Thanks again for reading and reviewing! For those who asked: the story has roughly 50 chapters and it does have an ending, so unless my computer burns down, I get run over by a train or wake up with amnesia, I'm going to post it here. :-)
I'm uploading two chapters because we're in a bit of a lull now, and I thought those who find this part boring can skim through it and those who like it may dwell on it.
Code Blue
Code blue.
Cardiac arrest, caused by pulmonary embolism.
Seriously, could it get any worse?
Nurse June took him to the lounge and led him to a chair, murmuring soothing words, making him sit down, even placing a cup of coffee in his hands. "He'll be fine, he's strong, he's made it so far, he'll pull through, you'll see," she tried to comfort him, as if he didn't know what pulmonary embolism meant. Sherlock's heart had stopped beating as a consequence, probably going into overdrive first. His chances to survive had just hit rock bottom.
The cause could have been anything, a bone splinter, a gas bubble, most likely a blood clot.
John stared at the wall. Not white. Beige. Beige floor, beige chairs, beige curtains. A Tuscan landscape in shades of beige, a photography of Victorian London in sepia. Even the cup in his hands was beige; the milk in the coffee, swirling, slowly changed the black liquid into a beige brew. What a hateful colour. As if the clinical white was not allowed in this part of the hospital, where all patients were closer to death than life, as if the ugly truth could be diluted from glaring white to dull beige. Death wasn't impressed by colours.
He refused to think. If he let his brain roam freely, it spit up images of Sherlock desperately gasping for air, and then slumping down, blood trickling from his lips. He pushed the memory away, But lurking behind it was guilt, gnawing at him, reminding him that he had failed to reconnect with Sherlock. Yes, he had reason to be angry with the sly sod, but he knew why he had faked his death, why he had left him in misery. And now, Sherlock had taken a bullet for John. If Sherlock died now, it was so much worse than three years ago. He had wasted the last chance to be reconciled with him, to give consolation to his friend and let him know that he understood, that is was all right.
No, he reminded himself, Sherlock knew anyway; he had reacted to his voice. That painful waking up had been a mercy – proof that Sherlock trusted him, relied on him. If he survived, they could still find –
John jerked, hissing in pain: he had spilt hot coffee over his hand; he was trembling so badly that the cup threatened to slip from his fingers. He put it down hurriedly. Jesus, he was losing control.
He looked at his watch. Almost thirty minutes had passed. There would be some sort of outcome by now. He got up, steeled himself and walked back to Sherlock's room.
The bed was back. The equipment too.
Sherlock was still gone.
The monitors were silent, the infusion system disconnected, the ventilator shut down. Everything was neatly aligned alongside the bed, ready for the next patient. The previous one did not need it anymore.
Dead.
It was too much. John felt the earth shift and himself falling off.
Someone was kissing him. God, how good that felt … soft lips pressing against his mouth, the heat of another body so close it was caressing his skin, and this wonderfully familiar scent, a hint of sandalwood –
John's eyes flew open in shock. "What are you doing here?" It came out like an accusation.
Mary blinked, pursed her lips and sat up. She gave him a glare which uncannily resembled a Sherlockian scowl. "I thought you'd be happy to see me."
"I am," John protested, "but Mycroft promised to keep you safe!"
"I'm perfectly safe, John, don't be foolish. Mycroft has the entire hospital under surveillance and his minions prowl the corridors, much to the annoyance of the staff." Her face softened. "How are you doing?"
John just let out a long breath. "Okay, I guess. Got a bit of a headache and the worry about Sherlock feels like a millstone around my neck. No, make it two millstones. Three, in fact."
"He's alive, you know. Much the same as before."
John gaped at her, taking a moment to let it sink in. "Oh God, thank you. Last thing I heard was pulmonary embolism. And they've cleared his room and I thought –" He swallowed hard, his voice breaking.
"They moved him to another room. Mycroft's doing."
John sat up hurriedly, dizziness threatening to turn his stomach. He ignored it. "But he's alive? What did they say, what did they do, how's his prognosis?"
Mary pressed a button on the side of his bed and a few seconds later, Nurse June came in. "Dr Watson, good to see you awake. You gave us quite a scare – thought your concussion had finally turned into something bad, but it turns out you simply forgot to eat. Or drink."
"Oh," John whispered, embarrassed. Normally, only Sherlock managed to simply forget maintaining his transport.
Mary pointed to a tray on the bedside table. "Eat. Drink. Then you can go see Sherlock."
"Okay," John rubbed his face self-consciously. "How's he?"
"The man's a miracle, if you ask me," the nurse grinned. "It seems he solved the problem himself – somewhere on the way to surgery, his heart started beating again, a nice, regular rhythm, and the problem disappeared. We suppose the medication kicked in and dissolved the embolus. He's a bit worse for wear, but doing fine so far. I'll go check on him right now." She winked at him and left the room.
"She likes you a lot," Mary stated, her head tilted sideways. John just looked at her dumbly. "Oh, John Hamish Watson, don't be blind."
He frowned. "Are you jealous?"
"No. I know you." And with that she leaned in and kissed him on the mouth. Very softly first, then a bit more forceful, her mouth opening, tongue exploring his lower lip. John's hands flew to her hips and he pulled her closer, the desperation of the last hours suddenly creeping into the kiss – but she pulled away. "Eat," she commanded, leaving John panting and leaning forward, yearning for more. He wanted to say later, but she would not have it and fended him off, ignoring his impatience. Was that how Sherlock felt when John hassled him during a case until he finally munched a few slices of toast? God, now he understood his annoyance.
"Why were they taking him to surgery?" Mary asked quietly while John was busy with his meal.
"Um," he swallowed. "Probably to cut open his chest and get access to his heart. Persuade it to start beating again." He scrunched up his face and took another spoonful of his chicken curry. "Want details?"
"No." Mary frowned. "Sounds rather unpleasant."
"Yeah. He's got pneumonia, did you know?"
"Oh," she looked horrified, an expression that was rare on her serene face. "Oh, God, no."
"Yeah, concealed it from me and everyone around him, the idiot. That's about the worst constellation you can have in a patient with a hole in the lung and dependent on a ventilator."
"Sense of drama, huh?"
"You bet."
Mary frowned. "You think he wanted do die? Ignored the pneumonia?"
John nodded. "You had the same suspicions, remember?"
She hummed silently. "He's doing a pretty good job avoiding death now, isn't he?"
John raised an eyebrow. "Granted."
"And did I hear correctly, that it would be you, lying here, and me, crying my eyes out, if it hadn't been for him?"
"No."
"No?" She raised her finely arched brows.
"I wouldn't be lying here. I'd be dead. Shot straight in the face by Moriarty. And you'd be so angry with me, you'd be cursing."
"True. Though I'd be crying for the rest of my life later." Mary glowered at him, then allowed a slow smile to light up her face. "Just that I know what I owe Sherlock. Apart from the fact, of course, that he drew Moriarty out of hiding, and you followed him like a duck to the water. But that's the man I married."
John swallowed the last bit of chicken curry and it almost got stuck half-way down. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be. That's just you. And him, I guess."
"Mary, I …" He broke off, racking his brain how to phrase his worry and wondering whether the timing was the worst he could do, but then – he needed to get it off his chest. "I don't know how we're going to handle it when he wakes up. If he wakes up. I mean, he's so ill and damaged with whatever happened and I don't know-"
"John, shut up. We'll tackle it one by one. And I'm not going to keep you away from him, so stop worrying. You won't find me wailing to come home and attend to your marital duties while you want to hold vigil beside his bed."
John blinked. "My marital duties? Does that mean I won't get laid the next couple of weeks?"
Mary plucked the fork from his fingers and put it back on the tray. Leaning in on him, she huffed, "That depends entirely on you." Then she closed the gap between them and kissed him properly, regardless of the curry taste.
"And what are we going to do next?" John muttered after several minutes of thorough snogging, resulting in ruffled hair and rumpled clothes. "You're going back to Sherlock and I'm going home," Mary declared.
"Home?" He drew back in shock. "It's not safe,-"
"It's perfectly safe," Mary cut him off. "Mycroft will ensure that. He has turned our beautiful house into a bloody fortress, but I can't blame him – I told him in no uncertain terms that I was unwilling to stay any longer in this dreadful bunker at MI5 or 6 or whatever place that was. I won't allow that criminal madman to ruin my life, I have work to do. There's a cartload of exam papers sitting on my desk, waiting to be marked."
John bit back his protest; he knew when he had lost. "Okay. But be careful, call for help immediately if something seems odd, will you? No stupid heroism, promise?"
Mary grinned. "Promise. Stupidity and heroism are strictly for you and Sherlock."