Sherlock story
Deleted Memories, Chapter nine
Author's note: Here are a few more chapters as promised. I am slowly going forward in time. I will get back to the present soon. Much thanks to all who read. A special thanks to all who take the time out of their busy day to comment and review.
Warning: post Reichenbach spoilers. Hope you enjoy
12 days ago late afternoon.
Seventeen stairs, It was exactly seventeen stairs to the top of 221B.
It might as well have been a hundred. Half way up the stairs, John and Mycroft had to practically lift Sherlock the rest of the way. Sherlock was deposited on the couch where he immediately fell asleep from exhaustion. All the blood had drained from Sherlock's face. The sweat on his body was so thick it plastered the clothes to his body and hair to his head. John quickly retrieved a light blanket.
"He will be more comfortable in his room. We'll move him when he's awake and check his bandages," John said.
"I hope you don't mine but I'm staying the night, you'll need help."Mycroft said while leaning against the wall, breathing heavily.
Mycroft usual had other people do the more physical tasks. He did hate to sweat.
"I would send medical staff, but I thought he would be more comfortable with people he knew, at least for tonight. A nurse will be here in the morning unless you think you will need her tonight."
John did not comment immediately, but bent forward slightly with his hands resting on his blue jean clad legs. His sweater had half fallen from one shoulder. He tried to catch his breath.
In all honesty, he wished Mrs. Hudson were here. She had always been good with Sherlock. She treated him more like a son than a tenant. She was one of the few persons with whom he would exchange hugs and kisses.
John has often spied Sherlock with a look on his face that was a mixture of slight annoyance, and deep affection looking at Mrs. Hudson. She frequently had tea with them while running through the local gossip.
"The boys," as she called them, would raid her fridge without asking, and she would come up to their flat with barely a knock on the door.
They were their own family.
John knew she probably would not be back for a while with her sister's broken hip. She had been frantic when she heard about Sherlock. He had to assure her several times that he could manage. He hoped he had not lied.
John finally spoke, "I don't think any strangers should be here now, not even medical staff, unless his condition deteriorates. At that point I'll make a decision."
Mycroft was allowing John to take the lead. He was even cooperative, at least as cooperative as Mycroft ever became. John wondered, not for the first time that day, if the world was ending.
John looked around the flat, it was well stocked.
The flat had medical supplies, food, and medicines, as well as small monitors and a stand. The kitchen was cleaned and stocked with food.
John sighed.
He would ask how Mycroft got in, but why bother. He was both slightly put off and appreciative at the same time. He noticed the two black cars parked outside. Their presence brought some comfort.
Anthea appeared with tea for both men. She spoke briefly with Mycroft then disappeared out the door.
John was fascinated to notice that she could walk down the stair while she text, her eyes never leaving the phone. He vaguely wondered if she text while sleeping.
The rest of the evening was exhausting but uneventful.
There was a flurry of bandage changes, and medicines given. The most serious event was when John had to re-suture a wound that popped two stitches because of the extreme excursion used as Sherlock walked up the stairs. Mycroft to his credit assisted John even though he did look green at one point.
John was responsible for taking Sherlock's blood pressure, temperature, and pulse. Mycroft was responsible for pushing as much fluid as Sherlock would tolerate, and making sure, he was breathing without difficulty.
Both men fell into a comfortable pattern. Sherlock's exhaustion caused him to sleep soundly in between activities.
At some point in the early morning Mycroft and John moved Sherlock to his room. He was asleep the minute his face hit the sheets. They both agreed to get some rest thinking the worst of it was over.
They were both wrong.