Fic: Separation Anxiety (1/1)
Title: Separation Anxiety
Author: arwen_kenobi
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: John Watson/Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes, Anthea, Greg Lestrade
Word Count: ~4 700
Summary: After a a bomb goes off, Sherlock and John are sent to different hospitals.
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes is in the public domain but this incarnation belongs to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and the BBC. Anyone you don't recognize is mine.
Author's Note: This is AU after series 2. This is also a gift fic for gardnerhill for the July Writing Prompts at watsons_woes. My sincere and never ending apologies for being so late.
The man at the desk presses the headset deeper into the side of his head. "Shall I repeat the message?" he asks meekly. Mycroft Holmes shakes his head and removes his mobile from his pocket. He punches in a brief text message ordering the good doctor to pick up his thrice damned mobile. When this does not elicit an immediate response for him to piss off he turns to Anthea. She vanishes immediately, already on the line with Eustace to send a car around to Baker Street, the surgery, and the Yard's local. If John was not at Sherlock's side this night and was not answering his or the hospital's calls it means he is either indisposed or dead. "I am his brother," Mycroft informs the young man behind the desk. "I am available for any decisions that need be made until Dr. Watson appears. The paperwork should be clear on that." The nurse nods and directs him to the waiting area. He makes his way down the hall and reviews the facts of the matter as he walks.
A case, he's not sure the particulars but a case naturally. A matter of national security that Mycroft had given no real thought to. He'd been the one to suggest that MI5 engage his brother and John. It had been a small threat but one that certainly needed dealing with. Much like a weed in a garden, it threatened to overrun everything unless uprooted swiftly.
The assailants are dead - their attempts to kill their pursuers backfiring on to them. It had been a rather hastily prepared bomb but it had done its job well as much as it had failed. The criminals had not allowed enough time for them to escape and had died in the explosion. Sherlock had not been at a safe distance either. The explosion had thrown his brother out a window and onto the street, thankfully the confrontation had taken place at ground level, and bystanders calling 999 had brought him here and straight into the operating room. When they had failed to reach John, as he was named as Sherlock's medical proxy, they'd skipped down to the next name that Sherlock had given. Mycroft does not appreciate being roused at all hours of the night but he knew that Sherlock would be far more unimpressed if he awoke and John was not present. Not out of anger but out of fear and concern. Especially if John had been out with Sherlock and was now missing.
Anthea returns as Mycroft is setting himself down in the waiting room. Strangely enough it is empty. "Eustace woke up Mrs. Hudson," she begins. "John went out fifteen minutes after Sherlock did and she's not sure if that was planned or not." Mycroft is leaning toward planned. Since Sherlock had returned from beyond the grave a year and a half ago he refused to take on cases without John. He tells Anthea to get Eustace back and to get in touch with Lestrade or whomever had passed this off to them. They'd had to have had some idea as to what the general plan was. Sherlock still was secretive when it came to his plans and thought processes on cases but he had been making an effort to be more forthcoming. He knew he had erred with Moriarty.
He punches in John's number and lets it ring again. Hello, you've reached John Watson. I'm unable to take your call at the moment. Please leave a detailed message after the tone.
"Sherlock is in surgery and very well could die tonight. You'd best be dead if you're not here." Mycroft sucks in a breath and tries to calm himself down. Anthea, fortunately, has left the room and he manages to collect himself enough to send a text. I apologize with regards to the last message. Please come at once. St. Mary's - room 5038 once he's out of surgery in a few hours. MH
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John Watson wakes up with great difficulty. His sides are killing him but not as much as they should. He shifts his hand a little bit. IV. The good drugs. Fantastic. He keeps his eyes shut as he take account of himself. Broken ribs, he'd sorted that before he'd lost consciousness, some dust inhalation, a fine assortment of aches and pains and scratches and bruises but nothing overly concerning aside from the ribs. He'd been far enough away before the blast hit.
Before he opens his eyes he shifts his neck and wiggles his toes. No spinal damage, he thinks in relief. Not enough to be in a neck collar or have any great worry for it anyway. It's just his damn ribs, aching bastards that they are. He knows that he'll live. He'll have to still for a bit, probably drugged to the gills as well, but he'll be fine. Sherlock will be unimpressed to say the least.
Sherlock.
The bomb had gone off. Sherlock had been closest and had gone flying out the window. John had been a bit further away, in the middle of chasing the bloke with the detonator when he'd hit it in a panic. They'd hit a telephone pole, detonator man first, and that is probably why John had not been hurt far worse or died. Had Sherlock been on his own when he'd flown out the window? Had there been something to cushion his fall? He can't remember. He didn't see. He'd been on his own trip at the time.
As much as his heart is pounding, he's surprised no one is running in to respond to any change, he forces himself to be calm. To open his eyes slow enough to adjust to the light. He takes slow, even breaths and is thankful for the extra help from the nasal canella. He almost feels okay. Almost.
The room is empty, which is unsurprising except he'd have imagined that Mycroft would be on hand by now. Mycroft or Lestrade. Lestrade was his back up emergency contact in the event that Sherlock couldn't be contacted or was injured himself. Maybe they're all down with Sherlock? He must be in surgery at the very least right now. John eyeballs the clock on the wall and gathers that it's been about four or five hours since he was last awake. Surgery, he tells himself. Not anywhere else.
Someone would have been left up here to keep an eye and to let him know. They'd have taken shifts. They've done this before with Sherlock when John had had no choice but to keep working on the case while Sherlock had had to remain in hospital. They'd done it when Lestrade had been stabbed six months ago. They had their routines for this. What was happening?
"John?"
He perks up as he recognizes the voice. "Rowan?" Rowan Aswad is one of his co-workers at the A&E he'd been hired at after Sherlock had died. What was Rowan doing here? "Rowan?" he begins again, roughly. He knew that drawing breath was going to hurt but really...fuck and this is with drugs. "Am I at work?"
"If you mean are you at University College Hospital then yes. Are you okay?"
Rowan finally steps fully into his view. She's still in scrubs but she's got her bag with her. She was on her way out before she'd heard that he was up here. He tells her that he's alright enough and asks if she's seen Sherlock. She shakes her head. "I'm actually surprised to not see him here. I'll go check at the nurse's station, see if they've called him yet."
"He should be here too. As a patient." John works his bed controls gently so he's sitting up a bit more. "See if there's a man named Mycroft Holmes or a DI named Greg Lestrade wandering about." Rowan nods and tells him she'll grab his things as well. He hadn't even thought about his mobile. He hopes the thing had survived the explosion. He hopes Sherlock had survived the explosion. John had never given too much credence to people having a sixth sense when it came to their partners but John knows that Sherlock is still alive. If he'd gone, properly gone this time, he would know.
Rowan returns alone with his clothes, wallet, and mobile. His gun was probably lost in the blast or else has magically found its way back to Baker Street like it normally does. His mobile is packed with messages from Mycroft about Sherlock and he groans. Of course. They blew on different ends of the street and there was likely more than one 999 call. They'd been taken to separate hospitals. He tries to call Mycroft back but his mobile promptly dies when he manages to scroll down to Mycroft's name. He grumbles obscenities that makes Rowan ask after him again. "What's happened?"
"Phone's dead," is all John says.
"Want me to get them to call your second emergency contact? I can ask and see if they know what happened to Sherlock too."
"It's fine," John sighs, defeated sounding. "Not like I'm going anywhere tonight. Thanks for all this." Rowan nods, pats his hand, and heads off. She shuts the door behind her. John gives a nod of appreciation at the door and then reaches a hand up to shut off the EKG.
=====================================================================================
"Family of Sherlock Holmes?"
Mycroft stands and meets the surgeon and takes careful mental note of what's happened. The surgery was a success and the internal bleeding has stopped. The laundry list of broken bones and perforated organs is read and stored but Mycroft does his best not to dwell on it - it will all mean more to John once he finds him. The important thing is that Sherlock will live, he may have to stay in hospital for a week, but with a bit of physical therapy he'll be out and running again by month's end. Lucky, Mycroft is told, for the people he hit on the way across the street before landing on the road.
Lucky. That was one way to describe his brother's life. He's told that Sherlock is being moved from recovery into his room shortly and that they'll let him know when he's allowed to visit. Mycroft thanks them but has no intention of setting up camp in his brother's room. He'll look in on him certainly but he'll be on his way soon enough. He has a doctor to find and a bed to be reunited with.
"Sir," Anthea begins when he meets her in the cafe. "Watson's gun has been picked up at the site. It's with Bridges now for us to return once we've found him."
"Who was the head officer on the case?"
"Stanley Hopkins." The name is new to Mycroft. "He doesn't have any idea what their plans were. Just that they wanted to look at the warehouse again. It could also have been a provocation."
The frustration about the way Sherlock and John worked on cases was the fact that there was no tedious record kept during the cases. The blog entries only went up after. He asks Anthea to try Lestrade again. Their calls to his work extension and his mobile have been going to voicemail and whichever of Lestrade's daughters that answered the house phone had said that he'd got a call and had left. Mycroft wishes he was at the office himself; from there he could cut through to immediate access to Lestrade. Any conversation he'd be having would be dropped and he'd just pick up where he left off.
"Which daughter did you speak to?" he asks Anthea.
"The eldest. I told her who I was and spoke the required passwords. She doesn't know why her father left. Just that it was sudden and sounded like an emergency."
This was coming from the child of a police officer, Mycroft muses. Her father leaving in a hurry at all hours of the night is nothing new to her. For her to point this out as a cause for emergency is telling. He's had Lestrade's family checked - all three daughters are home safe, his brother and sister-in-law are also asleep, and the Lestrade patriarch is well enough in Somerset. He'd then assume that he's heard about Sherlock but he would certainly be here - he would know enough to avoid the blast area.
That left John. Who was still not answering his phone. Unsurprising since the phone goes direct to voicemail without ringing now. Battery has died. "Have we located John?" Just because the gun was at the site doesn't mean that John was. It is a weak argument and he knows it.
Anthea is on the phone again. She places a hand over her receiver. "The departure was staged. John was in on the plan and ought to have been at the blast site."
"Is he under it?"
"They're still looking."
Mycroft's fingers pause from tapping the handle of his umbrella.
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"Watson, John Hamish." Lestrade manages to get out of his throat as he stumbles to the front desk. The nurse blinks at him and asks if he's Greg Lestrade and if he's managed to get in contact with Sherlock Holmes. This about sends Lestrade reeling out the door. "What he isn't here too? They were in the same accident!"
The nurse blinks again and Lestrade really wants to throw something, maybe the nurse if she blinks like this one more time, and she quotes him a room number. She gives him the name of the doctor and starts to explain something but Lestrade holds out a hand. "He's alive, yes?"
"Yes."
"Is he being kept overnight?"
"I think just for observation, sir, but you - "
"Discharge him," he orders. " Or find me someone that can." He stops mid stride. He holds out a hand as the other massages his temple. "Or, wait, hold that, we might need to transfer him. Is there any way you can find out where Sherlock Holmes is?" He's overwhelmed the poor girl, Christ she looks about Louise's age and is probably just as green at this job, but he can't be soft now. He knows full well though that she can't tell him and probably can't find out. There were enough bloody ambulances down there as he hears it. He'd taken the tube himself right here as soon as they'd called him saying that John was in hospital. He knew that something had to be wrong with Sherlock too since they were calling him at all. Sherlock was his partner, of course he was first. Not that things had been any different before they'd sorted that nonsense out.
He's moving and the nurse shouts a room number at him. He waves his thanks and waits impatiently for the lift. His mobile rings again. This time it's a text - it's from Louise asking what's going on. He rings her to explain the situation. He doesn't want her to wake her sisters and he certainly doesn't want the three of them rushing John. He talks like Sherlock is out adventuring somewhere even though they both know that if John was here there was a very bad reason why Sherlock wasn't. He doesn't even mention the bombing that they certainly know about. "Mycroft Holmes is looking for you," she tells him when she manages to get a word in. Lestrade knows he's speaking fast but he hadn't imagined that fast.
"Mycroft?"
"Yeah, Mycroft. "
"You sure it wasn't Sherlock?"
A familiar irritated huff. "It was Anthea calling for him. Right passwords and everything. Mycroft called again just now. I know which one is which, Dad."
"I know, love. I'm sorry. Did he say what he was calling for?"
"What's going on, Dad?" Of course Louise couldn't be fooled like this anymore. Not when she wasn't letting herself be anymore. "What's happened to them?"
Lestrade nearly takes out someone coming into the lift as he's coming out. He hastily, and quite sloppily, apologizes to whomever as he rushes out. "I told you John's been hurt - "
"And no one knows where Sherlock is, that it?"
"I don't know anyway," Lestrade admits. "That's why the hospital's called me, because they can't reach Sherlock. Maybe...hello? Louise? Louise?" Dropped call. Lestrade shoves the mobile in his pocket and concentrates on actually finding John's room. Passing staff try and get his attention but he ignores them. He's been up here before. He finds John's door and knocks as he enters.
The bed is empty but unmade. There are wires and a nasal canella lying discarded on the bed. The bed is empty. The monitors are off. The bed is fucking empty.
He searches the room. He doesn't know really why he's bothering since there is nowhere in this room to hide. He checks the loo and breathes a sigh of relief when he doesn't find John passed out on the floor. There's no sign of a struggle and he finally sees the discarded hospital gown on the bed. John left under his own power then.
"How in the..." His mouth may be stalled but his mind is racing. How the hell had John moved? Was he alright? Did he have help? Where was he going?
The answer to that last question was obvious. He was going to Sherlock, obviously, but how on Earth would he know where Sherlock was? Christ, was he going back to the blast site? He curses John, Sherlock, the criminal population of London, and himself, and rushes out of the room to both alert the nurses' station and find decent mobile reception.
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Breathing is fucking painful. He's glad for the good drugs still coursing through him but he's going to be really, really uncomfortable soon. Hopefully he'll be sitting down somewhere soon. He grits his teeth and forces himself to stay upright and keep his legs moving. No one will look twice at him so long as he keeps moving. There have to been others hurt in the blast, more hurt in the traffic accidents that doubtless followed, more people to look at besides him.
It's easier than he would have thought. He blends in with incoming and outgoing patients, worried families, confused friends, and staff rushing about wherever they were needed most. Things continue to work in his favour as a cab pulls up to let some people off - more baffled family. John can't spare them a moment of sympathy for their grief or worry as he slips into the cab, not caring about anyone waiting, and near explodes with relief to be sitting down.
"Alright mate?"
John manages to grunt some sort of affirmative response. God, he's not going to be able to do anything for weeks. Sherlock is really not going to be impressed.
"St. Mary's, please." If he sounds off, or if the cabbie wonders why he's leaving one hospital for another, he doesn't say anything.
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Anthea looks up from her computer. "They're off," she reports. Mycroft nods and redials Lestrade. Again it's direct to voice mail. This is a terrible moment to be without mobile signal - hence Anthea's instructions to 'release the hounds' as his brother would say. Double the manpower for double the missing persons. He does not waste time asking Anthea on the status of her search of the local hospitals for John. They are overrun and not precisely organized at present. Unfortunate.
Sherlock had been settled into his room moments ago. He was still unconscious of course, and would remain so for some time from the sedation let alone his injuries. He was out of danger though, which was so far the only bit of good news or progress he has had tonight. The night is truly a mess if it is his brother his is proving the most promising part of the night.
"University College," Anthea finally pronounces. "Dr. Watson is registered as a patient there."
"Can he be moved?"
"A moment... it's broken ribs, sir."
"Painful but he can be transferred, yes?"
"Working on it."
Mycroft sniffs in irritation, and it is certainly not impatience, thank you very much. He passes his useless phone between his hands in an effort to distract himself. It does not work and he cannot, simply cannot, play the deduction game here. Not without the other player. It's not as fun when there's no one to beat.
"Sir?"
"Anthea."
"Watson is missing."
Mycroft almost drops the phone. "Again?"
"Watson is missing. The records have just changed - there's a search of the grounds going on now."
"There's no need," Mycroft both understands and says at once. "He'll be coming here."
Anthea has worked in his employ long enough not to question.
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John doesn't know how he is not stopped. He must look a fright and he would probably be outrun by a slow moving zombie at this speed. He blended in well at the last hospital but here there is far less chaos. It is still busy to be sure but not enough that he feels comfortable passing by unnoticed. Just as he makes it to the lift he spies Mycroft heading toward the front doors. They lock eyes and John hits the door close button at the same instant. He knows where he's going and he probably knows what ails him too.
He also knows enough to stay out of his way. John hopes he has the good grace to tell them who he is and get him hooked up to something soon. Not right away, mind. He'd like some time alone first.
The doors open and John continues his shuffle but finally is forced to stop at the door to Sherlock's room to regain both his bearings and his breath. His head is spinning and it is a struggle beyond anything he can recall at this moment to keep his breathing effective and not collapse from the pain. He hears footsteps and rolls himself into the room and kicks the door shut. He takes another moment to get himself under control before he shuffles anew to Sherlock's side.
Sherlock looks wrecked. There's no trace of pain on his face, John is overjoyed that Mycroft must have overrode the order about Sherlock and morphine, but his torso is wrapped in gauze and one arm is wrapped tightly against him. Broken collarbone. They are both going nowhere for a good long while. Despite that John has seen Sherlock looking worse it takes a good, hard, stare at the monitors and at his chart to stop his heart beating through his shattered ribs. With that knowledge he manages to get himself into the chair against the wall at the foot of Sherlock's bed. He wants to get closer but he doesn't have the energy. He also very badly wants to dip into Sherlock's morphine drip but isn't about to take it out of him or go off to find his own IV. He's sitting down and it's better now but he does not feel well at all.
Sod it. What's another few minutes? He forces himself back to his feet, gagging on the scream he refuses to voice, and slowly drags the chair from the wall to Sherlock's side. He painfully strips off his jacket and balls it up behind him as he sits back down again. It's better but he almost feels better when he takes Sherlock's hand in his and presses a brief kiss across his knuckles. "Sorry I'm late." No response of course. John hopes Sherlock stays under as long as he can. Sherlock's tolerance levels when it comes to drugs is rather obscene though so John knows that's a small chance. The best he can do is to hopefully be here when that happens, and not be crying in pain himself.
He wants to rest his head on the mattress by Sherlock's hip but he knows better. He keeps tight hold of Sherlock's hand and tries to not to grip it too whenever he jostles his ribs. Eventually the tension leaves him and the pain simply exhausts him. He falls asleep.
Somewhere in the black, somewhere between awake and dreaming and some indeterminate time later, John hears noises. It sounds like Lestrade and it sounds like metal being dragged across the floor. He feels a pinch in his free hand and sighs out a thank you before the blackness reclaims him.
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John feels something pulling at him a few times before he finally is able to respond to it. He reaches back to what he things are fingers at a bit of an awkward angle but it's only when he actually opens his that he realises where exactly he is.
Lestrade, and probably Mycroft or Anthea, must have done a bit of redecorating. He is sitting up in a hospital bed which has been pushed right up next to Sherlock's bed with the guard rails pushed down so they've basically created a double bed. The pulling has either been Sherlock managing to drag himself toward him or pull John closer. Considering what John remembers reading on Sherlock's chart neither should be possible but, really, he shouldn't complain or think too much on it.
"Awake?" comes a rough voice beside him before he can say anything.
John nods and flexes his fingers around Sherlock's. He keeps it gentle as Sherlock struggles to keep hold. John is partly sitting up, on some lovely drugs running through the IV in his free hand, and Sherlock is pressed up next to him. John's non-IV arm is around Sherlock and Sherlock has pressed himself as close to John as he can without merging with him. The strange hold is explained by the fact that the hand that is holding John is the one that's slung and wrapped.
It's very comfortable all things considering.
Sherlock shifts his grip on John's hand and fingers the University College wristband. "At least you didn't have to travel far."
John snorts. "Did they tell you or did you deduce?"
"No one's been in here but the nurse since Lestrade moved us. Do keep up, John."
John rolls his eyes and squeezes Sherlock's hand carefully. "Sorry, had other things on my mind."
The squeeze is returned. "As usual," Sherlock says almost fondly. "Thank you."
John shrugs it off. Or at least tries. "It wasn't even a decision." More like a biological imperative. Once he knew where Sherlock was he was going to get there. No nerves, no nothing. "You'd do the same for me."
Sherlock doesn't even say 'obviously.' They lay there in comfortable silence for a bit, sun streaming in through the window without blinding them. John shuts his eyes and ignores the pinch of the IV and the faint ache in his chest. He can almost imagine this is them waking up post case after a well deserved lie in. He smirks slightly. They are going to be spending a lot of time in bed for the next while. Sherlock is going to be bored out of mind.
"It's all fine." Sherlock is reading his mind, of course. "After that I think I could do with a vacation."
John snorts. "Some vacation. "
"We'll survive," Sherlock assures him. "We always do. This will be no different." He is sure, confident, and does not seem to even fear the minimum two weeks of rehabilitation he'll have to complete. John at least just needs to watch his breathing and manage his pain.
"I'll come down with you," John tells him. "I won't be of much help, I know, but I'll come down with you."
Sherlock doesn't argue or question. "I would expect nothing less." He yawns as he rests his forehead on John's shoulder and nods off again. John leans over to plant a kiss on the top of his head before he joins him again.
Author: arwen_kenobi
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: John Watson/Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes, Anthea, Greg Lestrade
Word Count: ~4 700
Summary: After a a bomb goes off, Sherlock and John are sent to different hospitals.
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes is in the public domain but this incarnation belongs to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and the BBC. Anyone you don't recognize is mine.
Author's Note: This is AU after series 2. This is also a gift fic for gardnerhill for the July Writing Prompts at watsons_woes. My sincere and never ending apologies for being so late.
The man at the desk presses the headset deeper into the side of his head. "Shall I repeat the message?" he asks meekly. Mycroft Holmes shakes his head and removes his mobile from his pocket. He punches in a brief text message ordering the good doctor to pick up his thrice damned mobile. When this does not elicit an immediate response for him to piss off he turns to Anthea. She vanishes immediately, already on the line with Eustace to send a car around to Baker Street, the surgery, and the Yard's local. If John was not at Sherlock's side this night and was not answering his or the hospital's calls it means he is either indisposed or dead. "I am his brother," Mycroft informs the young man behind the desk. "I am available for any decisions that need be made until Dr. Watson appears. The paperwork should be clear on that." The nurse nods and directs him to the waiting area. He makes his way down the hall and reviews the facts of the matter as he walks.
A case, he's not sure the particulars but a case naturally. A matter of national security that Mycroft had given no real thought to. He'd been the one to suggest that MI5 engage his brother and John. It had been a small threat but one that certainly needed dealing with. Much like a weed in a garden, it threatened to overrun everything unless uprooted swiftly.
The assailants are dead - their attempts to kill their pursuers backfiring on to them. It had been a rather hastily prepared bomb but it had done its job well as much as it had failed. The criminals had not allowed enough time for them to escape and had died in the explosion. Sherlock had not been at a safe distance either. The explosion had thrown his brother out a window and onto the street, thankfully the confrontation had taken place at ground level, and bystanders calling 999 had brought him here and straight into the operating room. When they had failed to reach John, as he was named as Sherlock's medical proxy, they'd skipped down to the next name that Sherlock had given. Mycroft does not appreciate being roused at all hours of the night but he knew that Sherlock would be far more unimpressed if he awoke and John was not present. Not out of anger but out of fear and concern. Especially if John had been out with Sherlock and was now missing.
Anthea returns as Mycroft is setting himself down in the waiting room. Strangely enough it is empty. "Eustace woke up Mrs. Hudson," she begins. "John went out fifteen minutes after Sherlock did and she's not sure if that was planned or not." Mycroft is leaning toward planned. Since Sherlock had returned from beyond the grave a year and a half ago he refused to take on cases without John. He tells Anthea to get Eustace back and to get in touch with Lestrade or whomever had passed this off to them. They'd had to have had some idea as to what the general plan was. Sherlock still was secretive when it came to his plans and thought processes on cases but he had been making an effort to be more forthcoming. He knew he had erred with Moriarty.
He punches in John's number and lets it ring again. Hello, you've reached John Watson. I'm unable to take your call at the moment. Please leave a detailed message after the tone.
"Sherlock is in surgery and very well could die tonight. You'd best be dead if you're not here." Mycroft sucks in a breath and tries to calm himself down. Anthea, fortunately, has left the room and he manages to collect himself enough to send a text. I apologize with regards to the last message. Please come at once. St. Mary's - room 5038 once he's out of surgery in a few hours. MH
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John Watson wakes up with great difficulty. His sides are killing him but not as much as they should. He shifts his hand a little bit. IV. The good drugs. Fantastic. He keeps his eyes shut as he take account of himself. Broken ribs, he'd sorted that before he'd lost consciousness, some dust inhalation, a fine assortment of aches and pains and scratches and bruises but nothing overly concerning aside from the ribs. He'd been far enough away before the blast hit.
Before he opens his eyes he shifts his neck and wiggles his toes. No spinal damage, he thinks in relief. Not enough to be in a neck collar or have any great worry for it anyway. It's just his damn ribs, aching bastards that they are. He knows that he'll live. He'll have to still for a bit, probably drugged to the gills as well, but he'll be fine. Sherlock will be unimpressed to say the least.
Sherlock.
The bomb had gone off. Sherlock had been closest and had gone flying out the window. John had been a bit further away, in the middle of chasing the bloke with the detonator when he'd hit it in a panic. They'd hit a telephone pole, detonator man first, and that is probably why John had not been hurt far worse or died. Had Sherlock been on his own when he'd flown out the window? Had there been something to cushion his fall? He can't remember. He didn't see. He'd been on his own trip at the time.
As much as his heart is pounding, he's surprised no one is running in to respond to any change, he forces himself to be calm. To open his eyes slow enough to adjust to the light. He takes slow, even breaths and is thankful for the extra help from the nasal canella. He almost feels okay. Almost.
The room is empty, which is unsurprising except he'd have imagined that Mycroft would be on hand by now. Mycroft or Lestrade. Lestrade was his back up emergency contact in the event that Sherlock couldn't be contacted or was injured himself. Maybe they're all down with Sherlock? He must be in surgery at the very least right now. John eyeballs the clock on the wall and gathers that it's been about four or five hours since he was last awake. Surgery, he tells himself. Not anywhere else.
Someone would have been left up here to keep an eye and to let him know. They'd have taken shifts. They've done this before with Sherlock when John had had no choice but to keep working on the case while Sherlock had had to remain in hospital. They'd done it when Lestrade had been stabbed six months ago. They had their routines for this. What was happening?
"John?"
He perks up as he recognizes the voice. "Rowan?" Rowan Aswad is one of his co-workers at the A&E he'd been hired at after Sherlock had died. What was Rowan doing here? "Rowan?" he begins again, roughly. He knew that drawing breath was going to hurt but really...fuck and this is with drugs. "Am I at work?"
"If you mean are you at University College Hospital then yes. Are you okay?"
Rowan finally steps fully into his view. She's still in scrubs but she's got her bag with her. She was on her way out before she'd heard that he was up here. He tells her that he's alright enough and asks if she's seen Sherlock. She shakes her head. "I'm actually surprised to not see him here. I'll go check at the nurse's station, see if they've called him yet."
"He should be here too. As a patient." John works his bed controls gently so he's sitting up a bit more. "See if there's a man named Mycroft Holmes or a DI named Greg Lestrade wandering about." Rowan nods and tells him she'll grab his things as well. He hadn't even thought about his mobile. He hopes the thing had survived the explosion. He hopes Sherlock had survived the explosion. John had never given too much credence to people having a sixth sense when it came to their partners but John knows that Sherlock is still alive. If he'd gone, properly gone this time, he would know.
Rowan returns alone with his clothes, wallet, and mobile. His gun was probably lost in the blast or else has magically found its way back to Baker Street like it normally does. His mobile is packed with messages from Mycroft about Sherlock and he groans. Of course. They blew on different ends of the street and there was likely more than one 999 call. They'd been taken to separate hospitals. He tries to call Mycroft back but his mobile promptly dies when he manages to scroll down to Mycroft's name. He grumbles obscenities that makes Rowan ask after him again. "What's happened?"
"Phone's dead," is all John says.
"Want me to get them to call your second emergency contact? I can ask and see if they know what happened to Sherlock too."
"It's fine," John sighs, defeated sounding. "Not like I'm going anywhere tonight. Thanks for all this." Rowan nods, pats his hand, and heads off. She shuts the door behind her. John gives a nod of appreciation at the door and then reaches a hand up to shut off the EKG.
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"Family of Sherlock Holmes?"
Mycroft stands and meets the surgeon and takes careful mental note of what's happened. The surgery was a success and the internal bleeding has stopped. The laundry list of broken bones and perforated organs is read and stored but Mycroft does his best not to dwell on it - it will all mean more to John once he finds him. The important thing is that Sherlock will live, he may have to stay in hospital for a week, but with a bit of physical therapy he'll be out and running again by month's end. Lucky, Mycroft is told, for the people he hit on the way across the street before landing on the road.
Lucky. That was one way to describe his brother's life. He's told that Sherlock is being moved from recovery into his room shortly and that they'll let him know when he's allowed to visit. Mycroft thanks them but has no intention of setting up camp in his brother's room. He'll look in on him certainly but he'll be on his way soon enough. He has a doctor to find and a bed to be reunited with.
"Sir," Anthea begins when he meets her in the cafe. "Watson's gun has been picked up at the site. It's with Bridges now for us to return once we've found him."
"Who was the head officer on the case?"
"Stanley Hopkins." The name is new to Mycroft. "He doesn't have any idea what their plans were. Just that they wanted to look at the warehouse again. It could also have been a provocation."
The frustration about the way Sherlock and John worked on cases was the fact that there was no tedious record kept during the cases. The blog entries only went up after. He asks Anthea to try Lestrade again. Their calls to his work extension and his mobile have been going to voicemail and whichever of Lestrade's daughters that answered the house phone had said that he'd got a call and had left. Mycroft wishes he was at the office himself; from there he could cut through to immediate access to Lestrade. Any conversation he'd be having would be dropped and he'd just pick up where he left off.
"Which daughter did you speak to?" he asks Anthea.
"The eldest. I told her who I was and spoke the required passwords. She doesn't know why her father left. Just that it was sudden and sounded like an emergency."
This was coming from the child of a police officer, Mycroft muses. Her father leaving in a hurry at all hours of the night is nothing new to her. For her to point this out as a cause for emergency is telling. He's had Lestrade's family checked - all three daughters are home safe, his brother and sister-in-law are also asleep, and the Lestrade patriarch is well enough in Somerset. He'd then assume that he's heard about Sherlock but he would certainly be here - he would know enough to avoid the blast area.
That left John. Who was still not answering his phone. Unsurprising since the phone goes direct to voicemail without ringing now. Battery has died. "Have we located John?" Just because the gun was at the site doesn't mean that John was. It is a weak argument and he knows it.
Anthea is on the phone again. She places a hand over her receiver. "The departure was staged. John was in on the plan and ought to have been at the blast site."
"Is he under it?"
"They're still looking."
Mycroft's fingers pause from tapping the handle of his umbrella.
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"Watson, John Hamish." Lestrade manages to get out of his throat as he stumbles to the front desk. The nurse blinks at him and asks if he's Greg Lestrade and if he's managed to get in contact with Sherlock Holmes. This about sends Lestrade reeling out the door. "What he isn't here too? They were in the same accident!"
The nurse blinks again and Lestrade really wants to throw something, maybe the nurse if she blinks like this one more time, and she quotes him a room number. She gives him the name of the doctor and starts to explain something but Lestrade holds out a hand. "He's alive, yes?"
"Yes."
"Is he being kept overnight?"
"I think just for observation, sir, but you - "
"Discharge him," he orders. " Or find me someone that can." He stops mid stride. He holds out a hand as the other massages his temple. "Or, wait, hold that, we might need to transfer him. Is there any way you can find out where Sherlock Holmes is?" He's overwhelmed the poor girl, Christ she looks about Louise's age and is probably just as green at this job, but he can't be soft now. He knows full well though that she can't tell him and probably can't find out. There were enough bloody ambulances down there as he hears it. He'd taken the tube himself right here as soon as they'd called him saying that John was in hospital. He knew that something had to be wrong with Sherlock too since they were calling him at all. Sherlock was his partner, of course he was first. Not that things had been any different before they'd sorted that nonsense out.
He's moving and the nurse shouts a room number at him. He waves his thanks and waits impatiently for the lift. His mobile rings again. This time it's a text - it's from Louise asking what's going on. He rings her to explain the situation. He doesn't want her to wake her sisters and he certainly doesn't want the three of them rushing John. He talks like Sherlock is out adventuring somewhere even though they both know that if John was here there was a very bad reason why Sherlock wasn't. He doesn't even mention the bombing that they certainly know about. "Mycroft Holmes is looking for you," she tells him when she manages to get a word in. Lestrade knows he's speaking fast but he hadn't imagined that fast.
"Mycroft?"
"Yeah, Mycroft. "
"You sure it wasn't Sherlock?"
A familiar irritated huff. "It was Anthea calling for him. Right passwords and everything. Mycroft called again just now. I know which one is which, Dad."
"I know, love. I'm sorry. Did he say what he was calling for?"
"What's going on, Dad?" Of course Louise couldn't be fooled like this anymore. Not when she wasn't letting herself be anymore. "What's happened to them?"
Lestrade nearly takes out someone coming into the lift as he's coming out. He hastily, and quite sloppily, apologizes to whomever as he rushes out. "I told you John's been hurt - "
"And no one knows where Sherlock is, that it?"
"I don't know anyway," Lestrade admits. "That's why the hospital's called me, because they can't reach Sherlock. Maybe...hello? Louise? Louise?" Dropped call. Lestrade shoves the mobile in his pocket and concentrates on actually finding John's room. Passing staff try and get his attention but he ignores them. He's been up here before. He finds John's door and knocks as he enters.
The bed is empty but unmade. There are wires and a nasal canella lying discarded on the bed. The bed is empty. The monitors are off. The bed is fucking empty.
He searches the room. He doesn't know really why he's bothering since there is nowhere in this room to hide. He checks the loo and breathes a sigh of relief when he doesn't find John passed out on the floor. There's no sign of a struggle and he finally sees the discarded hospital gown on the bed. John left under his own power then.
"How in the..." His mouth may be stalled but his mind is racing. How the hell had John moved? Was he alright? Did he have help? Where was he going?
The answer to that last question was obvious. He was going to Sherlock, obviously, but how on Earth would he know where Sherlock was? Christ, was he going back to the blast site? He curses John, Sherlock, the criminal population of London, and himself, and rushes out of the room to both alert the nurses' station and find decent mobile reception.
=====================================================================================
Breathing is fucking painful. He's glad for the good drugs still coursing through him but he's going to be really, really uncomfortable soon. Hopefully he'll be sitting down somewhere soon. He grits his teeth and forces himself to stay upright and keep his legs moving. No one will look twice at him so long as he keeps moving. There have to been others hurt in the blast, more hurt in the traffic accidents that doubtless followed, more people to look at besides him.
It's easier than he would have thought. He blends in with incoming and outgoing patients, worried families, confused friends, and staff rushing about wherever they were needed most. Things continue to work in his favour as a cab pulls up to let some people off - more baffled family. John can't spare them a moment of sympathy for their grief or worry as he slips into the cab, not caring about anyone waiting, and near explodes with relief to be sitting down.
"Alright mate?"
John manages to grunt some sort of affirmative response. God, he's not going to be able to do anything for weeks. Sherlock is really not going to be impressed.
"St. Mary's, please." If he sounds off, or if the cabbie wonders why he's leaving one hospital for another, he doesn't say anything.
=====================================================================================
Anthea looks up from her computer. "They're off," she reports. Mycroft nods and redials Lestrade. Again it's direct to voice mail. This is a terrible moment to be without mobile signal - hence Anthea's instructions to 'release the hounds' as his brother would say. Double the manpower for double the missing persons. He does not waste time asking Anthea on the status of her search of the local hospitals for John. They are overrun and not precisely organized at present. Unfortunate.
Sherlock had been settled into his room moments ago. He was still unconscious of course, and would remain so for some time from the sedation let alone his injuries. He was out of danger though, which was so far the only bit of good news or progress he has had tonight. The night is truly a mess if it is his brother his is proving the most promising part of the night.
"University College," Anthea finally pronounces. "Dr. Watson is registered as a patient there."
"Can he be moved?"
"A moment... it's broken ribs, sir."
"Painful but he can be transferred, yes?"
"Working on it."
Mycroft sniffs in irritation, and it is certainly not impatience, thank you very much. He passes his useless phone between his hands in an effort to distract himself. It does not work and he cannot, simply cannot, play the deduction game here. Not without the other player. It's not as fun when there's no one to beat.
"Sir?"
"Anthea."
"Watson is missing."
Mycroft almost drops the phone. "Again?"
"Watson is missing. The records have just changed - there's a search of the grounds going on now."
"There's no need," Mycroft both understands and says at once. "He'll be coming here."
Anthea has worked in his employ long enough not to question.
=====================================================================================
John doesn't know how he is not stopped. He must look a fright and he would probably be outrun by a slow moving zombie at this speed. He blended in well at the last hospital but here there is far less chaos. It is still busy to be sure but not enough that he feels comfortable passing by unnoticed. Just as he makes it to the lift he spies Mycroft heading toward the front doors. They lock eyes and John hits the door close button at the same instant. He knows where he's going and he probably knows what ails him too.
He also knows enough to stay out of his way. John hopes he has the good grace to tell them who he is and get him hooked up to something soon. Not right away, mind. He'd like some time alone first.
The doors open and John continues his shuffle but finally is forced to stop at the door to Sherlock's room to regain both his bearings and his breath. His head is spinning and it is a struggle beyond anything he can recall at this moment to keep his breathing effective and not collapse from the pain. He hears footsteps and rolls himself into the room and kicks the door shut. He takes another moment to get himself under control before he shuffles anew to Sherlock's side.
Sherlock looks wrecked. There's no trace of pain on his face, John is overjoyed that Mycroft must have overrode the order about Sherlock and morphine, but his torso is wrapped in gauze and one arm is wrapped tightly against him. Broken collarbone. They are both going nowhere for a good long while. Despite that John has seen Sherlock looking worse it takes a good, hard, stare at the monitors and at his chart to stop his heart beating through his shattered ribs. With that knowledge he manages to get himself into the chair against the wall at the foot of Sherlock's bed. He wants to get closer but he doesn't have the energy. He also very badly wants to dip into Sherlock's morphine drip but isn't about to take it out of him or go off to find his own IV. He's sitting down and it's better now but he does not feel well at all.
Sod it. What's another few minutes? He forces himself back to his feet, gagging on the scream he refuses to voice, and slowly drags the chair from the wall to Sherlock's side. He painfully strips off his jacket and balls it up behind him as he sits back down again. It's better but he almost feels better when he takes Sherlock's hand in his and presses a brief kiss across his knuckles. "Sorry I'm late." No response of course. John hopes Sherlock stays under as long as he can. Sherlock's tolerance levels when it comes to drugs is rather obscene though so John knows that's a small chance. The best he can do is to hopefully be here when that happens, and not be crying in pain himself.
He wants to rest his head on the mattress by Sherlock's hip but he knows better. He keeps tight hold of Sherlock's hand and tries to not to grip it too whenever he jostles his ribs. Eventually the tension leaves him and the pain simply exhausts him. He falls asleep.
Somewhere in the black, somewhere between awake and dreaming and some indeterminate time later, John hears noises. It sounds like Lestrade and it sounds like metal being dragged across the floor. He feels a pinch in his free hand and sighs out a thank you before the blackness reclaims him.
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John feels something pulling at him a few times before he finally is able to respond to it. He reaches back to what he things are fingers at a bit of an awkward angle but it's only when he actually opens his that he realises where exactly he is.
Lestrade, and probably Mycroft or Anthea, must have done a bit of redecorating. He is sitting up in a hospital bed which has been pushed right up next to Sherlock's bed with the guard rails pushed down so they've basically created a double bed. The pulling has either been Sherlock managing to drag himself toward him or pull John closer. Considering what John remembers reading on Sherlock's chart neither should be possible but, really, he shouldn't complain or think too much on it.
"Awake?" comes a rough voice beside him before he can say anything.
John nods and flexes his fingers around Sherlock's. He keeps it gentle as Sherlock struggles to keep hold. John is partly sitting up, on some lovely drugs running through the IV in his free hand, and Sherlock is pressed up next to him. John's non-IV arm is around Sherlock and Sherlock has pressed himself as close to John as he can without merging with him. The strange hold is explained by the fact that the hand that is holding John is the one that's slung and wrapped.
It's very comfortable all things considering.
Sherlock shifts his grip on John's hand and fingers the University College wristband. "At least you didn't have to travel far."
John snorts. "Did they tell you or did you deduce?"
"No one's been in here but the nurse since Lestrade moved us. Do keep up, John."
John rolls his eyes and squeezes Sherlock's hand carefully. "Sorry, had other things on my mind."
The squeeze is returned. "As usual," Sherlock says almost fondly. "Thank you."
John shrugs it off. Or at least tries. "It wasn't even a decision." More like a biological imperative. Once he knew where Sherlock was he was going to get there. No nerves, no nothing. "You'd do the same for me."
Sherlock doesn't even say 'obviously.' They lay there in comfortable silence for a bit, sun streaming in through the window without blinding them. John shuts his eyes and ignores the pinch of the IV and the faint ache in his chest. He can almost imagine this is them waking up post case after a well deserved lie in. He smirks slightly. They are going to be spending a lot of time in bed for the next while. Sherlock is going to be bored out of mind.
"It's all fine." Sherlock is reading his mind, of course. "After that I think I could do with a vacation."
John snorts. "Some vacation. "
"We'll survive," Sherlock assures him. "We always do. This will be no different." He is sure, confident, and does not seem to even fear the minimum two weeks of rehabilitation he'll have to complete. John at least just needs to watch his breathing and manage his pain.
"I'll come down with you," John tells him. "I won't be of much help, I know, but I'll come down with you."
Sherlock doesn't argue or question. "I would expect nothing less." He yawns as he rests his forehead on John's shoulder and nods off again. John leans over to plant a kiss on the top of his head before he joins him again.