Anyone in the St. Bart's waiting room that evening would have seen a most curious sight: a tall man in a long, bloody trench coat tucked up in a tiny plastic chair. He'd been sitting there, perfectly still, longer than anyone else in the room, and no one knew exactly when he'd come in. Even the desk nurse didn't know who he was, or what he was there for.
At last, a message came in for the nurse. "John Watson can receive visitors," she announced, glancing curiously at the mysterious stranger. "Anyone waiting for a John Watson?"
Almost instantly, the man was on his feet. "Yes, I'm here."
"You'll need to sign in, sir," she told him warily, now noticing the blood in his hair, too. He took the clipboard she handed him and scrawled something illegible. The nurse didn't comment. "He's on the third floor, room 327," she said instead. "I can have someone show you up…?"
"No need," the man said shortly. "I know my way." He brushed past her and towards the double doors, striding with renewed purpose. The nurse could restrain her curiosity no longer.
"Who are you?" she called, leaning over her counter.
"The name is-" He stopped, then seemed to change his mind. "No one important," he said instead. "Just a...friend." He glanced down, then pushed open the doors, hurrying off into the depths of the hospital.
It took only a matter of minutes for Sherlock to find the room, but once he was standing outside the door, he found himself hesitating. Imagining John, pale and weak and nothing like his John… He wasn't certain he could face it.
He's seen you in worse shape, he told himself sternly, and he still clings to you like life itself. And he is so much easier to cling to than I will ever be. He winced at the unfortunate metaphor. If John was okay to have visitors, he must still be clinging to life… but for how much longer?
His half-panicked wonderings were interrupted as the door swung open and a white-coated doctor strode out, clipboard in hand.
"I'll need clearance for x-rays," she called to a nurse behind her, who nodded and hurried off. "Can someone-" She stopped, noticing Sherlock for the first time. Taking in his bloody appearance and pale face with a knowing and practiced eye, she handed off her clipboard, then stuck out a hand for him to shake. "Dr. Swales. You must be Sherlock?"
"Er, yes." Sherlock hadn't really been paying attention to this brisk woman. He'd been too busy peering through the door, trying to catch a glimpse of John. "How did you-"
Dr. Swales's expression softened into a smile as she looked at the distraught man before her. "He's been asking about you," she told him. "When he's conscious, anyway. He's out now. Heavily sedated, of course. He's made it through the surgery to remove the bullet, but-"
"Will he be okay?"
"I don't know," she told him honestly. "The next few hours will tell. Once he wakes up we'll be able to do some tests. He could be fine, probably a bit weaker than before, but nothing therapy won't fix." She hesitated before adding, "Or he could be dead. We'll do everything we can, of course," she added hurriedly, "but I'm afraid right now that's the more likely outcome."
Dead. The word resounded through Sherlock's brain, echoing in the halls of his mind palace and drowning out any other thought. Blindly he pushed past the doctor, bursting into the plain hospital room.
It took him a moment to find his friend in the tangle of wires and tubes. John was horribly pale, his eyes shut and sunken into his face.
"He's lost a lot of blood," a nurse spoke up from where he was adjusting one of the machines - a morphine drip, Sherlock later realized. "Looks bad, don't it? But he'll make it. I've seen-"
"Stop," Sherlock said tightly. "Just… just leave. Please," he added belatedly. The nurse smiled and nodded.
"Course. Take your time. As long as you're quiet, there's no harm in it. I'll be back in about half an hour to check up on him." He set the clipboard down on the foot of the bed. "There's a copy of his charts there if you want to read them." He headed for the door. "Hope for a miracle. That's all you can do for now."
Sherlock hardly noticed when the nurse left. He glanced over at the clipboard, then shoved it off the bed. It fell to the floor with a clang and a clatter. Heedless of the noise, he pulled one of the hard plastic chairs up to the side of the bed and sat down gingerly, careful not to disturb anything. Gently, oh so gently, he laid his hand on John's and was relieved beyond measure to feel a pulse fluttering in his friend's wrist.
"John," he murmured, shaking his matted curls, "I am… so sorry. None of this should have happened, and it's my fault. You were right, it was ridiculous. I was proud and arrogant and I wanted to impress you." He chuckled softly, deep in his throat. "So much for that. But-" His voice broke. Clearing his throat, he tried again. "But I want you to know, John, that if you… if something happens, something permanent, I will never forgive myself."
With a sigh, Sherlock lifted John's fragile hand and kissed it softly, hesitantly, then pressed it to his forehead. "I love you, John Watson," he whispered. "And I swear, make it through this, and I'll tell you face to face." He dropped to a whisper, hating himself for the drama. "I promise. Just stop this, just for me, just stop it."
He sat at the bedside for what felt like millennia, frozen in place, trying to process the whole situation. But in all the wings of his mind palace, try though he might, there just wasn't a room big enough to put the idea of John gone forever.
Suddenly, there came a knock on the door. Receiving no answer, it slid open and Detective Inspector Lestrade strode in.
"Sherlock? I came as soon as I could get out of work… God. He's in rough shape, isn't he?"
No response, not even a twitch. For a moment, Lestrade, taking in the state of Sherlock's hair and coat and his vacant stare, wondered whether they had the right man hooked up to all the machines.
"We caught the guy, by the way. Chased him through three bars and a construction site, but got him in the end."
Still nothing. Stepping further into the room, Lestrade shrugged off his coat and laid it across the end of the bed. Noticing the clipboard still sprawled on the floor, he picked it up and glanced through it.
"It says the bullet hit a rib, pushed it back. Blood loss, possible spinal nerve damage-"
"Shut up."
Lestrade glanced up at him, raising an eyebrow. "What, don't you want to know what's wrong with him? I mean-"
"Nothing's wrong with him."
"Sherlock." Lestrade stared at his friend for a moment, curled up in a tiny hospital chair. "Sherlock, he's been shot."
"Don't tell me anything. I don't want to know."
"Why the hell not?" Lestrade asked in exasperation, tossing aside the clipboard.
"He said - John said, before… all of this - that knowing takes away the magic." His words came slowly, haltingly. "He said you could rely on magic, but once you knew everything, it wasn't magical anymore." He looked up at Lestrade, eyes red. "They said to hope for a miracle."
"And how is you sitting by his side, starving yourself and bring God knows what germs into his room going to help with that?"
"I don't want him to-" Sherlock stopped, unable to finish his sentence. "I just don't want anything to happen to him and have him be alone."
Lestrade blinked in surprise at this sudden change in character, then sighed, understanding. "Sherlock, look," he said, stepping forward and laying a hand on the distraught man's shoulder, "it's hard on all of us, I know. John's my friend too. But you've been here for hours. Mrs. Hudson called and said she came by and you didn't move once. You need to get cleaned up, you need to eat. It's a miracle they let you in at all, looking like that." Watching him for a moment, the inspector added, "You know how upset he'd be if he woke up and found you in a state like this."
It was clearly only this last thing that tipped the scales. Sherlock nodded limply, eyes fixed on his unconscious friend. Keeping up a steady stream of chatter, the police inspector lifted the unresisting, unresponsive detective to his feet by one arm and led him out of the room. Once out of the hospital, he hailed a taxi to take them both back to Baker Street.
Mrs. Hudson answered the door at the first knock. "Oh, there you are, Sherlock, I've been so worried! Come in, Inspector." She stood back, leaving Lestrade plenty of room to lead her tenant inside. "Just bring him upstairs. I'll be up with some tea in a minute." She bustled off towards her own flat, then turned back. "How is John, is there any news?"
"Not so far," Lestrade said, lowering his voice with an anxious glance at Sherlock, who was plodding up the stairs to his room. "They still don't know how he's going to turn out, but anything's possible at this point." When he looked towards the stairs again, Sherlock was gone.
Mrs. Hudson saw it too. "Now tell me, how is he really?"
"John or Sherlock?" It was meant as a joke, but neither found it very funny.
Lestrade sighed. "It's not looking good," he confessed. "Spinal damage is ugly, and major surgery can't be helping. It'll be touch and go for a while."
A crash sounded from somewhere above them. Mrs. Hudson winced.
"Oh dear, that sounded like the coffee table," she said, wringing her hands. "I was just moving some things to dust-"
"I'll go after him," Lestrade told the landlady. "Couldn't bring some food, too, could you?"
"Of course, dear. Just a moment." She disappeared into the flat. Lestrade hurried up the stairs, relieved to find the flat unlocked. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen, but minutes later he heard water running from the bathroom. He righted the coffee table, picking up a few scattered books, then sank into an armchair, prepared to wait.
He was just checking in on his team - they were out on a major drugs bust - when Sherlock reemerged, thankfully clean. He started for the door, but Lestrade was on his feet immediately, blocking the way. He pointed to the tray Mrs. Hudson had brought up. "Eat," he said firmly.
"I'm going to the hospital-"
"Not 'til you've eaten. I'm not having you collapsing on me. One person laid up is enough." Lestrade eyed him critically. "I will get police backup if I have to, Sherlock. Be reasonable."
Sherlock glared at him for a moment, then threw himself down at the table, stuffing the food in his mouth at top speed. Lestrade, watching, worried he might choke, but Sherlock threw back a cup of tea, then surged to his feet, grabbing his scarf from the rack and disappearing out the door. Lestrade let him go, and saw him get into a cab only moments later. Shaking his head, he reached for the tray, only to discover Sherlock had hardly eaten a thing.
"Tricky bastard," he muttered, nudging the remains with a fork. "He just tore it up and moved it around. Stubborn as hell, he is."
"Sherlock, you mean?" Mrs. Hudson stood in the doorway. "His heart's in the right place, but he's just got his ways. You know how he is."
Lestrade snorted. "Tell me about it."
"I heard him go out," she added, bustling in to collect the tray. "Back to St. Bart's?"
"I expect so. Can't imagine he'd have gone anywhere else." Lestrade shook his head. "He's never like this. Ever. Usually he just finishes off the case and that's it, but he didn't care at all about whether we got the guy or not. This whole…" He stopped, looking for the right word. "The waiting around, the caring, it's not his area at all."
"Well, this is John, dear. He's a special case, after all. I expect if he makes it through they'll make it final at last."
"Er, sorry, make what final?" Lestrade looked at the elderly landlady suspiciously. She smiled knowingly.
"Oh, nothing, I'm sure." She bustled out with the tray, humming to herself and leaving the inspector to wonder just exactly what she was referring to.
A.N: Hello dears! Does this count as fluff? Either way. Perhaps let me know? Though this story is doing remarkably well, I'm a little disappointed at the lack of reviews. Humor me, my friends. But I'm glad you're reading this, at least. Thank you!
-Forever the Optimist