Author notes: So, this has been long on the making, but finally it's here: John's thoughts on the situation. Reviews and favourites are always welcome and appreciated.
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CHAPTER 9: THE BURYING (Part 1)
The days stretched thin and heavy in uncertainty. Time fogged and slurred its way around him in a confusing way. The stupid bed that was supporting his weight became dully painted in the miasma of grey around everything that was not anguish. He once again found himself in a familiar situation in which he could not do a thing but to scratch the skin off his body; and in all honesty, he was tired of it. The only thing he wanted to do was to rip the tube off his wrist, spat the venom they were feeding him, and stand up to find his best friend, or die trying.
It would certainly be a hopeless endeavour. If the detective hadn't been found by the entirety of the government resources with his genius brother at command, he was most probably not going to be located by a single retired army doctor with a hole on his abdomen. Yet he had to try, since he was the only one who truly understood completely the gravity of the situation. Mycroft was proving to be unable to grasp the fact that there was no possibility whatsoever that his friend had escaped and was hiding in God knows where while he laid on a bed fighting for his life. It just wasn't logical.
The ginger man had explained it to him a myriad of times already, showed him the security camera recordings at his bedside over and over again until every second now inhabited inside the doctor's mind; still, it was not enough to sway John away from his adamant opposition. When he went down, the boffin had to leave him in order to catch the ambulance they both heard passing on the street adjacent to the alleyway. But if the British Government solemnly stated that his friend had never arrived to said ambulance side, then it meant something prevented him from getting there; and John wasn't sure exactly how he knew, but he was a hundred percent sure that it was Moriarty's doing.
Despite how Mycroft insisted how impossible a return from the death of Sherlock's greatest nemesis was, the soldier had heard the consulting detective himself say that he had saw him outside their flat once, that he was certain of it; that meant that now John was the sole person that truly believed this was anything more than an escape. That this was straightforward abduction. And it chilled him to the bone to imagine what it meant.
Lestrade had been around his hospital room many times. Inviting him to go through the available leads with him. The both of them desperately working to find a way to somehow stumble unto a clue that will put them out of the utter ignorance they were in now. Despite of the fact that nothing really seemed to bring them any closer to a disclosure in the whereabouts of his friend, John felt good with helping, even if he could only do so much considering his condition. He just couldn't keep staying there and do nothing.
No matter what it took, the doctor was determined to turn every stone until the detective turned up, and he knew that if he wanted what was hiding there to be alive, he had to hurry up. Lost time was a bigger enemy that the consulting criminal has ever been, and if John failed at defeating said nemesis, it likely meant death for Sherlock.
He just prayed to whomever might be hearing that they would be able to locate him before Moriarty managed to damage his very constitution, he was aware of how destructive the maniac could be when amused. He dreaded the nights when everyone was gone, when there was nothing left to try for the day and the darkness seemed to widen exponentially with only the beeping of the heart monitor beside his bed to drawn out the eerie silence. Unable to move much but for a few little steps, and left to contemplate what the future could hold for the both of them.
In those hospital-trapped nights he sometimes got to wonder where the hell was Sherlock, and what could that lunatic be doing with him. He would sink into a dangerous territory of self-injuring speculations where he imagined such horrifying scenarios that the nurses often had to come to his room to verify that he wasn't on his merry way to completely teetering off the cliff of sanity and into a panic attack.
Other times, he would encounter himself having the most life-like nightmares he has had, abominable nightmares of someone pulling off the boffin's hair and carving out engravings on his skin, terrors so deep which rendered him gasping and sweating once awake. Tearfully demanding reality to be kinder that his worry-induced dreams.
However, the frankly disturbing nature of said nocturnal developments was nothing juxtaposed against what he had seen on the man's face the day he was stabbed. Although in all the years the blogger has known him, he has seen a wide range of emotions dance their way through the self-proclaimed sociopath's face; he was positive he will never again live something that terrified him more than seeing his best friend succumb to raw fear. To witness the utter helplessness with which he looked at him, as if John might as well had thrusted an arrow between his eyes and decided that twisting it was an exceptional idea; something that reminded him of a dream he only half remembered.
The nights he sat up on the sterile white bed, staring listlessly at the linoleum covering at the base of his room; silently chewing at his mind with questions of all sorts of things. Asking the vacuum of the place to give him something to cure the bottled up tempest flurrying inside his brain, to absolve him of the guilt he got every moment he failed to find his friend. The nights he thought about how he couldn't find Sherlock: Those were decidedly the worst nights.
Day brought no real relief to John, but it did deliver some distraction, if but a little. To submerge oneself into a mindless task such as eating and answering routinely questioning of multiple doctors and nurses allowed him some respite out of the pressing thoughts that haunted him once the sun was down. Though he realised early on that quiet moments will never cease to be filled with doubt until said madman was returned, he welcome the small mercy that was a time to feel like a normal human being, even if he frankly never had been one of those. Pretences are sometimes all one has.
His friends often came around to visit. Mrs. Hudson would come and try to smuggle some biscuits for him, even if he always had to remind her he was not allowed to eat those, and they ended up uneaten on his bedside table; which was probably for the best, since to the doctor they probably would have tasted of concern, and there is only so much of that a person can take before breaking down. She would fuss over him, and ask him hundreds of strange question to which he had no hope of ever beginning to know how to answer, but he really appreciated it.
Molly had become a great support as well. For all her culpability-ridden dissociation after the fake suicide, she was proving to be a dependable and loyal friend; and how he was grateful for that. He could tell the curly-haired man's disappearance was taking a toll on her too, but she managed to soldier on a lot more than he was able at the moment. Her steady take on the situation and willingness to help in any way she could made him understand why his flatmate trusted her so much: she was reliable.
Every day Greg would come, and everyday he would look at him with hopeful, pleading eyes for a change in conditions, only to have that belief crashed by harsh reality as the other shook his head sadly. He knew it was unlikely that they would be able to find him in time, and every day that passed lowered the chances of it ever happening. However, he won't ever be ready to accept such fact. Lestrade did what he could, as well as he was capable. He made sure to always include John, and no one at the Yard had the heart to complain about it. There was actually a card from them laying around somewhere in his narrow hospital room addressed to him.
Mycroft made regular appearances, but they were short and always ended up with the soldier wanting to yell at him for some reason or other. He didn't, though. The dark circles around the government agent's eyes and the looser clothes were enough for the blonde to sober up and realise that for all his stoic nature, misplacing his little brother was hell for him too.
Still, they were there to support him. Even if they would sometimes look at each other with concern-ridden eyes when they thought he wasn't looking. They were always there, and it somehow made him feel worse. It hurt to think how he could have this, if everything else did not work. If he could not do a bloody thing about the situation, there still was all of these people here to support him, a consolation slice of compassion in otherwise irreparable circumstances. Meanwhile his friend was probably being tortured for the amusement of a lunatic with an undiagnosed God complex. When he considered that, his energy would drain, leaving him empty and ready to curl up on the bed and not move until the day after. Every time this happened his friends knew not to disturb him any longer, and silently left him to his own hesitant mourning. Sherlock was utterly alone wherever he was; how would allowing other people to stay close ever be fair of him?
He tried to escape the hospital twice. Resolving to go out and look for him himself if needed. Yet he clearly seemed to lack the ability his friend had to disappear. The first time he was found right before he climbed out of the window, and the second trying to sneak out of the lobby. Whatever the reason, the universe wanted him to stay exactly where he was. Which was highly annoying for him since it was the last thing he desired to do. He wished to able to actively search for him, to be allowed to put his best efforts and passion towards regaining the ridiculous detective. But more than anything, he wished somebody would find him soon; even if it was not him who did. Because he knew that if the stabbing miraculously hadn't killed him, losing Sherlock again sure will.