Part 2, Chapter 1—Reunion
John
They didn't have time to react. Moriarty lifted his hand in some sort of signal, and as he vanished the explosion knocked them both down. John somehow ended up under Sherlock as rubble began to fall. John felt a momentary pain in his leg when something fell on it, but nothing broke, so he dismissed it as unimportant. He'd dealt with worse.
His blood chilled, though, when he looked up into Sherlock's unconscious, bloody face.
Red…So much blood…have to help Sherlock.
"Sherlock!" he yelled hoarsely, struggling against the man pinned on top of him. How could someone so thin weigh so much? After several long minutes—through which Sherlock remained unconscious—John finally succeeded in squirming free of his flatmate and best friend. He pushed the rubble off of him and dragged him a slight distance away, then started examining his friend anxiously.
Aside from the gash on his head, he wasn't bleeding. Ripping a strip from his sleeve, John used it to put pressure on that wound to halt the bleeding. A pained groan escaped his friend, leading John to worry he might have a concussion. He couldn't deal with this, he didn't have the equipment…
Mycroft. Mycroft could take care of things, he was good at that…he should call Mycroft.
Bad idea—Sherlock hates Mycroft. He'll be furious.
He's unconscious and might die you git! Call Mycroft.
With shaking fingers, John dug out his cell phone with one hand, the other keeping pressure on Sherlock's head wound to staunch the bleeding, and called Mycroft. He was vaguely aware of sirens wailing in the distance, but he focused on the sound of the elder Holmes brother on the other end of the line.
"Moriarty…pool…bomb," he explained incoherently. He realized distantly that he was in shock when he saw his hands shaking.
"John? John, what's going on? Are you alright?"
"Help!" John said desperately, his voice ragged. "Sherlock…bomb…bleeding. Needs a hospital."
Mycroft sounded calm, almost soothing, which helped calm John. "Relax, John. I'm tracking your phone as we speak, so don't hang up. I'll be there soon with my people. Keep my brother alive, alright?"
"Of course," he said shortly, then set the phone down as police officers rushed in and started asking him questions. He stubbornly refused to answer, insisting that his friend needed help. They reluctantly called an ambulance for him, and as it was on its way, he picked up his phone again to alert Mycroft of the update on their situation. Mycroft promised to meet him at the hospital and hung up.
Numbly, John closed his phone and tucked it away. Looking at his friend, he felt a wave of guilt and fear.
"You'd better not die, you prick," he muttered to the unconscious detective, smoothing back the blood-stained raven curls with a trembling hand. There was no response, of course, which only made him more worried. In the brief year he had known Sherlock, the man had taken over his whole world. He had made John whole again, had made his life…well, dangerous, for sure, but also exciting and vibrant and meaningful. He did good work with Sherlock, hunting down criminals and saving lives. Sherlock could be downright awful sometimes, but John accepted the bad with the good. He needed Sherlock to be okay.
The paramedics rushed in, gently lifting Sherlock onto a gurney. John adamantly refused to let them do the same to him. Instead, he sat by Sherlock's side, ignoring the EMT's, focusing only on the consulting detective's heartbeat, ensuring it remained steady.
When they arrived at the hospital, he was whisked away. Watching him go, John couldn't help but worry. He wanted to follow, but he had to deal with the cops and then probably be seen himself. His leg hurt, and he still seemed to be in shock, but he managed to answer their questions decently enough that they left him alone.
John sat in the waiting room, bouncing his aching leg impatiently as he waited for news. The hospital was bright white and it hurt his eyes, but he didn't want to close them, because then he might sleep and miss any news. He had to stay awake.
Mycroft strode in eventually. John couldn't say how much time had passed—could have been minutes or hours, he hadn't bothered keeping track. He stood abruptly to face the elder brother, explaining in greater detail everything that had happened. He listened with cool eyes the whole time, only speaking to tell John to wait there before going off down the hall.
John sat back down to wait, anxious and irritated at being left behind but unable to do anything about it.
He must have dozed off, because it seemed only moments later that Mycroft was snapping his fingers in front of John's face. He sat up, rubbing his eyes.
"Well?" he asked anxiously, standing.
"Sherlock will be fine—he has a mild concussion, so they've put him in a medically induced coma," Mycroft informed him gravely. "However, they believe he will make a full recovery, given the time to heal. You should go home and rest, John," he added, studying the army doctor.
"I'm fine," he protested, stifling a yawn. He was exhausted, but he'd be damned before he left Sherlock here alone. He hated hospitals.
"You're exhausted. Sherlock won't wake up any time soon, and he'd be irritated if he knew that you were being foolish by wasting your time pointlessly staying awake for him. He would want you to take care of yourself, even if he doesn't do the same."
Damn him, he was right. John knew it, and he knew Mycroft knew that he knew it. He sighed irritably under his breath, but he allowed himself to be led from the hospital and driven home.
Once home, he staggered up the stairs without bothering to turn on the lights and collapsed on his bed. His last conscious thought before sleep claimed him was hope that there would be news in the morning.
It had been a month. A month with nothing to do when he came home from work. No experiments to gripe about, no screeching violin to scowl at, no arguing or running or solving cases, no danger…no excitement. He wasn't even allowed to visit Sherlock in the hospital, which irritated him to no end, especially when Mycroft wouldn't explain why.
John was bored. He was almost bored enough to pull a Sherlock and start shooting at the wall, just for something to do.
They said Sherlock was coming home today, so he was excited. He kept going to the window and checking to see if he could spot them, growing more impatient as the day lagged on and his flatmate still wasn't returned to him. Each time he heard a car door slam in the street he grew excited, hoping it would reveal the two Holmes brothers heading towards 221B Baker Street. Each time, it led to disappointment.
Finally, at midday, he saw familiar raven curls emerging from a cab. Sherlock was home! He wanted to run down the stairs and pull the man into a hug, but he knew Sherlock hated such sentimental displays, so he contented himself with making two cups of tea as the flat door open and quiet steps ascended into the living room.
Sherlock
The last week had been all about helping him remember things. He was Sherlock Holmes, famous consulting detective, younger brother of Mycroft Holmes. He lived in London, England, at 221B Baker Street with ex-army doctor John Watson. Martha Hudson was their landlady. They solved crimes together.
Mycroft had been the one who greeted him when he had first woken in the hospital. He had told Sherlock about the case he had been working on a month ago that had led him to the poolside. There he had found John, with a live bomb wired to him, being used like a puppet to speak for the criminal Jim Moriarty. Sherlock had detached the bomb from John, but Moriarty still managed to detonate it and had fled the scene as it went off. He was still at large.
As a result of the explosion, Sherlock had suffered a severe concussion, which was why he remembered nothing. He had been in a coma for three weeks, and rehabilitating the last week or so. Some memories had resurfaced during the last few days, so the doctors were optimistic he would regain all his lost memories given time. It hardly mattered—anything he needed to know could be figured out after he escaped this accursed establishment. Anything not vital could be dismissed.
He grew bored rather quickly. There was next to nothing to do in the hospital. They wouldn't let him read or watch telly or even walk around. Any conversation they tried to engage him in was trivial and dull and he tuned out rather quickly.
The best part was the drugs they gave him for the pain. As they coursed through his system, he felt a soothing peace, and his racing mind slowed, coming to a rest. It was a curious sensation, and he found he enjoyed it while it lasted.
He was thrilled, though, when they finally announced he could go home. Before they had even finished examining him, he had leapt from his bed, recklessly yanking the IV from his arm. He ignored their protests and dashed down the hall and out the front door of the hospital, calling for a cab. He slipped in, rattled off the address Mycroft had given him for his home address, and settled back to wait, staring out the window as London streets swept by.
It was time to go home.
He exited the cab quickly. The cabbie started to ask for his fare, but when he saw Sherlock was wearing only a hospital gown—he didn't even have his shoes—he changed his mind, waving the man away and driving off. Sherlock looked up at the flat where he supposedly lived before going up to the door. Finding it unlocked, he proceeded inside slowly.
He was greeted at the top of the stairs by a short, blonde man with bright blue eyes holding two cups of tea, one of which he offered to Sherlock. "Welcome home, Sherlock," he said warmly. Sherlock studied him silently, not accepting the tea—he wasn't thirsty.
Was this John, his flatmate? He couldn't think who else it would be, yet he didn't seem to match the bumbling, foolish oaf Mycroft had described to him. He was clearly happy to see Sherlock—he kept leaning towards him, and his eager eyes were drinking in the sight of him, as though to reassure himself that the man before him was real and not a specter. But he also seemed to be holding himself back. He would reach out a hand as though to touch his arm, only to drop it or pull it back at the last second. They were small movements, not overly noticeable unless you watched for them. It made the detective wonder what sort of relationship he and John Watson had. Mycroft hadn't implied anything romantic was happening between them, and yet he couldn't help but wonder…
He winced slightly as his head ached sharply. They had released him from the hospital, but he obviously wasn't fully recovered yet.
His wince didn't go unnoticed by John, either. The shorter man frowned up at him. "You look tired. Come on, there'll be time to talk later—let's get you into bed," he said, pulling Sherlock inside. Sherlock paused inside the door, unsure where to go—which room was his?—but John didn't leave him wondering for long. He dragged Sherlock down the hall, shouldering open the door at the end and setting the previously offered cup of tea on a nightstand by the bed. Sherlock watched John for a long moment before sitting on the edge of the bed.
This felt…somewhat familiar, but not quite. He felt out of place, like he didn't belong, and that made it hard to relax.
"Sherlock," John said, causing the detective's eyes to flick up to his quickly. "I know it's disorienting after being gone a month, but try not to worry. You'll be back to normal in no time, I'm sure. Try to get some rest, alright? I'll be right down the hall—just holler if you need anything."
After lightly ruffling his raven curls—a seemingly familiar, comfortable gesture of fondness that nonetheless felt foreign and invasive and had Sherlock tensing slightly—John vanished, softly closing the door behind him.
Sherlock stared at the closed door for a long time, a million questions whirling through his head. Eventually, though, fatigue overcame him. He pushed off the hospital gown, crawled under the covers, and allowed himself to succumb to the darkness of sleep, promising himself he would get the answers he needed when he awoke.
[A/N: It's like 2 a.m. my time and I should be sleeping…but I finally got back and I wanted to update, so instead of sleeping here I am. So...hi, guys...I'm not dead! Yay for that!]
[I know I've been gone for forever (almost a year, not quite but almost, holy moly!), and I'm so sorry for that...I don't really have an excuse, other than that life just got crazy...I'm a senior and my depression has been crazy out of control, and my friend has been in and out of the hospital and I've been going crazy with worry...for a while I forgot this even existed...then I finally came back and HOLY CRAP YOU GUYS! I was amazed that even without updating for so long, I was getting comments encouraging me to continue. I even teared up a little…I am sorry for taking so long, but I will hopefully be updating Wholock more regularly now.]
[I had to re-read this story to even remember everything I did with this before writing this chapter, and getting into the flow took me a bit, so if the beginning is a bit choppy and confusing and generally not-good, I'm sorry. I did my best and I hope the fact that I am continuing this makes that okay. The entire first part of the chapter is a flashback. Obviously, my story is AU, so it isn't coinciding with canon events, as I've stated before—just a reminder, since it's been so long and in case there's anyone who's new! Anyone who has stuck with me after all this time…you guys…just, wow. You're amazing. Seriously, just…wow.]
[I'm curious what you guys think of Capaldi. I miss Matt Smith a lot, I admit. I miss the bow tie and the childlike wonder he had…but I love Capaldi! I think he brings an interesting dynamic to the Doctor, and I like what they've done with him.]
[For all my fellow Johnlock shippers, here's what's up: I love Johnlock. Otp, seriously! 3 However…I promised I would leave it to the majority, and most asked for Whouffle. So when we get to Part 3, that will be the winning couple. BUT PART 2 IS DEDICATED TO JOHNLOCK BECAUSE I NEED IT. Clara will pop up a couple of times during part 2, though, so never fear.]
Love always,
—Makenna