Molly frowned as her ringing phone interrupted their conversation. Her heart sank when she saw the caller ID. "Excuse me," she told Mary, leaving the room.
"Mycroft?"
The older Holmes wasted no time. "I need you to inform Sherlock about the accident."
"You haven't told him?" she asked, disbelief etched in her voice.
"No," he replied curtly, displeased with her tone. "I would think that my brother wouldn't see too well to me being the conveyer of such news. My voice would immediately place him in an unfavourable mood, worsening matters."
"Fantastic," Molly muttered, rubbing her eyes tiredly.
"Do it, Miss Hooper. Now," he commanded. Molly huffed out a resigned breath as he hung up.
Sherlock couldn't sleep. He told himself that it was because he wasn't tired, but that was miles from the truth.
It was astonishing how quickly he'd grown accustomed to having another person on the bed with him. Without Molly, his bed felt too empty and bare. He never thought that physical intimacy could bring so much pleasure. Not sex, but just being close enough to touch, her warm body pressed against his, was comforting and reassuring. It was another way of conversing, he supposed. Not all communication came from words, and even though touch couldn't actually make things better, he was learning that it was an efficient way of feeling better.
He sighed and turned to his side, staring at the boring white wall. Why did hotel rooms always have to paint their walls white? He missed his wallpaper back at Baker Street, with that ridiculous smiley face he'd sprayed on during an unbearably boring night.
His hunger for heroin had been gradually subsiding over the past week (he still encountered sudden cravings), although another one of his traits was rearing its ugly head again.
He was gambler, always had been. He enjoyed risks and games, putting himself in danger just to see if he could escape unscathed. Sometimes he wondered if he was harbouring a death wish, seeing how he frequently placed himself right on the precipice of death.
Now that he'd experienced the surge of heroin again, he was itching to prove that he was better, that he could take it once more without succumbing to the addiction. A nagging voice at the back of his mind told him it was foolish, but didn't John always tell him that he was an idiot?
It didn't help that he was bored out of his mind. Nothing new had surfaced since he came to Munich. He was getting tired of this life, of living in the shadows. He wanted his cases, Baker Street, John, Mrs Hudson, going to the lab at Bart's …
He frowned when his phone vibrated loudly. Only one person would call him, and it never meant something good. He arched an eyebrow when he saw the name. Wasn't who he was expecting.
"Molly?"
"Sherlock, hi. How are you holding up?"
"Alright."
"Listen…I have something I need to tell you…" Pause. Shaky breath, nervous, voice softer than usual. Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed deeper. What was wrong?
"What?"
Silence.
"Get to the point, Molly," he said testily. He hated it when people were slow.
"John's been in an accident," she whispered. "He's in a coma now."
He blinked. Seconds (minutes, hours) ticked by.
"Sherlock?"
"How?" he managed to ask. He had an odd sensation of being detached from his body, like he was watching the whole scene through a lens.
"He was most probably hit by a drunk driver. I'm in Brisbane with him now, and Mary's here too. I…oh god," she choked back a sob. Knowing her, he figured that reality had just dawned on her.
He should say something, because her cries were making his chest tighten painfully. Most people would offer a few words of comfort, maybe cry a bit themselves. Instead, he did the worst thing he could think of.
Sherlock hung up and turned off his phone.
His friend. The first friend he ever had was lying on a hospital bed, inches away from death, while he who was supposed to be dead, was perfectly fine, roaming the bloody streets of Munich at midnight.
He'd thought that jumping off a roof would've been able to keep his friends safe. Apparently not then. Because fucking idiots had to drive while drunk. An odd noise that sounded like a laugh appeared at the back of his throat.
He'd been diligently trying to keep John safe from dangerous men like Moran, but it had to be something mundane that hurt him. It was all so stupid.
The worst part was that John had gone to Australia because of him. Because he couldn't bear living in London anymore. It was partially his fault that his friend was laying half-dead, continents away.
Sherlock wanted to yell, throw something, hit someone. There was so much rage mounting within him that it was threating to spill over. He needed an outlet, something to help him forget and relax.
He wasn't thinking when his feet brought him to that street. When cash was exchanged and a syringe discreetly slipped into his pocket.
Oh, he certainly wasn't thinking at all.
Sherlock sat on the edge of the hotel bed, staring at the syringe which he'd placed on the bedside table. He drummed his fingers on his knees, chewed softly on his lips. Lay down on the bed. Sat back up again.
After a moment, he got up to pace around the room, fingers steepled under his chin. Five steps left, five steps right, four steps left, four –
He sat back down on the bed again. Stared at the syringe.
"Don't be an idiot," he muttered.
People rarely listened to their own advice, and as Sherlock would discover, he wasn't so different from the common population when it came to this aspect.
His right arm extended toward the table, slim fingers closing around the syringe.