It's not my story, guys. I didn't mean to cause alarm. My wonderful and brilliant friend Katharine wrote this story, and (considering she doesn't have an account of her own) has allowed me to share it all with you! I'll be back to writing my own stuff eventually, but enjoy this fantastic piece of feels!
(The story is based on this angsty gif set from tumblr: post/86649214323/sherlock-au-john-is-left-with-memory-loss-after )
Yours till the peanuts butter,
SerendipityDreamer
The tall stranger hesitated as he approached the sliding doors of the hospital. It looked so foreboding and cold compared to the warm afternoon sun. The hospital was a foreboding white building with endless white walls and filled with the suffering dying people. The sun cast long shadows on the pavement and Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, felt a new emotion: Fear. Ever since he met John Watson four years ago, his life was punctuated by foreign feelings in his heart: Happiness, pride, sadness, love, regret, loyalty, trust, forgiveness. Sherlock paused for a moment before entering the place in front of him, filled with empty waiting room and cold tile floors.
With uncertain steps, he approached the front desk. The receptionist was in her mid-forties and looked incredibly busy. She answered phone calls with a tired voice and typed quickly on the computer in front of her. Sherlock cleared his throat, suddenly dry and tense, "I am here to see John Watson, in the intensive care unit."
The lady glanced up at the tall man whose face was mournful. She saw his desperation and heard the urgency in his voice, "Well, he was moved from intensive care to hospice yesterday. I'm sorry."
Sherlock could hear the clock tick as his heart skipped two beats. Hospice. John was dying. No. He couldn't. She was wrong. Maybe there is another John Watson here. Or wrong hospital. Or something. Not John.
The receptionist saw the man in front of her stare into space for a minute or two, "He's on the second floor. Room 2-21 B. Take that elevator," gesturing with her hand, "and turn right. If you need anything, just ask any employee."
Another minute passed, "Thank you. I...need to go," Sherlock managed to say.
Sherlock pulled his coat tighter around himself. A chill was in the air, not of temperature but of shock. He waited impatiently for the elevator doors to open. The waiting room on the right was almost empty and the door for the stairs was several feet away. Finally, the elevator chimed and its doors slid open and allowed Sherlock to step inside. The doors closed and the longest thirty seconds of Sherlock's young life began.
Upon reaching the second floor, Sherlock quickly followed the signs. There it was, Room 2-21 B. Not our 221B, this is in a hospital. How did this happen? I will help John. He will recover. Mycroft has money; I can use it to save him. What do I say? How do I comfort him? Breathe, breathe, breathe.
Sherlock glanced at his watch and took a deep breath. The door swung open on a squeaky hinge. The room was warm and a floor fan rotated by the window. They got him a room with a window. Good. Stay calm. There he is.
A nurse was by the bedside, checking John's vital signs. There with pale complexion and tired eyes was John H. Watson.
The nurse looked at Sherlock and spoke cautiously, "Who are you? Do you have a visitor's pass?"
"I'm an old friend," whispered Sherlock as he showed his identification pass. The nurse nodded her approval and continued writing on her clipboard. Within moments she left to continue her rounds.
A long and awkward silence followed, and all that could be heard was the hum of the fan in the corner and the sounds of beeping machines. Up until this time, Sherlock could not bring himself to look into John's eyes. Sherlock was unsure what to do. He had read up on how to treat people in hospitals, such a bunch of nonsense really. None of it prepared him for this.
A chair was pulled up next to the bed, so Sherlock walked over and sat quietly for a moment. His voice audibly trembled, "Hello there, how are you feeling?"
Slowly, John turned toward Sherlock and blinked, but silence followed.
Sherlock spoke again, "I heard you were injured, so I came to see you." Sherlock's heart began losing hope, but then John spoke with a monotone voice, "I'm sorry, I... I don't know you."
Sherlock's breath caught in his lungs. Those words destroyed all the plans he had worked out in his Mind Palace. How!? No, no, no. John lost his memory. He doesn't know who I am. No.
"It's Sherlock, John," he reassured softly, hoping the name of Sherlock Holmes would help John remember, but John's face only looked more confused.
The quiet nurse had returned to the room to hear John speak, and the hurt consulting detective turned to her in desperation, "What happened? I thought he just had a concussion."
The nurse sighed and shook her head, "Mr. Watson fell and hit his head, yes. We put him into intensive care so that the surgeons could realign his vertebrae. But after some tests, they realized he had a tumor."
The news shot through Sherlock like a bullet. Nothing made sense anymore. His hands were numb, despite the warm afternoon. He gasped softly in disbelief, "Where? When?"
"Well, he has a brain tumor- we don't know when or how it started. Stage Four. We don't have any good options at this point. The cancer has spread. The concussion caused memory loss but the tumor has weakened him beyond recovery. I'm sorry."
The picture on the wall showed a waterfall and forest scene. Sherlock wished he could go there and leave the hospital behind. He needed to see the water and hear the birds sing. The sound of a chair moving took Sherlock from his reverie.
"What is your name?" He said, now standing, surprised at himself for even asking the question.
"Molly," she answered, with a small furtive smile, "What's yours?"
"Sherlock Holmes," the detective replied with a tired voice.
The two looked down at John who was staring at the window over his right shoulder. Suddenly, John turned to a Sherlock and said, "I've never seen you before."
Sherlock's mind went blank; he was beyond grief-stricken. He wasn't sure how long he had stopped thinking, but he found himself on the floor beside John's bed and felt hot tears forming in his eyes.
He felt a small hand grab his arm and help him up. It was Molly, and she spoke fiercely, "John needs you right now. He's going fast. Get up, Sherlock!"
Her tone of voice spurred him into action. John needs me now. John needs me.
Sherlock Holmes walked over and held John's hand as he fell asleep. Before his eyes closed, John whispered, "You are fantastic, Sherlock. I knew you would come for me." John could remember a tiny moment, like a blurred photograph. It was he and Sherlock in a cab, and now Sherlock had come for him.
"Remember this, John. You are a conductor of light. I was so alone and I owe you so much."
The heart monitor started to pierce the air with a sharp alarm as John H. Watson died in the arms of Sherlock Holmes, the loneliest Consulting Detective in the world.