I huddle in a cold waiting room, along with Lestrade. I look down at the ground, pulling my coat around my blood-soaked shirt. His blood, my shirt. The stiffness of the material scratches against my skin, like rats working to claw their way free from a trap. Trap. I'm trapped. I have allowed myself to feel and I am now reaping the whirlwind. Lestrade pats my shoulder. I am grateful that he doesn't offer ineffective platitudes.
I surprise myself when I speak first. "He sacrificed himself for me. Everyone does that at some point, don't they? Be the hero. Save Sherlock. I abused him in every sense of the word and now he is going to die."
Lestrade takes a sip of his coffee. "Let's just wait for the Doctor, shall we?"
I nod, dreading to be left alone with my thoughts. I am hateful and spiteful. I deserve to be left alone. Anderson, oh god, Anderson, what hurt most the machete as it pierced your abdomen or me as I pierced your heart?
"Sherlock, Sherlock can you hear me? Are you okay?"
I look at you, dearest John, you are sitting on your haunches in front of me. One hand is placed on my knee, the other on my arm. I smile at you, then look down at the floor, losing myself in the debris on the linoleum, a crumb from a child's biscuit, a strand of hair, a drop of coffee, lint, a facial tissue, small scraps of paper, mucus, a spot of blood. The spot of blood grows, threatening to swallow me in its gigantic sink hole. The smell of copper makes me gag.
You squeeze my hand. "Sherlock, wherever you are come back and look at me."
I give you nothing, because I am a taker.
"Sherlock, if you look at me and pay attention I will play that little game you've been wanting to try."
My whole body snaps to attention, ready to move on. "The one with the handcuffs, the plug, the crop and the honey?" You laugh when I lick my lips.
"Yes, the very one."
Lestrade shifts in the chair next to us. "Oh nice. I'm going to leave you two to sort this out, call me when you hear news."
You look away from my dilated eyes and turn to Lestrade. "Anderson's in surgery now. He's strong so I'm sure he'll pull through."
"But you don't know." My voice sounds loud. It matches the brightness of the room.
You slide into the chair that Lestrade has just vacated. I lean against your shoulder. "Sherlock, close your eyes and try to relax."
"I know what would help me relax."
You chuckle. "Well, I don't fancy getting arrested for giving you a hand job in public."
I nibble at your neck. "You could say it's an emergency prostate exam." Then I take a deep breath. You have pulled from my tortuous thoughts once again. I look at you. My focus comes back, but with it so does the battlefield. I close my eyes, allowing the analytical side of my brain to squelch the sights and sounds that have no bearing on the situation. We sit together in silence, letting the fear and pain of the environment wash over us. It's you a me against the world and we will prevail.
When you shake me awake, I have no idea how long I've been asleep. "You're just like Redbeard," I murmur, "you can make me relax and fall asleep anywhere."
"Fine, you owe me a bone when we get home." Then you pat me on the leg and walk over to where a grim looking surgeon stands waiting.
I watch you converse, then I breathe a sigh of relief. I know from your body language that Anderson made it through surgery. Still, I want to hear the words from your lips. You come to me. You are the sun of my solar system. Without you knowing it, everything revolves around you John Watson.
"He's made it through the surgery, but he isn't awake yet. I think you should go in and sit with him. I will call Lestrade."
I follow the surgeon to the nurses' station, where I am then directed to Anderson's room. I take a deep breath before I open the door. He looks so small and pale, too pale. I walk over and my mouth salivates when I notice the strength of his Morphine IV drip. Lucky bastard.
I stand in silence at the end of his bed. I read his chart, wincing at the extent of the injuries. You will be in pain for a while, you will have to wear a temporary colostomy bag, not to mention the psychological effects of such an attack and it's all my fault. Fuck, what a piece of shit I am.
I sink down in a chair next to the bed, putting my head in my hands. "I'm sorry," I whisper. There is no answer, only the beeping of hospital equipment. I swear I can hear each drop of morphine when it filters through the line. I want some. I…
A nurse breezes into the room, not knowing how close I came to jerking the IV out of Anderson's arm and sticking it into my own. "You'll have to leave now." Then she bustles me out and I stand out in the hall, like a refugee waiting for someone to claim me.
It is only after you and I are on the way home that I realize that I didn't say anything to Anderson. I didn't encourage him to come back to us. I just stood there like a mute statue. I have failed again.
By the time, we arrive at Baker Street, I am in a foul mood, knowing that a cloud of darkness is coming, I burst forth from the cab, rush past Mrs. Hudson and make my way towards my violin. The Bach Chaconne in D Minor will do nicely. I put the instrument to my chin, tune it, then begin to play the slashing chords, like a knife they cut through to the morrow of my being. I am just as wounded as Anderson. My soul bleeds. Though some assume I feel nothing, I actually feel too much. I descend into mental torment. Hell. No can save me from this despair. John Watson, he can. I feel pain though I don't show it, but he knows, John Watson knows and yet my heart beats in terror. I am afraid one day I will sink into oblivion and never return. No one to rescue me. A soul past redemption, haunted by past failures and future dilemmas. What if my intellect fails? What then? What then? No, someone stop this free-floating anxiety. Then I focus on the gentle notes of the Chaconne, tears run down my face, while I wallow in the pain. When the volume of the piece swells into forte I bite my lip until it bleeds. I taste blood and tears. I feel bereft, knowing the piece is nearing its climax and though I play it again, it will never be like this performance. Each fingering and bow stroke like a snowflake, pitch perfect, yet no two alike. All musical works have a finale, all notes end, all pieces fade until the last tone ceases to vibrate.
