You can thank MrsNoggin and her super fast beta for the early posting of this chapter! If you haven't done so, check out her works, they are awesome!
Many thanks to all my reviewers, no matter if regulars, guests or talking in foreign languages ;-) Every little bit of feedback is much loved!
Warnings: Bits of bad language as Lestrade makes an entrance...
Budapest, 15 October 2012
Sherlock watched with contempt as his brother left the room. This time Mycroft had gone too far. And though he really needed to see John, he would not beg his brother for any more help. There were other ways after all...
Slipping on his most pitiful look, he pressed the little button that would send in a nurse. He was in no form to fight his brother, but bullying a nurse into letting him see John was easy. Spinning a sad tale that was not too far from the actual truth, he was certain that would not leave the nurse unmoved. And he was right. Adding a few tears for effect and he knew he had won. For a moment it seemed as if the young girl was about to dissolve into tears herself, but then she gave in and escorted him to the ICU where she handed him over to another nurse on duty, still sniffling a little.
The ICU nurse told him sternly that he could stay no longer than five minutes. Sherlock ignored her. He would see about that later. Now all his attention was focussed on John, lying in the bed before him. Barely recognisable with all the bandages and wires, looking completely lost among the multitude of instruments that surrounded the bed. But he was alive. And that was all that counted, because anything else was just not an option.
Sherlock settled himself in a chair next to John's bed and waited. Waited for John to wake up, waited for any sign of improvement in the stats on the monitors, waited for the nurse that would be brave enough to try and pry him away from his friend. There was so much information that required filing in his mind palace, but a persistent headache was stopping him from doing it. The final moments in the basement were still fuzzy in his mind, preventing him from recalling the details and it annoyed him. His mind had been frustratingly unreliable lately.
The nurses and doctors eventually gave up trying to get him back into his own room. They silently worked around him, sometimes giving him an encouraging smile, but mostly just doing their job. Sherlock ignored them. He reluctantly let go of John during the transport back to London, but once John was settled into their new room he was back to his silent vigil. All coercion and pleading from the nurses and doctors could not get him to move to his own bed, even if it was right next to John's. He stubbornly sat in the chair, waiting for his friend to return back to him.
When his memory fully returned a few hours later, it hit him like a freight train. The vivid pictures of John drenched in his own blood, crumbled motionless in a corner assaulted his mind and left him gasping for air. It hurt. Why did it hurt so much?
London, 16 October 2012
Mycroft looked up from his paper when he saw DI Lestrade storm through the doors of the ICU wing in the high class private clinic. Sherlock and John had been transferred here last night and were currently sharing the only occupied room on this level. The entire floor was locked down by Government Agents, but they had instructions to let Lestrade through. His name was on top of a very short list of approved personnel. Mycroft knew that with the transfer of Sherlock and John back to London, it was only a matter of time until the Inspector would find out. He was, after all, a good and loyal friend to John and had been to his brother before his 'death'. And as the latter still refused to see him, he decided it was time for reinforcements.
"Mycroft Holmes!" Lestrade groaned exasperatedly, "I should have known that you were involved in this. Where is John, how is he and what the hell happened? Last thing I heard he went to Italy for a vacation!"
"Good morning, Detective Inspector. I have been expecting you."
"Spare me the pleasantries, Holmes, and get to the point."
"As you wish." He put the paper aside and stood, every inch of him reflecting the high-ranking Government official, "John volunteered to retrieve something for me, something of tremendous importance to all of us, and he convinced me that he was the only person that could achieve this. At the time, it did seem like an ideal solution to my problem. He succeeded in his mission but, unfortunately, was injured in the process."
Lestrade interrupted impatiently, "You are not making any sense. I get a call at six am to get to the hospital ASAP because a John Watson has been admitted. Now, they wouldn't call me for a cut finger or anything like that, especially as you are here and seemingly in charge. So I ask you again: what happened? What could have been so important to send John, a bloody civilian for goodness sake, on one of your little missions? He was barely starting to recover from what Sherlock did to him with his suicide. I am sorry, but you're gonna have to do better than that."
"You were called because I thought you would want to be here. John has received critical injuries and it is not certain he will survive."
Lestrade gave a strangled gasp and rubbed a hand over his face, shock and fear contorting his normally composed face.
"I supposed you would want to be here to say goodbye. John is in there, Greg," he pointed to the room behind him, "And so is the item that he has retrieved. The rest will become clear once you step into that room. Goodbye, Detective Inspector."
With a swirl of his umbrella, Mycroft turned around and left a stunned Lestrade standing alone in the hallway. It was high time for him to get back to his duties. And after all the distractions of the last two days he looked forward to a normal day in the office. Or as normal as any day for Mycroft Holmes would ever be.
Lestrade stood frozen to the spot, staring wide eyed after the disappearing government official. The vague information that Mycroft had provided him with had done nothing to calm him down. He cursed the Holmes family and their inability to communicate at a normal level. Talking to them always left him with more questions than answers. And John was seriously injured, might even die.
Christ, he had just lost Sherlock, he couldn't lose John as well so soon. Composing himself, he took a deep breath and opened the door, worried of what he might find behind it. But even so, nothing could have prepared the DI for what he saw in the small hospital room. There were two beds, but his gaze immediately focused on the one closer to the door, the one that was occupied by his friend.
John looked impossibly frail and small in the large bed, surrounded by a multitude of monitors, machines and wires. His head was almost completely covered in bandages and his right leg was in a brace, lying slightly elevated. The little pieces of his skin that were visible were covered in angry bruises and bright red lacerations. If not for the constant beeping of the heart monitor, Lestrade would have thought him dead.
Even more impossible was the hunched figure sitting in a chair next to his bed, holding on tightly to John's hand.
"Sh-Sherlock?" Lestrade stuttered in utter disbelief. "How…? What…? I don't understand…"
Sherlock slowly lifted his head and turned to face Lestrade. In all his years on the force, Lestrade had seen many victims, dead and alive, but he had never seen a living person looking as dead as Sherlock looked right then. His features were sunken, he was impossibly thin, and the dark bruises on his face were in a stark contrast to the white of his skin. But most disturbing were the eyes; they were, for the lack of a better word, dead. Bleak and unfocused.
"Lestrade." The voice still held the familiar baritone, but it lacked the usual energy.
"Good God, Sherlock, is that really you? Blimey… and John… what the hell happened?" Lestrade overcame his shock pretty quickly, his police instincts kicking in, and he realizing that now was not the time for getting angry at Sherlock for the deception. He looked miserable enough. Lestrade grabbed a second chair and pulled it up next to Sherlock's. Sitting down, he saw the bandages covering the young detectives chest lurk out from under the dressing gown. "Shouldn't you be in bed?" He asked sympathetically.
" 'm fine." His gaze was fixed on John. "He's dying. I jumped off a roof top to save his life, and the idiot comes after me and gets himself killed. He was supposed to be safe. Happy. Not this. Never this."
Caring. Ok, that was new for Sherlock. The completely out-of-character behaviour made Lestrade's skin tingle. What exactly had happened to rattle the man this much? Lestrade tried to get the story together from the fragments he had so far.
"Ok, let me have a go at this. You faked your death to protect John?" A slow nod. "John somehow found out and approached Mycroft for help. Your brother knew that you were alive?" Another nod. "Something went wrong, Mycroft lost touch with you, and he decided that John could find you."
"He was supposed to look after John. Keep him safe. Not use him." Sherlock replied spiteful.
"Ok, John found you, but you were in a bad spot. You had to fight your way out and John got hit on the head a bit too hard?"
"Moriarty." The name alone was enough to send shivers down Lestrade's spine.
"No, Sherlock, Jim Moriarty is dead. I saw his body in the morgue, it was definitely him."
"You also saw my body and that was most definitely not me!" Lestrade actually smirked at Sherlock's biting remark. So the arrogant detective was still in there somewhere.
"I am talking about Jacob Moriarty, the elder brother. I went after him, but he was sneaky. Got to me first. When John found me - "
"Sherlock? What happened when John found you?" Lestrade probed gently.
Sherlock shuck his head in agony, the memory still too raw and horrific in his mind. "Jake threw him into a wall, head first. I- I heard his skull break, he wasn't moving, he….he looked so...dead." The last word was just a broken murmur.
Greg closed his eyes and concentrated on his breathing to keep the nausea in check.
"Jesus…"
"Somehow, John was still conscious and shot the bastard. Last thing he did, saving me. Again. How is it he always saves me, yet I can never keep him safe?" Sherlock's voice was barely above a whisper for the last few words, but Lestrade heard them. They came out so utterly broken that he was sure they would haunt him for the rest of his life.
"I'm so sorry." Lestrade pulled one arm around the shaking frame of his friend and was once again harshly reminded of just how much weight Sherlock had lost. He could feel every bone as Sherlock stiffened upon the contact. He ignored the resistance and slowly pulled the younger man to his feet, untangling his hand from John's and guided him over to his own bed.
"Sleep, Sherlock. I'll sit with John. I promise I will wake you when there's any change." It was a testament to his own exhaustion that Sherlock did not even try to resist. He simply curled up on the bed, pulled the blanket over his head and was asleep the moment his head hit the pillow.
Lestrade watched the sleeping form for a moment before turning back to sit next to John. He burrowed his head in his hands. This was bad. He still didn't know how severe John's injuries were, but a broken skull did not sound good. And gauging from both Mycroft's and Sherlock's comments, the doctors were not overly optimistic of the outcome either.
Shit. What was he supposed to do now? Sherlock was a mess, traumatized by his friend's injury and who knew what else. Capture and torture sprang to Lestrade's mind, but he really did not want to go there. Right now, he could not deal with the details. When he woke up this morning, he believed Sherlock to be dead and John to be on the mend, now he was dealing with a miraculously alive detective and an unconscious, barely living doctor and it wasn't even eight am yet…
Sometime later there was a knock on the door and a young nurse walked in.
"Um, hi, you must be DI Lestrade. My name is Sita." Her gaze flickered over to the sleeping Sherlock. "How did you get him to lie down? I have been trying all night, but he refused to leave his friend's side."
Lestrade shrugged. "Exhaustion finally kicked in, I guess."
"Well, I'm glad he is resting. At least now we can reconnect his IV and give him some fluids and antibiotics." Lestrade only then noticed that Sherlock's bed had his own impressive collection of IV lines and monitors. It looked like the younger man had ripped them all out earlier to be able to sit next to John.
Once she finished with Sherlock, Sita walked over to John and checked his numerous IV lines as well. Satisfied, she turned back to Lestrade.
"I'll send the Doctor in. He wants to talk to you about the treatment for John."
"Hmm, what? Why me?"
"Oh, I thought you knew. You are John's medical proxy, aren't you?"
"Um, yeah, I forgot about that." God, that had been ages ago. John had approached him about six months after moving in with Sherlock and asked if he would be his emergency contact and medical proxy. Explaining that he needed a sane and responsible person for that job and neither his sister nor Sherlock fit the bill. He had agreed, never imagining that he would be called into duty one day.
Nurse Sita gave him a sympathetic smile and left quietly.
When the door opened again a tall, grey haired man entered. He had an air of authority, but contrary to Mycroft Holmes, the authority came with kindness. He smiled at Lestrade and introduced himself.
"My name is Dr. James Cavanaugh; I have been the primary physician for the Holmes family since Sherlock was a little boy. Both brothers have been under my care numerous times."
"I understand. But this seems to be a fairly small hospital; do you have the necessary facilities to treat John's injuries?"
"This clinic caters to the more, shall we say 'private' government employees, who require special medical care. It is small, but we are one the best equipped hospitals in the country. And you don't have to worry about any of the nurses and doctors here; they are the best of the best, and very discreet."
Lestrade felt as if he had stepped into a parallel universe where terms like NHS, waiting lists and bed shortage were of no importance.
"You don't have to worry, Detective Inspector, John will receive the best possible care here." And then Dr. Cavanaugh continued on to explain the extent of John's injuries, the planned treatments and potential dangers.
Lestrade's head spun with all the information. Even though Dr Cavanaugh was trying to use layman terms wherever he could and was very good at explaining, the sheer magnitude of John's head injury was hard to grasp.
"We will wake him up in a few days and will perform a series of neurological tests with him. After that we will know more about the damage. I understand that this is a lot to take in. But John here is a fighter. He should have died on the spot when his skull was smashed. You work homicides, I am sure you have seen enough victims that have died from a single blow to the head."
Lestrade just nodded.
"Then you understand when I say that it is a miracle that John is still with us. But he is fighting and he is healing. It's been more than thirty-six hours since the injury and he is still alive. If he makes it through the day then his chance of recovery increases significantly. Tell him to hold on, to keep fighting. I am sure he can hear you."
"Thank you Doctor. I appreciate your honesty. I will stay with John if you don't mind. And – is there a cafeteria where I could get a coffee?"
Dr Cavanaugh smiled. "Of course. I'll send a nurse with breakfast immediately. If you need anything at all, don't hesitate to ask any of the nurses."
Lestrade watched the doctor leave and turned back to look at John. Parallel universe indeed. He smirked at the thought at being served breakfast in a hospital. He just hoped their coffee was better than the crap they served in NHS facilities…
He took a seat in Sherlock's vacated chair and prepared for a long day. He would need to call in and take leave for a few days, but that could wait. All he could do now was to be here for his friends and to pray that they would both make it out of this. He was painfully aware that even if John lived, both of them might never be the same again.