Genre: Drama, angst, friendship
Spoilers: End of series 2, "The Reichenbach Fall"
Warnings: Spoilers, angst, some violence, mentions of drugs, swearing
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Junkie
When I told Mycroft that I could be as safe as I wanted to be, I meant exactly that.
Even my brother in all his alertness would not recognise me after one week on London´s streets. My clothes – jeans, baggy sweatshirt, a faded winter jacket and a beanie to cover my black hair – come from a clothing collection box, except for the boots I bought from Oxfam. The banknotes I took from my brother´s wallet are mainly spent on small batches of several substances and don´t stretch far enough to provide more than scarce food. I have lost weight rapidly, and doubt even John would recognize my haggard face, sunken, red-rimmed eyes and shaking form. Even under my still persisting tan I look sickly, partly due to the cold, partly due to lack of sleep.
Scuffling down the corridors of the trauma centre of St. Mary´s, I try to avert the eyes of the staff while trying to figure out which way the ICU is. It is early, not yet visiting hours, and time is of importance. Every minute I spend in a space as exposed as these hospital floors, I am at a risk to be detected by either staff, security or, even worse, Moran´s people who in all probability are watching John´s visitors closely.
A male nurse, blond, gay, married, Star Wars fan, starting his morning round, clipboard ready, startles me out of my thoughts.
"Are you lost?" he asks, eyeing me suspiciously.
"Um, I was wondering where the ICU is."
Wary eyes are flicking over my hunched shoulders, my face, the death grip of my left hand on my right arm and the scar on my right. He is not sure whether to trust me and takes a step to the side to block my way.
"Do you have an appointment?"
Swaying, I shake my head. "No. Need to see a friend. He´s in the ICU, I guess. His name is John."
The man looks me up and down. "John Watson? He´s still not awake. You don´t look like you are family. You actually look as if you could need the ICU yourself," he replies. "Sure you are well?"
He is getting suspicious and could quite easily call the police. I manage my best fake-charming smile. "Look, I´m really worried about him. He´s had this accident, and now… If he dies… Can´t you please tell me where?" My voice is faltering with the last words and he watches the tears well up in the corners of my eyes. Still, he doesn´t waver.
"Well, as long as you are not family, I doubt that staff will allow you to see him," he says, raking his hand through his brown hair. "Unless you do have an appointment."
More tears are flowing, my voice has adopted a pleading tone. "See, I love him. He walked out on me because we had a row. About this." I stretch out my arm, nearly touching him and he backs away. "He wanted me to stop and I shouted at him. Then he was gone, and the next thing that happened was that his sister called me, telling me he had been mugged and injured. – God, I´m so sorry. All I want is to apologize – to tell him I love him," I sob, advancing two steps towards the man.
He looks the corridor up and down, then turns to me again, a small, sympathetic smile on his face. "Right. Know how you feel. Bad thing to hurt someone you love. Take this way, to the right, two doors down the corridor. The nurses up there know his room, just ask. And good luck," he says, pointing into the right direction.
Wiping my eyes, I nod in gratitude, already walking.
"Hey, lad," he calls out and I stop, looking back. "Well, if you´ve changed your mind about taking appointments, there´s a drugs advice center on the ground floor."
"Thank you," I say, proceeding towards the doors at the end of the corridor, already preoccupied how to approach John´s room safely. It is annoying, though, that my fake tears are still stinging my eyes and I can´t seem to stop sniffling.
Two doors further down I am fortunately faced by an empty nurse´s office. Several of the patient´s files are piled on the desk. It takes only a second to retrieve John´s. The information on it matches that of the police file. So far, there has been no important development, either good or bad, on John´s condition. He´s just two rooms away, and I feel my pulse quicken at the thought that he is so close. Carefully, I approach his door. There are only soft voices audible from a distance and no one in sight. Nobody stops me from opening the door, and I finally enter, my breath hitching in my throat at the sight of my best friend, pale, drawn and connected to several drip stands and machines, his head bandaged, his arm in a cast.
Softly, I draw nearer and suddenly find myself completely lost in the sight of my injured friend, momentarily forgetting how dangerous it is to have come here. A stray tear spills down my cheek, but I refuse to acknowledge that it is not a fake one, that I am shaken by yearning for my home, for his friendship and by my guilt.
Gingerly I trace my fingers over the back of his left hand, feeling the urge to tell him everything, to simply stay until he wakes and whisk him away to Baker Street or any other place we can stay together, safe, and have a good laugh about the whole Moriarty business. My throat is dry, though, and I don´t dare even to whisper a word for fear of alerting him of my presence. This is not the right place nor the right time to reunite, reason tells me. My heart speaks a very different language and flatly refuses to be ignored.
The distinctive sound of soft footsteps wakes me from my reverie. Quick as lightning I hide behind the door. It opens a second later, and a tiny woman in a lab coat enters. She hurries to John´s side and retrieves a syringe from her lab coat. There is something in her demeanor which alarms me, and two steps take me to her side, one hand clasping her mouth, the other her wrist, wringing the needle from her hand. She struggles violently but is careful enough not to cry out which only cements my conviction that she doesn´t belong to the staff.
Twisting her wrist even further, I breathe my question into her ear: "Who sent you?" She doesn't answer, but another twist, harder this time, makes her whimper. "You wrist is very slim. It´ll break easily. If I were you I would answer – quickly," I hiss, venom in my voice, wrath clouding my vision. "Was it Moran?" She finally nods and I release her hand, only to catch her arm again as she lungs out toward my throat. My free hand delivers a hard blow to her temple and she sags in my arms.
One minute later she is bound with strips from a spare sheet I have found in one of the lockers. Not too early, for the door opens again with a bang, and a very bossy nurse walks in.
"Well, Dr. Watson, high time you come out of this coma, don´t you think. You should be fine in a few days. Allright, let´s check your drips first…" she starts before her eyes meet the confined human on the floor. When she turns, I have already taken advantage of having waited behind the door, and all she sees of me is my jacket flying as I escape down the corridor, colliding with a laundry car.
Five floors down and out in the street I am grateful for a cigarette. Typing in the last message my mobile will send to Mycroft is a tedious task, as my vision is still blurred and my hands are shaking.
"John needs police protection."
It takes him only a second to answer.
"You went to see him."
"Not your concern. Protect him. Don´t try to reach me."
Breathing in heavily, I retrieve the SIM card and smash the mobile on the ground, finishing it by stepping on it heavily and dumping it in a nearby wastebasket.
It is high time I find a dealer.
