Sherlock
For all of the Reichenbach fans, this story won't having anything of that fact. I think it would be impossible for Sherlock to act dead since John would be able to find the detective's mind.
Sorry if that disappoints.
I eat reviews for breakfast, along with orange juice.
I'm severely disappointed by this chapter and it's kind of hasty, I promise it will have mistakes. I will go back eventually and fix but right now I just wanted you guys to have something.
Peace&Love
Sophie
Mycroft is diligent and determined. He follows the detective and his boyfriend throughout the hospital, pulling 'it's a matter of national security' out of his pocket every time someone gives him a look.
St. Barts is a teaching school, so it's operation rooms hold overlooks for learning opportunities. Mycroft stands in one of them now, the hospital staff finally leaving him alone. He stares down at the bloodied sight, his face neutral but his insides a mixture of anxiety and apprehension.
Mycroft had just come from Sherlock's surgery, the detective's wound is, thankfully, not life threatening. The leader of the gang happened to miss everything major in Sherlock's midsection. The genius is safe, and it's all thanks to John, who with the pressure of the doctor's hands, Sherlock loss a lot less blood than he would have if John hadn't been around.
The doctor more or less, saved the detective life. It definitely isn't the first time, nor would it be the last.
They anticipated the young genius to be in surgery for another hour or so. Once the politician was certain that Sherlock was safe, Mycroft sought out to find John in his operation room.
The doctor seems worse off, in many ways. The elder Holmes looks down at the sight, blood is everywhere, drying on John's face, dripping down from his head wound, still attached to the bunched up clothes laying in the corner, their rips and fabric sheered from being cut off the ex-soldier.
John looks so small as the surgeons dig into their patient, suturing and fixing up the blond man. The knife blade ruptured the base of the spleen, making John's recovery and chances a lot more dangerous.
Not to mention the physical exertion John had to go through with a knife wound. The doctors are worried about the telepath's concussion, fearing that there are complications because of John's unconscious state. Mycroft had to insist, with an unsurpassing amount of fervor to not worry about the head wound and focus on repairing John's body.
The surgeons are reluctant but the surgery is going well, despite the fact that John has to have his spleen removed. Which takes precedent over John's concussion that Mycroft knows, from the conversation weeks ago about the side effects of mental exertion, is not really a concussion. However, the surgeons don't have to know that.
A sudden beeping in the room interrupts Mycroft's thoughts. He stares down at the operation. Machines are beeping and spouting alarm. The surgeons and nurses are frantic, one of them pumping onto John's torso.
John Watson just went into cardiac arrest.
Mycroft is forced to count the seconds with worry.
One. A nurse brings out defibrillator paddles, the whirring of the charge warning the other occupants of the impending electric current.
Two. The zap echoes the room, but John's heart doesn't start.
Three. The surgeons are yelling chaotically as the paddles charge again.
Four. Another zap.
Five. The beeping of the machine starts again and Mycroft lets in a struggled gasp. John's heart beat is faint but definite. Mycroft sighs in relief and hopes that the doctor can pull through, for Sherlock's sake, the detective won't be the same if his telepath doesn't make it.
The politician hangs his head in despair as he watches the surgeons continue the operation.
The doctor and his detective's stay in the hospital is long and tedious.
On the first day, Sherlock wakes, full of morphine and demanding for the doctor unsurprisingly, all through a drug induced haze. The younger man's wound healing but with considerable amount of pain, but through it all Sherlock only utters one word to whoever will listen. "John."
Mycroft wonders secretly how many mental callings the detective is emitting, hoping that John would response.
The doctor can't respond, he is in a worse state. Although the knife wound is healing and so far, no infections have started which in turn, are causing the doctors to be hopeful. Yet, John remains in a coma, or as Sherlock adamantly calls it, a deep unconscious slumber, even though the name implies John could be woken easily, which is obviously not the case.
At the end of the first day, Sherlock has to sedated because his callings for John and his thrashing and struggling when he the doctor doesn't response. His reaction threatens to pull stitches and one of the nurses comes away with a decent black eye.
All Mycroft can do is watch, in a masked sympathy.
The second day, Sherlock sleeps over twelve hours, due to the sedation and the morphine, which doses grows higher and higher as Sherlock is able to fight through it easier than most.
Finally at the end of the second day, Sherlock wakes and is responsive, demanding Mycroft to see John, who has to decline.
Just as midnight tolls, nurses find Sherlock in the doctor's room regardless.
As much pain and agony the detective is in, he spends his waking hours devoted to being next to John, or devising schemes where he can accomplish that task.
On the third day, Sherlock tries the ice water. Yet, still John does not wake, in fact nothing good comes of it, only a severely pissed off hospital staff and John's body temperature dropping down, two things that are not conducive to John's recovery.
The third day turns into the fourth and then the fifth and eventually six days pass and Sherlock has yet to see the doctor awake. Sherlock grows more and more anxious as the hours tick by.
So here the detective sits, on the sixth day. The genius has been released, a mere hour ago, in which he signed the forms and then planted himself, a free, albeit sore man, in the plastic hospital chairs, waiting for John to wake.
Normally, Sherlock would have probably been released earlier in the week but the doctors had to keep the detective longer than necessary. Even if the genius is brilliant, he knows nothing about healing time and he would devote every waking hour, either by John's beside (without permission) or creating said schemes to bypass the nurses, he did this instead of focus on his own healing.
To Sherlock, his recovery is irrelevant, John only matters and he would spend all of his time next to the older man, regardless of what the staff did about it.
And Sherlock is great at picking the locks of handcuffs, especially standard issue hospital handcuffs.
Finally, Sherlock's doctor, a tall, young man with deep brown hair, much like the detective in a way, decides to release the genius, claiming he isn't worth the hassle.
After all the fuss, handcuffs and threats from Mycroft and release, Sherlock is able to be where he wanted to be for the past six days, next to John.
Yet, John still sleeps in his 'not coma'.
Sherlock has tried everything, besides the physical, ice and yelling. The detective has gripped the doctor so hard and trudge up warm and happy memories in hope that they will bring John out of his, oh hell, let's call it what it is, his coma.
While he does this, Sherlock lets his mind wander, except it's not about puzzles or cases, its about John, always John.
The detective remembers the hours of when he first awoke to the hospital, his mid-section ached and hurt and the morphine fogged his mind. All he knew was John, and the lack of the doctor's presence in the room.
Sherlock didn't calm down until Mycroft made an appearance, and by that time the nurses refused to go into the room for fear of a bedpan getting thrown.
Mycroft had strode in, Sherlock with the bedpan already in his hand, the detective let the object fall once Mycroft made his appearance known.
"Where is John?" Sherlock had said through gritted teeth. Partly out of frustration and partly because his morphine was due for a dosage.
"He's in a coma, Sherlock." Mycroft had replied his umbrella twirling with ease, although inside, Sherlock can see the cold turmoil of the events.
"What happened?" Sherlock asked, he didn't remember much and what he does remember is pieces, all jumbled and not really putting themselves together.
"I believe he exerted himself too much." Mycroft replied simply, flexing his hand on the umbrella's hilt.
Sherlock seemed to think it over, "How bad?" The detective asked.
"Bad." Mycroft responded. "He contacted me you know?" The politician says, moving to sit on a plastic chair beside Sherlock's bed. The detective stares back, his lips in a thin line.
"It's a very strange feeling, the Doctor inside your head." Mycroft stated.
"Yes, I'm aware." Sherlock snapped back involuntarily. His brother always brings out the worse in him.
"You are going to be the death of that man, Sherlock." The elder Holmes deadpanned.
"Mycroft-" Sherlock started.
"I'm merely saying dear brother," Mycroft held a hand up to silence the genius, "that you must be careful, he is very loyal. He crawled, rolled, and walked all whilst bleeding from a wound to his spleen. Not to mention the fact that he wiped out seven men, which I'm sure his mind shouldn't be able to handle, he had an episode when he wiped out my five at the manor."
"He did all this, remained conscious enough to stop you from bleeding out and against all odds contacted me, which I didn't know his power was that strong." Mycroft stated.
"Sherlock, that man is too loyal for his own good. I don't know anything about his ability and I'm sure you don't know much more but it will be a miracle if he wakes up."
Throughout Mycroft's entire monologue, Sherlock glares, his mouth slightly parted in shock and turmoil, agony and guilt.
"You are right Mycroft, you don't know anything about his gift." Sherlock says snidely. "John is a lot stronger than either one of us knows and he needs rest, he is just sleeping."
"Denial doesn't suit you brother." The politician stated and stood up, gripping his umbrella.
"He loves you, you know." the elder Holmes said walking out of the room.
"I know. I love him too." Sherlock whispers into the empty room.
The irregular sound of beeping pulls Sherlock out of his memories to look up at the doctor's machines. A flashing yellow is being shown. The detective panics slightly and stands up to survey John, to make sure the detective is still breathing.
The door opens, a nurse walks in, smiling warmly at the detective. Someone new then, all of John's nurses avoid the genius like the plague.
With a few buttons pushed and a squeeze of John's IV, she exits and the yellow flashing has goes away with her. Sherlock deduces that John's medicine needed a change.
Sherlock grips the doctor's hand and sits back down in the chair, pain overwhelming him, both physical and emotional.
So, six days, an ice water plunge, numerous amounts of mental warmings and John has yet to wake.
Sherlock is frustrated and exhausted and in pain. Lots of pain, mental and physical.
Hours later and Sherlock has yet to move, Mycroft has come and gone, reminding Sherlock to take his medicine or chastising the younger Holmes about not going home.
How could Sherlock leave? John is in a coma and if the last hours, hell days have been any consolation, he might not wake up and that thought scares the detective more than anything.
Sherlock is in the process of trudging up new and warm memories for John, memories that Sherlock has long since deleted, or at least attempted to, considering that they are still present in his hard drive.
One such memory is when Sherlock is a boy, maybe ten. The genius is enamored with his new microscope, it's sleek black surface shining with ease and the knobs are easy to turn. Sherlock spends the entire day inspecting various leaves and anything he can get his hands on in the house. This is one of Sherlock's favorite childhood memories, the only time in his younger years where he has felt happy, truly happy.
The detective feels the happiest from the memory and he gets engrossed in it, so much so that he didn't know the differences in breathing coming from the doctor in his hospital bed.
"Mmmm..tha's 'ice." The doctor slurs out weakly. Sherlock's head shoots up so fast that the memory leaves. John frowns slightly as the warm and happy leave him.
"John! John!" Sherlock calls, standing up and leaning over the hospital bed. John doesn't respond, his features lax. Sherlock's face falls, he must have imagined it, and just as the detective is about to sit down out of defeat, John's mouth twitches.
"John. John. Open your eyes." Sherlock demands, wasting no time to grip the doctor's face and feel John's stubble.
With great effort John opens his eyes, their are at half mast but Sherlock will take it.
"John." The doctor smiles at the longing in those words. He looks up at the detective looming over him.
"Hey." The doctor says, his throat dry and cracking from disuse. Sherlock is gone suddenly and the doctor panics, mostly at the abruptness. He debates calling for the detective but Sherlock is back and in front of him again.
"Drink this." Sherlock's thoughts command and a plastic cup is thrust at his lips. John obliges and feels relief as the cool water relaxes his throat.
"Than' you." The doctor acknowledges. John shifts but a sudden dull stab of pain stops him. The doctor stills suddenly and one of his hands flies to his side. John looks down at his side, it's covered with a hospital gown and the soldier is tempted to rip a hole through so he can see the wrapping job.
"You were stabbed." Sherlock says sadly.
John eyes snap up immediately and look at the detective. "I don't remember."
John looks from the detective to himself and shakes his head. The doctor closes his eyes and tries to remember the last memory.
"The last thing I remember is walking into a warehouse." John says, "Did Mycroft kidnap me again?" The doctor asks, any other situation and the statement would have been met with a lighthearted snort but Sherlock is silent.
"No." The thoughts are anxious and full of concern.
"How many?" John questions.
"Seven." Sherlock states, imagining what it would have been like if he were conscious and witness John taking out seven men with his mind.
"I blacked out then." John says, disinterested, shifting again, this time more slowly. It wouldn't be the first time he had no recollection of a mental connection.
"Blacked out?" Sherlock raises an eyebrow.
"Hasn't happened a lot recently." John adds, turning faintly onto his side finally, his head turned fully towards Sherlock, holding the detective's gaze. The doctor's muscles are sore with disuse and it makes moving tiring and painful.
"Or ever." Sherlock thinks sarcastically.
"A couple of times in the beginning." John remarks, a yawn interrupting his point. Exhaustion is clouded the doctor's mind slightly.
"John," Sherlock starts seriously. "Go to sleep."
"How long have I been sleeping so far?" The doctor questions, exhaustion from just waking up seeming to take its toll. The doctor closes his eyes but sends waves of happiness and encouragement to the detective. "Yes, I'm tired but keep talking anyway."
"Six days." Sherlock's thoughts are anxious, concerned, relieved, and sad. John picks up on all the emotions and sucks them in.
John sends a wave of contentment and shame. "I'm fine now, not hurt, I'm sorry that I worried you."
"You aren't allowed to do it again."
John sends a rush of happiness and then feelings of love. "Anything for you, I love you."
Then the doctor falls asleep.
The hot Afghanistan sun is sweltering and unwavering. John pulls at his collar absentmindedly, staring into the expansive desert, waiting for the roll of casualties to stroll in.
The whir of an engine grabs John's attention and the doctor bolts towards it. The van, with a giant red cross painted shrewdly on it's side, tears into the compound. John wrenches the doors open before the driver can put the pseudo ambulance into park.
The doctor jumps into the car, coming face to face with three stretcher-ridden men, all bleeding profusely. John moves from one man to the other, not even bothering to put on gloves, instead he uses his ability to read their minds. He accesses their pain level and their memories. Two out of the three are in shock and unresponsive. John finds out their names and their birthdays. He then precedes to dig deeper and relive how each soldier got his wound.
"The man was hit by a sniper," John's commanding voice booms, "the bullet is a through and through just above the heart." John states as orderlies grab the man's stretcher and take him into the tented operation room.
John moves onto the next man, also unresponsive. He places a hand on the man's exposed torso. "This man need blood, he was in the area of an exploded mine. He has shrapnel in his legs, arms, and torso." John yells to the next pair of orderlies, who take the man away.
The third man is mumbling, his face is covered with a makeshift bandage, only his mouth is visible. John latches on to his connection but it's silent. John stares blankly at the man, reaching hard into his brain looking for memories, nothing responds. Instead, the strong smell of blood meets John. The doctor reels back but his hand is stuck, like something glued it to the man's chest. John tries to yank his hand away but it won't budge. The doctor starts to panic fiercely.
"Watson." The man says and John stops. He stares down at the soldier with panic. The man continues to mumble so John leans closer, intrigued and curious about the injured soldier who knows his name.
As John leans further and further in, the man's mumblings become more coherent and John senses familiarity with the voice.
"Johnny boy." The Irish voice says and John panics, the blood integrated with his mind and memories. The doctor freaks out and will another pull yanks his hand free, running from the vehicle with shameless haste. He bolts out the back of the ambulance but desert or sand doesn't greet him. The dream has changed and John is greeted with the insides of a warehouse. Eight men occupy the huge space, six of them in a circle surrounding the remaining two.
One of them, John recongnises instantly.
"Sherlock." John screams, running towards the detective, the ambulance long forgotten. John barges through the circle of men with exertion, the men are solid, barely moving from their spots. John has to squeeze in between two of the circle men to get in.
The doctor immediately throws himself at Sherlock. The detective is ignoring him. John wraps his hands around the detective's neck and cries into him, images of the man who mentally smelled of blood terrorising John's thoughts.
A sudden bang startles John. The smell of gunpowder pollutes the air and John turns his head to see the other man in the circle. A short pudgy excuse of man and John has the slightest sense of Deja Vu.
John feels Sherlock go slack in his arms. The doctor's head snaps back to the detective who is falling away from the soldier, blooding soaking the area around his abdomen.
"Sherlock!" John calls, guiding the detective down onto the concrete. "Sherlock!"
The doctor's hands are all over Sherlock's, trying to stop the damage. Confusion, fear, anxiety, and horror flash alternatively in John's mind.
John cups the detective's cheeks but no connection happens. No warmth of lilac and honey, no smarmy thoughts. Cold, empty blankness. Tears trek down John's eyes.
"SHERLOCK!" John screams and the detective opens his eyes, looking straight at the doctor.
"Sherlock, I can't hear you." The soldier cries.
"I know." Sherlock responds unmoving. His body going limp, his breathing stopping.
"SHERLOCK!" John calls gripping the detective all over, not letting the man die. Tears falling from his face, Sherlock's crimson insides staining his fingers.
"SHERLOCK!"
"Dr. Watson." A slimy voice calls out and John turns towards the pudgy leader, anger, resentment, fury towards the man splay across John's face.
"Say hello to Sherlock for me." A sudden bang echoes in the warehouse and John falls.
"SHERLOCK!" John screams and with a gasp, the doctor bolts upright. He can't breath, the panic and the grief immobilising all of his inward workings. His eyes are open but unseeing.
He vaguely feels hands around him. The doctor is sobbing and his emotions are all over the place.
"John. Calm down." Sherlock thoughts invade and John flinches away. He shouldn't be able to hear the detective.
"It was just a dream. You are fine. You are safe. I've got you." The thoughts repeat over and over again and John realises that none of it was real. The doctor's eyes focus and they find the detective. Sherlock is on the bed with him, rocking the both of them with ease while John sobs uncontrollably.
John tries to speak but he hiccups and chokes on the words. Instead, he sense a wave of grief, dread, shame, and pain. "I thought you were dead."
"It's okay, I'm here." Sherlock's thoughts response.
"Sher-Sherlock." John hiccups and the detective grips the doctor tighter.
"It's okay, John it was just a dream." The detective says out loud, his words soothing.
John just nods feebly, trying to get his breathing in control.
"I remember the warehouse." John states weakly, "I think Moriarty was involved."
Thoughts, ideas?
What do you guys think about Moriarty having powers?
Or what about a reverse Reichenbach, with John having to fake his own death to save the detective and then being tortured through a year or so of Sherlock calling out to him but John not being able to answer? What do you think about that?
If I went down that road, the post-Reichenbach stuff would be in a sequel for sure.
What do you guys think? It's already a ridiculous AU, might as well go all out, eh?