Thanks to Aunna for this prompt.
The window broke as John crashed through it, tumbling to the ground below.
Sherlock could hardly hear his own scream, let alone Lestrade's.
His feet were frozen in place, his head buzzing. He looked away from the window and to the man who had thrown John out of it.
The bastard actually looked pleased with himself.
With a barbaric yell, Sherlock charged the man and knocked him to the floor. The grimy Welshman struggled beneath the (surprisingly) immense weight of the detective, his hands reaching for the knife in his pocket. Unfortunately for the man, Sherlock was on high alert, his eyes immediately falling on the knife. He unceremoniously ripped the blade from the criminal's pocket, nicking him in the side and tearing through the thin fabric of the trousers. The man gasped as the knife was placed at his throat, the sharp blade barely grazing the skin.
"I'd say your friend is a bit more important than some petty revenge, don't you think Mr. Holmes?" the criminal choked, trying his best not to shy away from the detective's crazy eyes.
"Sherlock!" Lestrade yelled, running over to the scuffle, "You need to get outside. Right now."
Sherlock pulled his focus from the man pinned beneath him and looked over at the DI.
"Oh my God," he whispered as he scrambled to his feet, carelessly dropping the knife to the ground.
The criminal coughed as he sat himself up, mumbling curses under his breath. His mumblings were interrupted by the sound of a gun's safety being clicked off right next to his head.
"You have the right to remain silent," Lestrade said, his voice deep and commanding.
The criminal obliged.
Sherlock wasn't sure how fast he was running, but he was sure it wasn't fast enough. John was dying, and there were far to many steps preventing Sherlock from reaching him in a timely manner. Soon enough, however, the detective threw open the door to the outside air and dashed over to the doctor. He slid to his knees, his fingers immediately finding their way to John's carotid artery to keep track of the doctor's pulse.
John was breathing quite irregularly, as if he was trying to keep himself from causing more damage.
He was a doctor. He knew how to handle a situation like this. He knew what to do.
Sherlock didn't.
John, help. Please. I'm scared.
What came out wasn't that. What came out instead was:
"Idiot."
No. No, no. Sherlock didn't mean that. He knew he didn't.
"I'm sorry," he said, gripping onto John's bicep. "Don't die."
The detective could have sworn he heard the doctor laugh. The man had just fallen from a window eight stories high, and was laughing.
John gave a spluttering cough and groaned.
"Don't do that, John," Sherlock said in as clinical a voice as he could manage.
"Can't 'elp it," John wheezed. "Sorry."
Sherlock shook his head rapidly.
"It's alright, John. It's alright. Just focus on not dying."
He knew Lestrade had seen the fall, so calling an ambulance was not his concern. All that he needed to worry about was making sure John's heart kept beating.
His eyes trailed down John's body, trying to assess the damage.
Broken ribs, maybe a collapsed lung, concussion (hopefully no extensive head trauma)...
His eyes hit John's legs.
Both were broken, the right shinbone jutting out and creating quite a mess.
He knew what it meant.
"A bit not good, then?" John said, swallowing hard.
Sherlock couldn't answer. He was too focused on the mangled mess that was John's lower body. Tentatively, he reached out a hand, almost wishing to touch the bone. But he knew better.
"Sherl," John choked out, his voice weak, "Answer me."
Sherlock swallowed the hard lump in his throat and nodded.
"It's not good."
"Yeah. Figured."
There was a moment of silence before the sound of sirens broke it.
"Sherl?"
"What is it, John?"
"I can't feel my legs."
Sherlock paced about the room, wringing his hands together as he did so.
A doctor still hadn't come by to give him any news on the state of his poor flatmate, and it was driving him utterly mad.
Anytime Sherlock heard footsteps clacking on the hard hospital floor, he crossed his fingers that they belonged to a medical man bearing good news. And each time he was thoroughly disappointed.
After about two hours of endless pacing, Sherlock felt a big, masculine hand grab his shoulder, stopping him in his tracks.
Smells of aftershave, cheap cologne, and bad coffee. Lestrade.
Sherlock craned his head to find a few silver hairs in his peripheral vision. It was most definitely the Inspector.
"How is he?" he asked, his voice soft and tired-sounding.
"None of these so-called professionals will tell me a bloody thing!" Sherlock said with a growl.
"Now Sherlock," Lestrade said, wagging a finger at the detective, "You know very well these men and women know more about their field than you do. Stop acting as if you're more qualified."
Sherlock grumbled something under his breath and shrugged out of Lestrade's tight grip, resuming his incessant pacing. The DI could only sigh and watch as the detective dug a trench.
A doctor finally did come by after another two and a half hours.
And she delivered the news Sherlock hadn't wanted to hear.
He let the words wash over him, but his brain could only block out so much. When the woman had finished, she laid a hand on Sherlock's shoulder in an effort to comfort him. But all it did what make Sherlock tense up.
"Would you like to see him, sir?"
That registered.
Sherlock's ears perked up and his eyes brightened.
An ICU visit? That typically is reserved for family members only...
Jesus, why are you questioning this? Just take the invitation. Assume it's Mycroft.
Wordlessly, Sherlock nodded and obediently followed the doctor, feeling Lestrade give him a reassuring pat on the back.
Sherlock was going to need all the reassurance and support he could get.
After all, he was the one who would have to tell John.
Sherlock tapped his foot impatiently and stared at the clock.
It was currently five o'clock in the morning. And, as usual, he hadn't gotten any sleep.
But he didn't care.
As the seconds passed, Sherlock's grip on John's hand became tighter and tighter. His other hand lay on his thigh, his fingers drumming along to the beat of the numerous beeping machines hooked into John.
God, how he hated those machines.
The first day hadn't been so bad, but as things led into the fifth day, Sherlock was becoming increasingly irritated. It wasn't due to boredom, however; it was more because of his growing uncertainty that John would ever wake up. But maybe that was a good thing, considering the man John would be if he did.
No. Don't say that. Don't ever say that. I will help him through this.
Sherlock stopped tapping and just listened to his surroundings. The clock was ticking and the heart monitor beeping in sync with John's heartbeat. They had removed the ventilator two days beforehand, saying that John was showing signs of waking up, and that he could breathe on his own.
Then why is it that he still won't wake?
Sherlock jumped when he heard the door open quite abruptly.
"Sorry I gave you a scare, Mr. Holmes," the nurse said with the brightest of smiles. "I've just come to change out the bags."
Sherlock waved his hand dismissively, muttering a 'fine' that the nurse could hardly hear. The nurse finished her task quite quickly, and left the room without another word.
Sherlock leaned back into the molded plastic chair with a sigh and squeezed John's hand again, irrationally hoping it would rouse the doctor from his slumber.
John's hand squeezed back.
Sherlock was immediately alert, his eyes darting towards the once relaxed features of his friend. The eyelids were tightly shut, as if trying to resist the strong pull of consciousness.
"John?" Sherlock whispered.
John moaned.
"S'lock..."
The detective's heart felt a thousand stones lighter.
"It's me, John. Can you hear me?"
John's head lolled in Sherlock's direction, and, with much effort, he pulled his eyelids open.
"You're all fuzzy," John slurred, squinting at the man next to him.
Sherlock gave a sort of smile.
"Give it a moment."
John blinked his eyes a few times as he looked around the room.
"Wha' happened?" he asked.
"You fell. Or rather, you were pushed. Out of a window eight stories above ground," Sherlock said, almost guiltily.
"Jesus," John said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "How long have I been out?"
"Four days, five hours, thirteen minutes, and forty five seconds."
John gave Sherlock a confused sort of look.
"You've been counting exactly?"
"Well, estimating certainly wouldn't do you any good."
John nodded and closed his eyes again, breathing out a deep sigh.
"How bad is it?"
Sherlock hesitated to open his mouth, for he knew that if he did, John would know exactly how bad it was.
Sherlock didn't want him to know. But there was no way to avoid it.
"John..."
Before Sherlock could continue, John let out a strangled sort of sound in his throat.
"Sherlock, I can't move my toes."
The detective felt a knot forming in the back of his throat.
"Jesus Christ. Jesus H. Christ. Sherlock... am I...?"
Sherlock nodded solemnly.
"When you landed, you landed in a near-vertical position. The base of your spine was practically shattered, and your legs weren't in the best shape either. I'm so sorry, John."
John looked up at the ceiling, trying to stop himself from crying. He was a soldier, dammit. He wasn't going to cry. Especially not in front of his friend.
Sherlock furrowed his brow in concern and squeezed John's hand even more tightly. John felt the man's piercing gaze and could hardly stifle the broken laugh that came out.
"I know, sorry."
"Sorry?"
"Emotions are boring."
Sherlock almost looked hurt by the remark, his usually piercing, grey eyes softening.
Yet he dared not say a word.
All he could do was hold John's hand as the poor doctor cried silent tears.
He even let a few of his own spill over his lashes.
"Ready, Doctor Watson?"
John shrugged.
"I guess I have to be, hm?"
The nurse gave him a sad sort of smile as she placed her hands under his arms.
"On three, now: One, two-"
"Can I?"
Both doctor and nurse looked at the doorway, revealing to their eyes a haggard-looking Sherlock holding a plastic cup of coffee.
"Sherlock, it's okay. She can do it," John said, his voice sounding tremendously tired.
"Please."
John sighed and nodded to the nurse. The young woman only hesitated for a moment before stepping aside, leaving Sherlock to take her place.
"How should I do this, John?" Sherlock asked, his hands hovering inches from John's frail-looking form. The detective feared that any wrong move might mean his friend would shatter into a million other pieces.
"Just grab my waist," John said, guiding his friend's hands to said body part, "And just lower me down."
Sherlock nodded and tightened his grip around the doctor's waist, noting how pleasantly soft and warm it felt.
"Will this do?"
John nodded.
"S'good. Now let me just-" John wrapped his arm around Sherlock's shoulders. "There."
"On three?"
"On three."
Sherlock nodded.
"One."
"Two."
"Three."
Sherlock was almost disturbed at how easy it was to lift John. Though when he recalled John's lengthy stay at the hospital, it made sense that the man would have lost a considerable amount of weight.
Carefully, he lowered the doctor into the wheelchair beside the bed, the whole process proving itself to be surprisingly hassle-free.
The nurse smiled from across the room.
"Well, it seems as if you two have got things handled. I'll be back with a blanket. It's a bit chilly this time of year."
As soon as she was out of the room and the door had closed, Sherlock began adjusting John's legs so that the feet were on the footrests.
"Sherlock, what are you doing?" John asked with a sigh.
"Attempting to make you as comfortable as possible."
John rolled his eyes.
"For God's sake, Sherlock, you don't have to bloody grovel. For the last time: what happened wasn't your fault."
Sherlock looked up at John.
"This isn't grovelling, John. I am only trying to make this... sudden change a bit easier for you."
Before John could say anymore, the nurse returned with a large blanket in hand.
"Here we are!" she said, cheerily. "Sorry it's nothing too pretty. But it'll keep you warm."
"Thank you," both Sherlock and John said simultaneously.
"I'll take care of it," Sherlock said with his famous 'I'm-only-being-nice-to-you-because-I-have-to-to-get-what-I-want' smile.
The nurse thought nothing of what John knew to be the out of character request, and she happily handed the detective the flannel blanket.
With a flick of the wrists, Sherlock had the blanket flattened out and guided it as it fluttered down to settle on John. When he went to tuck the edges around the doctor's waist, his wrist was gripped by a strong hand.
"Sherlock," John said in a near-whisper, "I can do it."
Sherlock simply shook his wrist free and proceeded to complete his self-administered task.
"There," he said, gently patting out the garment's wrinkles.
John just rolled his eyes, placing his hands on the grips of the wheels.
"Ready."
The nurse smiled and opened the door so that John could fit through.
"After you, Doctor."
John gave a small smile and proceeded to push himself forward.
Sherlock couldn't help but cringe as the chair caught caught on the door frame.
"Fuck," John muttered as he tried to angle himself again, groaning when he realised the task's futility. "Sherlock?"
The detective was immediately there to push John through, earning a relieved sigh from the man.
"Thanks," John said over his shoulder.
"Of course, John."
"Come on, you son of a bitch," John said as he stretched his arm out, trying his damnedest to grab hold of the box of tea. "Come on."
His fingers barely brushed the corner of the box, earning from him a frustrated grunt.
"Almost, Watson, come on," he whispered to himself as he stretched his arm a bit further.
Much to his dismay, he only succeeded in pushing the tea further back on the shelf. With a resigned sigh, he leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes.
"Fuck."
"Do you need assistance?"
John looked over at the doorway leading into the kitchen and saw Sherlock standing there, his pale form illuminated by the morning sunshine.
"Oh. Morning," John grumbled, rolling himself away from the counter. "How long have you been standing there?"
"Long enough to know that I ought to move the tea somewhere where you can reach it. For now, why don't I prepare it?"
"Forget it. I didn't want any anyway."
Before John could maneuver around him, Sherlock had his hand on the doctor's chest, stopping him in his tracks.
"Let me help you, John. Please. It's the least I can do."
"Don't bother, Sherlock."
John made another move to move past the detective, but he found that his wheel wouldn't budge. Looking down, he saw that Sherlock had wedged his foot there.
"Why are you so averse to accepting my aid, John?"
The doctor looked down at his feet in silence.
"John?"
John shook his head.
"Look, just make yourself some tea. Don't worry about me."
"I don't plan on moving until you explain to me why you're so dismissive."
John sighed.
"Look, it's not you, Sherlock."
"Then what is it?"
"It's me. I'm a cripple, Sherlock, and a bloody useless one at that."
"What does that have to do with anything?"
"I'm a burden, Sherlock. You're dropping everything to help me live a life which I should be able to live independently. Why you are, I have no clue. The chances of my getting better are not very high, so all you're really accomplishing at this point is prolonging another boring, human life that is hardly of any use to you now. I just wish you'd forget me and move on with your life. Maybe find another flatmate who can use both of his legs."
Sherlock pulled a chair up and sat down so that he was face-to-face with his friend. He placed his hand on John's and gripped it tightly.
"John Hamish Watson, you are not a burden," he said with as much tenderness as he could muster. "I have chosen to care for you because you are my friend and I want to, not because I feel as if it's an obligation. I have no intention to find another flatmate, as such a venture would be quite fruitless. After all, you are one of a kind."
"You're only saying that."
Sherlock laughed a bit.
"A part of what makes you so endearing is your cluelessness, John. I never make passive remarks; you know that. What I say, I mean. And if I pass you a compliment, you'd better take it seriously, for I am a serious man. You are truly irreplaceable, John, whether or not you have the use of both your legs."
John smiled a bit and looked into those stormy grey eyes.
"Well that sure as hell sounded sincere."
Sherlock grinned.
"Sincerity is my strongest suit." He patted John's hand and gave it one last squeeze. "Now, how about some tea?"
John grinned back.
"I would love that."