A/N: No case, because if I have done this right, you'd be skipping those paragraphs anyway. And it's a bit dramatic, this piece; sometimes life gives us too much drama to contain and it just spills out. -csf
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John Watson is the selfless saviour who will throw himself on four seasoned armed criminals with just his fists balled up for action. The former soldier is the man who incapacitates all the threats and secures the perimeter just before he breaks down the warehouse door, to get to where Sherlock Holmes is being held captured. He is the gentle doctor who brushes fingertips over Sherlock's temple wound assessing the damage and asking the detective actually pertinent situational awareness questions (tailored to his patient) such as 'What is Arsenic's Mass Number?' or 'How did you gain Mrs Hudson's favour after scorching the kitchen ceiling tiles?'
John is the man who presses his lips thinner as he spots the micro-flinch that Sherlock couldn't contain as those gentlest fingers prod the cranial bone around the wound. He is the one to show Sherlock the support, and the sass (because the genius got himself kidnapped again) he deserves.
Sherlock is the one who initiates a private smile between the two of them.
DI Lestrade is the officer who arrives late to the scene and has the difficult – and imaginative – task to take control, start the clean-up and type up reports that match the evidence found on the crime scene. The inspector is the one who spots the trail of blood drops leading to the duo. He calls out on who's been shot.
Mercurial eyes open wide. Cobalt blue eyes flicker out.
John is barely caught before he hits the ground. A gunshot wound to John's leg is suddenly disclosed, from the earlier confrontation with the armed criminals. Sherlock grabs his discarded scarf and presses it firmly over the wound. Lestrade calls out for the damned paramedics to hurry up to the scene already.
Job done, Sherlock freed with some injuries but no lasting damage, John Watson becomes non-responsive, heavy body becoming clammy and colder as he loses the vital blood to the dirty warehouse floor through a sodden scarf and splayed open pale fingers. Sherlock is kneeling, cradling John's upper body to his stomach, trying to seep some of his warmth into the doctor's body in a protective hug. Lestrade is still barking orders about ambulances as if he could jumpstart the timeline for these two friends.
'No, John, you don't get to do this!' There is real anger behind Sherlock's desperate words, and something in them – the semblance of a command or the raw edge of desperation barely contained – gets the army doctor's attention. John blinks back to the scene like a badly tuned radio.
'Can you…'
'Yes, John?'
'…not shout?'
'I will endeavour not to shout if you promise not to blackout again.'
A simple bargain, and the army doctor's cobalt blue eyes – a rare and exquisite pigment of cobalt and aluminium oxides known as cobalt(II) aluminate, CoAl2O4 – strain to focus around him for a moment or two. 'Uh-oh,' he murmurs ominously, just between the two of them. It's only fair that the detective knows the situation is a bit not good.
'Tell me,' Sherlock hisses coldly, rationally; as rationality is flying out of the window fast. 'How do I fix it?' The shiver running down John's spine is felt by the man holding him. The gasping breaths are very laboured now. 'John! Talk!'
'Tourniquet,' John gasps, as his eyelids droop further and there is barely any muscle tone left.
Sherlock's fingers clench on the fabric he's holding onto for dear life. John's life is very dear to him, after all.
Oh, the clever doctor, the saviour, is willing to save Sherlock once more. There is no great detective without his blogger.
Sherlock blinks, memories flashing behind his eyes of the emergency medical training that John demanded Sherlock stored for some unlikely future event. Clever John, brilliant John. The detective's praises fall automatically from his lips as his hands procure his own leather belt and he's tying it forcefully tight over John's femoral artery to stench the blood flow. John is letting out a series of dignified grunts, his blue eyes stuck on Sherlock's drawn features as if in a demand that be the last image imprinted in his retinas before he closes his eyes again.
John's body convulses as Sherlock finally gets that improvised tourniquet tight enough; doubtfully any other man than the detective could have kept his wits about him as he hurt his dying friend to keep him alive. Somewhere behind those wet mercurial eyes – Mercury's melting point is -38.9 degrees Celsius, and it is the only metal to remain in liquid form at room temperature – a wing or two of that Mind Palace must be crumbling into ruins, all filled with fire, smoke and useless debris.
John's eyes shut completely. Sherlock shakes his shoulder; no reaction.
'Come on, John! I did my part… John. John? John!'
The doctor flinches. 'You did well, mate,' he slurs. A praise from John always goes far with Sherlock, who traditionally preens smugly. 'Can I get some sleep now?' he then mumbles.
'Never again!' the detective shouts at him. They cross gazes, and two tentative teary smiles.
'Fair enough,' the doctor comments, searching for something behind those cold grey eyes turned into a cauldron of fire and angst.
'Just drop it, John. You know what I need.' For us to live.
John's expression turns very solemn. He nods once, briefly. Just before his body shuts down and he gets fully unresponsive.
This time Sherlock doesn't make a sound. He grabs on tighter. And he waits. The message has been delivered. In Roman mythology, Mercury was the messenger of the gods and a mediator between the living and the dead.
A few minutes later and the ambulance finally arrives. The paramedics rush over and quickly give up trying to separate the two men. One of them whistles appreciatively as he checks on the improvised tourniquet. 'Great job here, it is saving this man's life. Who has performed this?'
Sherlock keeps uncharacteristically quiet. He can't take the credits. In his mind, it's all John's doing. John, with his fuzzy jumpers and warm hands, leaning over Sherlock and explaining each step fastidiously, the red Persian rug as 221B's stage.
Until John Watson wakes up, Sherlock's Mind Palace is breeched and conquered by the enemy. Large cracks crisscross the walls, and chemical glassware is shattered over newspaper cuttings and published papers references. Only one portion stands tall, right at the heart of it – and it pertains John Watson. Where the fire burns in the hearth and warm light flickers, by which a red armchair stands. In his mind, Sherlock starts pacing towards it.
'Second victim is crashing, somebody check his vitals!'
'Come on, Sunshine, now is not the time for this shit!'
Sherlock turns around, but a big dungeon-like metal door clanks shut behind him.
Locked in his Mind Palace. Must have lost consciousness, he guesses.
'Sherlock, you need to get back out there.' It's John, or his Mind Palace version of him, standing up with his arms folded in front of him, his concerned face a counterpoint to his no-nonsense stance.
'So do you,' Sherlock hisses at the damned selfless hero breaking his heart right now.
John's eyebrows shoot up in his forehead, making him look innocent… and small. Never as their height difference been so apparent as when Sherlock walks towards his companion, absolutely towering over him, casting his shadow on the smaller man.
'Give me some time,' John asks softly between the two of them. 'I'll be out there, I promise.'
Sherlock moves back and nods. 'Don't keep me waiting. I'm bored already.'
To that inane remark John smiles, a huge sunshine smile, a smile that, while it is not Sherlock's per se, Sherlock seems to get more often than anybody else in the world. The detective holds onto that warmth and hope.
He opens his mercurial eyes.
It's evident that some time has elapsed in Sherlock's absence. There's a hospital room – assuredly private and expensive, judging by the equipment manufacturer's date – but with little legroom as a second cot has been placed in it, where a small doctor lies, very still and very pale, but with steady and strong vitals flashing silently on a screen. The muted vitals a courtesy likely extended to Sherlock's rest by his brother Mycroft, much as the close proximity of the instant and only pinpoint of interest to the detective.
Sherlock glances at the open door, from where voices are muttering away. He observes the shadows cast on the floor by two men. One with a coffee cup and a donut, the other with an umbrella and another donut. Sugar-based shock therapy for Mycroft from the DI, then.
The detective glances at John once more. He looks tranquil, yet his body is slightly angled towards Sherlock. A small hand over the mattress' edge, the feet slanted in his friend's direction. Conclusion: he has regained consciousness very briefly, attempted to check on Sherlock but failed in his weakened state.
Sherlock brushes back the scratchy cotton bedsheet (he must talk to Mycroft about the unacceptably low thread count) to reach for the machine monitoring John's vitals. He turns the speakers on, allowing that steady heartbeat beeping to sooth him, as he lays back on his pillow and returns to his Mind Palace.
He misses the two men glancing into the room, one confused and the other relieved as they make their observations inside of the two men sleeping angled towards each other.
Mind Palace John greets him with one of those smiles.
'Love what you've done with the place,' John hints, as with every heartbeat beep the Mind Palace rebuilds back to its former glory. Glass reforms, paper is filled back into cabinets, cracks are plastered over.
'Just wait till you wake up, John. There is a whole new wing for your medical knowledge.'
'A hospital wing?'
'Not at all. My dear clever John, this new wing is for you.'
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