Fanfiction: Sherlock, BBC
Title: Fire Storm
Summary: "Do you regret it?" - A simple fall can change everything, but some things are always the same - and some are not quite what they seem. After all, no one said this would be easy. Sequel to my one shot 'Black
Ice'.
Chapter Word Count: Approx 4,400
Notes: I own nothing but Eduardo and a certain doctor some of you might recognise from my post-TGG series. I claim creative licence for Harry; she never actually came into the show, so this includes just my take on her. I hope it's okay. (Warning: language). Sorry for the lateness of this chapter - I started University on Sunday so this is the first free moment I've had since!
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Eduardo has long fallen silent but he hasn’t moved from his position beside John, which is both comforting and disconcerting. John is not thinking now, not of anything. He listens to the sound of his own breath and stares at the ground with his hands clasped in front of him - he doesn’t know where the coffee has got to - his mind is blank and empty, as though he has exhausted himself beyond the capacity for coherent thought.
He doesn’t really see the floor even though he is barely blinking. He doesn’t really smell the antiseptic of the hospital even though he is breathing deliberately slowly and deeply. He doesn’t really hear the sounds of bleeping and ringing and talking around him even though they are the only things tethering him to consciousness. He just doesn’t feel.
Were he capable, he would probably diagnose himself as being in shock, but the fact is that he has purposefully cut his senses off from his surroundings. It’s less painful that way, to be apart from them, separate himself from the world and the news he is dreading.
Then all of a sudden - a sound he barely registers, perhaps a sight, a smell - something reminds him of what has happened and why he is here. He feels sick, bile rising in his throat and he just wants to run. He wants to shout, he wants to wake up and find himself - find himself still on the sofa with Sherlock, to never have to move from that spot. Or in the kitchen, looking at the text from Sarah and ignoring it, somehow convincing Sherlock to ignore Lestrade. Or at Angelo’s, staying just a few minutes longer. Catching another taxi, anything, anything different, anything not this, anything that could mean that Sherlock is not...perhaps if he had got into the other side. If he had sat where Sherlock had chosen and Sherlock had taken his place, then Sherlock would be fine...
He feels a hand on his arm and looks up into Eduardo’s concerned face, startled. He doesn’t think he gave any outward sign of distress.
‘Your hands,’ Eduardo explains kindly; when John looks, he sees that he is gripping them together so tightly they are turning white, and relaxes them. ‘You should not worry, I am sure your friend be okay.’
John closes his eyes against the wetness he feels rising in them and nods. Eduardo takes his hand away, but does not stop watching John,
‘You care about him very much,’ he says. John can’t bring himself to reply, knowing that if he speaks he will lose the battle he is having with the lump in his throat.
It might be minutes or hours later that another, unfamiliar voice calls, ‘Mr Watson?’ and John looks up to see a plump, grey haired woman approaching. He stands automatically and feels inexplicably grateful when Eduardo does the same, though the taxi driver makes sure he is placed slightly behind John.
‘My name is Doctor Fircroft,’ the doctor begins gently,
‘Sherlock -?’ is all John can manage to say.
‘Mr Holmes is out of surgery,’ John instantly sags with relief, then tenses as he recognises the tone of the doctor’s voice, ‘and is stable for the moment, but we really can’t tell much more until he wakes up.’
‘And when will that be?’ Don’t answer, don’t answer, don’t answer...
‘Mr Holmes lost a lot of blood -’
‘When?’ John already knows what the reply will be. Part of him needs to hear it out loud. Part of him dreads it.
‘- and given that his heart stopped more than once just in the ambulance on the way here...’
‘You don’t know,’ John finishes. The doctor shakes her head. John clenches and unclenches his fist, breathing hard through his nose.
‘We have high hopes,’ - no, you don’t; I’m a doctor, you can’t fool me - ‘you may well have saved his life, Mr Watson.’
‘I didn’t do anything,’ John says listlessly, ‘I just...’
‘You slowed the bleeding to some extent before the paramedics were able to reach him, and you kept him fighting. That matters, Mr Watson.’
No, it doesn’t, because it wasn’t good enough, was it?
‘Can I see him?’ he asks. She hesitates before she replies, considering. John knows it should only be family - he thinks with an awful, part guilty, part angry pang of Mycroft - but he is not going to be kept away.
‘Yes,’ she says eventually, and then adds sternly, ‘but only one person.’ She eyes Eduardo, who bows his head respectfully to John,
‘You tell me how he is after. I hope he is well soon.’ John gives another silent nod before he follows the doctor away, terrified of what he will see.
0000
‘JOHN!’
The shout will do no good but it’s automatic, torn from Sherlock’s lips before he has time to think about it. He’s seen the car and he knows for a moment what is going to happen but is helpless to stop it. It’s the longest moment of his life, and yet he doesn’t have time to do anything more than call John’s name as he hears, louder even than his desperate shout, drowning out everything else, a deafening crunch and a squeal. He is spinning, moving so fast, and all the breath has been knocked out him, wrenched around, pulled and twisted with the out-of-control movement of the car -
He doesn’t know what happens after that until he feels someone’s hands on his face. He feels them lifting it towards them, but he can’t open his eyes. He feels too heavy to move. He hears John’s voice - he sounds afraid - and forces himself to look. He doesn’t like how weak his own voice sounds, not like himself, not strong and authoritative and certain. He can tell by John’s face there are worse injuries than the doctor is letting on, and can’t seem to keep himself awake despite John’s protests...he’s freezing, and this can’t be good...
He can’t feel his legs until he tries to move them, and then he almost passes out from the pain. It takes every bit of energy he can summon, every ounce of willpower to keep listening to John’s voice, letting it tether him to consciousness...John is okay and he is here, and he’s a doctor, so Sherlock will be okay...childish logic, but it will do for now. He hasn’t the brainpower to think anything more taxing. He can’t see properly, his vision is blurry so he concentrates on his other senses...smell. He can smell something metallic...no, this can’t be good either...
He can hear John, which is good, so he lets the sound fill his brain, the only thing keeping him awake. He can feel John’s hand pressing on his abdomen. It’s painful...he assumes that is where most of the blood is coming from, though he can see something dark dripping in front of his eye and thinks that might be, too. One hand is still on his face, absently rubbing the skin in a way which is almost comforting, but the feeling is swamped by his injuries...
Then both sensations go away and he can’t see John, and his legs hurt and his abdomen hurts and his head hurts, and he can’t hear John either; he has gone quiet. Suddenly Sherlock is colder and he shouts out. It doesn’t matter that he sounds ridiculous and child-like, he needs to know where John is or he can’t stay awake…he needs to know that John is okay, so he will be okay. John will make sure of that …he trusts John...
John’s hand is back in his and he tries to grip it tightly to reassure himself that it’s there, but his muscles aren’t really working properly and he can’t...he can’t breathe either. He struggles to draw in enough oxygen to keep himself awake. His chest feels like it’s being crushed...just a little squashed John says, and Sherlock tries to believe him...John tells him to concentrate, but how can he concentrate when he cannot think?
His vision fades, and he dithers on the edge of awareness...time seems to be passing strangely...John is talking to him, murmuring something he can’t hear, only enough to register that he recognises the voice. Then he is jolting, moving somewhere. Nothing for a while, and then John’s desperate shouts...what could he be shouting at? Sherlock tries opening his eyes but there is a fog in his mind now and he can’t bring himself to wake up...
00000
John stops at the entrance to Sherlock’s room and for a moment can’t make himself move any further in. He’s seen things like this before, seen worse than this so many times.
But this is Sherlock. This is different. Because Sherlock just...it’s an impossible notion, for Sherlock Holmes to be like this. It’s not an image John thinks anyone could imagine if they had not seen if for themselves. He’s having a hard enough time believing it when the sight is right in front of him.
Just hours ago - just a few hours, they were at home, they laughed...less than a day since they were racing through the streets together, since everything was normal...
You don’t know.
They don’t, and he doesn’t; it makes John want to scream, because somebody should know if - when - Sherlock is going to wake up. They just should, there shouldn’t be such uncertainty. John has worked with uncertainty before though. He has worked under pressure and confusion few people can think of let alone experience; so why is he now so angry that he can’t be told more, that there isn’t anything more to tell?
The doctor leaves John alone eventually, muttering something sympathetic on her way out and patting his arm, but it gives him no comfort. He stays where he is, in the doorway, staring, until his vision shifts and swims and the room looks much bigger. Much emptier, with Sherlock alone in the middle of it; Sherlock alone, with him standing here watching uselessly. Silently berating himself for his inaction John steps forwards and sits in the chair beside the bed, reaching out for Sherlock’s hand as he does.
He doesn’t move for three hours.
00000
‘I can’t...breathe...’ Sherlock forces the words out and John fights panic, trying to comfort Sherlock. Trying to tell him it will be alright, he knows it will; it has to be - because if Sherlock isn’t - if Sherlock doesn’t - it just can’t happen, it can’t. John’s seen him walk away from far too much to let himself believe he won’t simply shake this off, too.
‘It’s okay, Sherlock, you’re just a bit stuck, your chest is a little squashed, you’ll be fine. Just breathe slowly, that’s it, concentrate...’
‘Can’t concentrate...can’t think...’
‘Sherlock - Sherlock!’ His eyes slip shut again, his chest stops moving, but John will not let himself believe it, he will not, he will not. It can’t be happening, he won’t let it happen. But no matter how many times he breathes for Sherlock, no matter how much he tries amid his calls, his desperate efforts and tears, Sherlock is not waking up. He is not breathing - Sherlock has no pulse - ‘Sherlock!’ he shouts again, and someone is pulling him back. Someone is tugging him away and telling him to stop it but he won’t, he won’t, Sherlock will be fine, ‘SHERLOCK!’
‘John -’ someone pulls on his arm urgently - he wrenches it away,
‘Sherlock!’
‘John - John!’
00000
‘John!’
He wakes with a start and looks wildly around, his gaze skipping over the concerned face looming in front of him, coming to rest on Sherlock, whom he watches until his own breathing returns to normal. Sherlock’s chest is still rising and falling steadily, albeit with the help of a machine. The heart monitor is still beeping. Breathe, John.
Only when he has satisfied himself that Sherlock is definitely, definitely still alive, does he look back towards Sarah.
‘Are you okay?’ she asks; he glares at her in answer, feeling irrationally angry with her presence, but she doesn’t back away. ‘Sorry,’ she says, ‘I only meant - you weren’t hurt, were you?’
‘Not really,’ John replies. It’s easier than explaining how much he wishes he could change places with Sherlock. Easier than describing the shock that won’t even let him process it, like missing his footing on the stairs, times a million...like the world has dropped away beneath him. How can he have gone, so quickly, from having everything, everything he has wanted for so long, to having it all ripped away from underneath him? How can he so suddenly be so unbalanced and lost - feeling as though he has tripped and is still falling, is yet to reach the ground - and is there even a ground to reach?
‘How did you -?’ he begins quietly,
‘I saw it on the news,’ she says, ‘I had to come and make sure you were...’ she trails away. John shakes his head, not sure what to think, or why her being here irritates him so much.
‘I’m sure he’ll be fine,’ she tells him kindly,
‘Yeah,’ John un-sticks his throat with difficulty; the trouble is, if any of the people telling him this actually believed it, they wouldn’t feel the need to reassure him of the fact. And he wouldn’t feel the need to hear it.
‘Is there anything -?’
‘Not really.’
Part of him even blames her. If not for her he wouldn’t be here; he wouldn’t have left the flat. They wouldn’t have gone to Angelo’s if she hadn’t texted and they wouldn’t have caught the taxi. He would have gone with Sherlock to Lestrade and then they would be on the chase again and it would be normal.
He forces these thoughts away with difficulty, but can’t help the resentful glare that flickers across his face.
‘Are you sure you’re - you were...well, you were talking and -’
‘Bad dream,’ John informs her shortly, ‘I’ll - don’t worry.’
‘John...’
‘Don’t.’ She looks as though she might open her mouth to speak again, before another voice cuts across from the doorway; a voice John definitely doesn’t want to hear.
‘Really, don’t,’ it says, ‘it’s safer for all of us if you don’t piss him off.’ Sarah looks round, startled, and John sighs without so much as glancing towards the new arrival.
‘Harry, go away,’ he instructs her tiredly without looking. Harry makes a sound between amusement and derision, standing resolutely where she is until Sarah squeezes John’s shoulder, makes him promise to call if he needs anything, and murmurs look after him to his sister on the way out. John cannot decide who he would least like to have a conversation with right now; his ex-girlfriend or his sister, but it seems the choice is not his to make.
‘John,’ his name, again - why do they insist on saying it so much? Do they think it will help somehow? He forces himself to look up, at long last, and is surprised by what he sees; something that would almost cause a pleasant jolt in his stomach if not for his all-encompassing fear for Sherlock.
Harry looks...healthy. Almost. For her, at least...her hair, usually quite limp and unkempt of late, is tied haphazardly back into a ponytail, her face is pinched and drawn, but her eyes seem bright, her pupils normal. She isn’t swaying on the spot or slurring her speech, which is a bonus, and she looks deadly serious, which is terrifying.
‘I’ve been sober for over three weeks,’ she tells him firmly, knowing only too well the thoughts that are running through his head, ‘you’d know that if you picked up the phone every once in a while.’
‘Sorry,’ he says mechanically, ‘that’s good...really good, Harry.’ He’s sincere as he says it, but he doesn’t think it comes through in his voice. He just sounds worn out.
‘Yeah, well,’ she steps further into the room, hands thrust deep into the pockets of her jeans, ‘guess I’m just sick of fucking everything up.’
‘You don’t -’
‘Oh, leave it, John, I know what you think of me,’ she shrugs, and John finds himself grateful for the fact that she hasn’t mentioned Sherlock yet, because this feels almost ordinary. ‘Don’t worry about it. I’m fixing things. Or trying to anyway. But I’ll do it my own way,’ she finishes stubbornly. John nods his agreement, proud and pleased under the exhausting worry, giving her a tight smile.
‘I’m glad.’
‘And I’m not here to talk about me,’
‘Harry, just -’
‘Your girlfriend called me. She told me she thought I ought to come and make sure you were okay. So here I am. And I’m not going to ask, I already know the answer, but I’m staying anyway.’ She’s perched on the edge of the bed now, regarding John with eyes almost the exact same shade as his, set in a sharper, older face which otherwise barely resembles his own.
‘She’s not my girlfriend,’ John mutters. Harry raises an eyebrow and her lip twitches as she glances towards Sherlock, but then she is serious again and she slides off the bed. She paces for a moment before replying.
‘Were you hurt?’ She phrases the question carefully, John notices, not asking him if he’s alright or okay, which he appreciates. He shrugs.
‘Not really,’ he stands too, because he can’t sit any longer, he can’t be doing nothing. The bleeping of the heart monitor fills his ears - it’s only been a few hours, he tells himself, not long at all given the injuries...Sherlock will be awake in no time, no time at all. But he saw the blood; he saw how much Sherlock lost...and what about the internal injuries? His heart stopped...what if his brain was oxygen deprived? What damage might that have done...?
‘He’ll be -’
‘I really wish people would stop saying that,’ John growls dangerously; Harry is unperturbed, and takes a step towards him.
‘They’re trying to help.’
‘It’s not working,’ his voice cracks on the words. He squeezes his eyes shut and deliberately turns away from Harry, who is still regarding him steadily.
‘It’s only been...’
‘I know, okay?’ He whirls back around - he doesn’t know why he’s so upset, he wouldn’t expect Sherlock to be awake yet, but the fact is that he isn’t. John can still feel the blood, still smell it, he can still see the paramedics furiously trying to restart Sherlock’s heart.
‘Oh, John...’ Harry’s voice is suddenly gentle and she moves to wrap her arms around him, but John backs away,
‘No - don’t do that, Harry. Don’t.’
‘Why?’ she asks. John would prefer they argue over her drinking again. He doesn’t want to answer.
‘Because...’ he says. It’s stupid, it’s so stupid he can’t believe he’s letting himself buy into it, but it’s true, he can’t help it. ‘Because last time you hugged me was because our parents were dead,’ and now his voice is definitely not steady, but he’s holding it as best he can, forcing the words out shakily. ‘If you hug me now - if you - then it means that you think -’ he doesn’t like that his voice is that much higher pitched than normal, doesn’t like the effort it is taking to speak. ‘It means you think that Sherlock is going to...that he won’t - it means -’
But then her arms are around him anyway, and he’s gripping the back of her jacket tightly in his fists, gritting his teeth and fighting the tears because he knows they are stupid, but they come anyway. Harry rubs his back soothingly while he takes shuddering breaths to calm himself, ignoring the fact that the shoulder of her jacket is now damp.
‘No, it doesn’t,’ she whispers. ‘It means I’m trying to make my little brother feel better, because he’s just been in a car accident, he’s in shock, and he’s scared. It’ll be fine, John, I promise, it’ll be fine...he’ll be awake by tomorrow morning, you’ll see. Remember all those things you write about on your blog? He’s a stubborn bastard; he’ll get bored of being in here in no time...’
00000
No time is apparently longer than five days though, because that’s how long has passed. John has, when forced to leave the hospital, very reluctantly stayed at Harry’s. He doesn’t think he can stand to go back to Baker Street, but he has spent as much time as possible beside Sherlock’s bed.
Still time, he tells himself, there’s still plenty of time. Five days isn’t very long, not for someone with Sherlock’s injuries, it’s not very long at all...Harry is right, which he would never normally admit. Sherlock will be bored of something so dull as being unconscious very soon, and will be his usual insufferable self...he will be fine...how he is coming to hate that word...
No time at all.
00000
And no time at all is longer than two weeks, but John keeps assuring himself that this is still not as bad as it could be. At least Sherlock is in a stable condition, and he will be awake before they know it. The normal rules just don’t apply to Sherlock. This won’t even slow him down. He’ll just open his eyes and...he just will. Who cares that it isn’t medically that simple? What does he give a damn about Glasgow Coma Scales or brain damage or any of the other million things that argue against it being true? It doesn’t matter that the chances dwindle every day or that John knows the statistics by heart, because this. Is. Sherlock.
Mycroft does not visit often, but he is solemn and quiet when he does. John mostly avoids talking to him, but of all Sherlock’s guests he turns out to be the one John dreads the least. John smiles weakly, and promptly bursts into a fresh wave of tears, when he thinks what Sherlock would say to this information.
Molly visits twice, leaving flowers and a small stuffed teddy bear which produces a similarly confused reaction when John imagines Sherlock’s response.
Sarah doesn’t come again after the third time. John knows she visits more for his sake than Sherlock’s, but he still can’t really talk to her; all of their conversations are awkward and stilted. There are a dozen things she is too tactful to say and an equal number John’s conscience quickly stifles when they surface. Gradually she just stops trying, and despite the guilty pain in his chest, John finds he doesn’t really care about losing her company. Part of him is even glad.
Lestrade pops his head in at least as often as Mycroft. Even Eduardo checks in from time to time, always frantically apologetic and nervous. John tells him over and over that it is not his fault, knowing all the while that it is he, John, who is to blame. He hasn’t even got the heart to hold Sarah responsible after the second week passes.
It’s when Mrs Hudson comes that John finds it hardest. She doesn’t know what to do or say, and fusses around plumping Sherlock’s pillows and trying to get John to eat, which he knows he should. He feels guilty for making her worry even more, but he can’t make himself keep the food down. She asks him to come back to Baker Street.
On the sixteenth day, John accepts.
‘I’ll get you some tea,’ Mrs Hudson says, hurrying inside before John does. He wonders vaguely if this is just because his company has become so difficult that she doesn’t want to be around him.
Sherlock should be awake by now, Sherlock should be here. He’s numb as he walks up the stairs, numb as he opens the door, and numb as he looks at the room beyond. He’s numb until he sees the first aid kit still sprawled on the floor, when the weight of it seems to hit him at last and he almost literally reels with it. He can’t breathe, he can’t see - this isn’t right, Baker Street is empty and it isn’t right. He hates that first aid kit now. He hates it because it should be enough. It should be all that Sherlock needs. John should be able to do something to save him - but no, don’t think that, he doesn’t need saving, he only needs saving if he’s going to -
No. This just - Sherlock will wake up, Sherlock has to wake up because John can’t do this. It burns not seeing Sherlock curled on the sofa with his violin, it aches not being told he is an idiot, it stings to go to the kitchen and know exactly what he will find there; it hurts.
Without thinking, John aims a kick towards the first aid box and it flies across the room. He pushes a stack of papers to the floor, not knowing what they are. He throws the glass that was sat on the table and hears it shatter against the wall -
He comes to his senses as he watches the shards clatter to the floor, glittering sharply. He stands, shaking and ashamed, for a long time before he goes to pick it up. His trembling fingers slip on the pieces so that one slices deep into his hand but he ignores the pain and tries to gather the others up. He can’t feel it, not really, doesn’t even notice until Mrs Hudson’s hand closes around his wrist - he didn’t hear her enter - and she pulls him gently to his feet.
‘Now, that’s not helping is it?’ she says, sounding very much like his mother. John doesn’t reply, and she shakes her head as she gathers plasters and antiseptic. She leaves him sitting in the red chair on his own as she, much more carefully, clears up the mess he has made. He picks absently at the plasters, staring at the empty grey chair opposite.
Sixteen days since he’s last been here. It’s wrong that nothing has changed. Everything is exactly where he and Sherlock left it, and it shouldn’t be. He doesn’t want to be here, he doesn’t want to see it; he doesn’t want that empty chair staring at him. Sherlock should be sat in that chair, or leaning over an experiment in the kitchen or scraping noisily at his violin, shooting holes in the wall, or typing away on his laptop or something.
It echoes without him. The room echoes. John’s own thoughts echo.
He sleeps on Mrs Hudson’s sofa for the night, because he cannot stand it in here alone.
Summary: "Do you regret it?" - A simple fall can change everything, but some things are always the same - and some are not quite what they seem. After all, no one said this would be easy. Sequel to my one shot 'Black
Ice'.
Chapter Word Count: Approx 4,400
Notes: I own nothing but Eduardo and a certain doctor some of you might recognise from my post-TGG series. I claim creative licence for Harry; she never actually came into the show, so this includes just my take on her. I hope it's okay. (Warning: language). Sorry for the lateness of this chapter - I started University on Sunday so this is the first free moment I've had since!
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Eduardo has long fallen silent but he hasn’t moved from his position beside John, which is both comforting and disconcerting. John is not thinking now, not of anything. He listens to the sound of his own breath and stares at the ground with his hands clasped in front of him - he doesn’t know where the coffee has got to - his mind is blank and empty, as though he has exhausted himself beyond the capacity for coherent thought.
He doesn’t really see the floor even though he is barely blinking. He doesn’t really smell the antiseptic of the hospital even though he is breathing deliberately slowly and deeply. He doesn’t really hear the sounds of bleeping and ringing and talking around him even though they are the only things tethering him to consciousness. He just doesn’t feel.
Were he capable, he would probably diagnose himself as being in shock, but the fact is that he has purposefully cut his senses off from his surroundings. It’s less painful that way, to be apart from them, separate himself from the world and the news he is dreading.
Then all of a sudden - a sound he barely registers, perhaps a sight, a smell - something reminds him of what has happened and why he is here. He feels sick, bile rising in his throat and he just wants to run. He wants to shout, he wants to wake up and find himself - find himself still on the sofa with Sherlock, to never have to move from that spot. Or in the kitchen, looking at the text from Sarah and ignoring it, somehow convincing Sherlock to ignore Lestrade. Or at Angelo’s, staying just a few minutes longer. Catching another taxi, anything, anything different, anything not this, anything that could mean that Sherlock is not...perhaps if he had got into the other side. If he had sat where Sherlock had chosen and Sherlock had taken his place, then Sherlock would be fine...
He feels a hand on his arm and looks up into Eduardo’s concerned face, startled. He doesn’t think he gave any outward sign of distress.
‘Your hands,’ Eduardo explains kindly; when John looks, he sees that he is gripping them together so tightly they are turning white, and relaxes them. ‘You should not worry, I am sure your friend be okay.’
John closes his eyes against the wetness he feels rising in them and nods. Eduardo takes his hand away, but does not stop watching John,
‘You care about him very much,’ he says. John can’t bring himself to reply, knowing that if he speaks he will lose the battle he is having with the lump in his throat.
It might be minutes or hours later that another, unfamiliar voice calls, ‘Mr Watson?’ and John looks up to see a plump, grey haired woman approaching. He stands automatically and feels inexplicably grateful when Eduardo does the same, though the taxi driver makes sure he is placed slightly behind John.
‘My name is Doctor Fircroft,’ the doctor begins gently,
‘Sherlock -?’ is all John can manage to say.
‘Mr Holmes is out of surgery,’ John instantly sags with relief, then tenses as he recognises the tone of the doctor’s voice, ‘and is stable for the moment, but we really can’t tell much more until he wakes up.’
‘And when will that be?’ Don’t answer, don’t answer, don’t answer...
‘Mr Holmes lost a lot of blood -’
‘When?’ John already knows what the reply will be. Part of him needs to hear it out loud. Part of him dreads it.
‘- and given that his heart stopped more than once just in the ambulance on the way here...’
‘You don’t know,’ John finishes. The doctor shakes her head. John clenches and unclenches his fist, breathing hard through his nose.
‘We have high hopes,’ - no, you don’t; I’m a doctor, you can’t fool me - ‘you may well have saved his life, Mr Watson.’
‘I didn’t do anything,’ John says listlessly, ‘I just...’
‘You slowed the bleeding to some extent before the paramedics were able to reach him, and you kept him fighting. That matters, Mr Watson.’
No, it doesn’t, because it wasn’t good enough, was it?
‘Can I see him?’ he asks. She hesitates before she replies, considering. John knows it should only be family - he thinks with an awful, part guilty, part angry pang of Mycroft - but he is not going to be kept away.
‘Yes,’ she says eventually, and then adds sternly, ‘but only one person.’ She eyes Eduardo, who bows his head respectfully to John,
‘You tell me how he is after. I hope he is well soon.’ John gives another silent nod before he follows the doctor away, terrified of what he will see.
0000
‘JOHN!’
The shout will do no good but it’s automatic, torn from Sherlock’s lips before he has time to think about it. He’s seen the car and he knows for a moment what is going to happen but is helpless to stop it. It’s the longest moment of his life, and yet he doesn’t have time to do anything more than call John’s name as he hears, louder even than his desperate shout, drowning out everything else, a deafening crunch and a squeal. He is spinning, moving so fast, and all the breath has been knocked out him, wrenched around, pulled and twisted with the out-of-control movement of the car -
He doesn’t know what happens after that until he feels someone’s hands on his face. He feels them lifting it towards them, but he can’t open his eyes. He feels too heavy to move. He hears John’s voice - he sounds afraid - and forces himself to look. He doesn’t like how weak his own voice sounds, not like himself, not strong and authoritative and certain. He can tell by John’s face there are worse injuries than the doctor is letting on, and can’t seem to keep himself awake despite John’s protests...he’s freezing, and this can’t be good...
He can’t feel his legs until he tries to move them, and then he almost passes out from the pain. It takes every bit of energy he can summon, every ounce of willpower to keep listening to John’s voice, letting it tether him to consciousness...John is okay and he is here, and he’s a doctor, so Sherlock will be okay...childish logic, but it will do for now. He hasn’t the brainpower to think anything more taxing. He can’t see properly, his vision is blurry so he concentrates on his other senses...smell. He can smell something metallic...no, this can’t be good either...
He can hear John, which is good, so he lets the sound fill his brain, the only thing keeping him awake. He can feel John’s hand pressing on his abdomen. It’s painful...he assumes that is where most of the blood is coming from, though he can see something dark dripping in front of his eye and thinks that might be, too. One hand is still on his face, absently rubbing the skin in a way which is almost comforting, but the feeling is swamped by his injuries...
Then both sensations go away and he can’t see John, and his legs hurt and his abdomen hurts and his head hurts, and he can’t hear John either; he has gone quiet. Suddenly Sherlock is colder and he shouts out. It doesn’t matter that he sounds ridiculous and child-like, he needs to know where John is or he can’t stay awake…he needs to know that John is okay, so he will be okay. John will make sure of that …he trusts John...
John’s hand is back in his and he tries to grip it tightly to reassure himself that it’s there, but his muscles aren’t really working properly and he can’t...he can’t breathe either. He struggles to draw in enough oxygen to keep himself awake. His chest feels like it’s being crushed...just a little squashed John says, and Sherlock tries to believe him...John tells him to concentrate, but how can he concentrate when he cannot think?
His vision fades, and he dithers on the edge of awareness...time seems to be passing strangely...John is talking to him, murmuring something he can’t hear, only enough to register that he recognises the voice. Then he is jolting, moving somewhere. Nothing for a while, and then John’s desperate shouts...what could he be shouting at? Sherlock tries opening his eyes but there is a fog in his mind now and he can’t bring himself to wake up...
00000
John stops at the entrance to Sherlock’s room and for a moment can’t make himself move any further in. He’s seen things like this before, seen worse than this so many times.
But this is Sherlock. This is different. Because Sherlock just...it’s an impossible notion, for Sherlock Holmes to be like this. It’s not an image John thinks anyone could imagine if they had not seen if for themselves. He’s having a hard enough time believing it when the sight is right in front of him.
Just hours ago - just a few hours, they were at home, they laughed...less than a day since they were racing through the streets together, since everything was normal...
You don’t know.
They don’t, and he doesn’t; it makes John want to scream, because somebody should know if - when - Sherlock is going to wake up. They just should, there shouldn’t be such uncertainty. John has worked with uncertainty before though. He has worked under pressure and confusion few people can think of let alone experience; so why is he now so angry that he can’t be told more, that there isn’t anything more to tell?
The doctor leaves John alone eventually, muttering something sympathetic on her way out and patting his arm, but it gives him no comfort. He stays where he is, in the doorway, staring, until his vision shifts and swims and the room looks much bigger. Much emptier, with Sherlock alone in the middle of it; Sherlock alone, with him standing here watching uselessly. Silently berating himself for his inaction John steps forwards and sits in the chair beside the bed, reaching out for Sherlock’s hand as he does.
He doesn’t move for three hours.
00000
‘I can’t...breathe...’ Sherlock forces the words out and John fights panic, trying to comfort Sherlock. Trying to tell him it will be alright, he knows it will; it has to be - because if Sherlock isn’t - if Sherlock doesn’t - it just can’t happen, it can’t. John’s seen him walk away from far too much to let himself believe he won’t simply shake this off, too.
‘It’s okay, Sherlock, you’re just a bit stuck, your chest is a little squashed, you’ll be fine. Just breathe slowly, that’s it, concentrate...’
‘Can’t concentrate...can’t think...’
‘Sherlock - Sherlock!’ His eyes slip shut again, his chest stops moving, but John will not let himself believe it, he will not, he will not. It can’t be happening, he won’t let it happen. But no matter how many times he breathes for Sherlock, no matter how much he tries amid his calls, his desperate efforts and tears, Sherlock is not waking up. He is not breathing - Sherlock has no pulse - ‘Sherlock!’ he shouts again, and someone is pulling him back. Someone is tugging him away and telling him to stop it but he won’t, he won’t, Sherlock will be fine, ‘SHERLOCK!’
‘John -’ someone pulls on his arm urgently - he wrenches it away,
‘Sherlock!’
‘John - John!’
00000
‘John!’
He wakes with a start and looks wildly around, his gaze skipping over the concerned face looming in front of him, coming to rest on Sherlock, whom he watches until his own breathing returns to normal. Sherlock’s chest is still rising and falling steadily, albeit with the help of a machine. The heart monitor is still beeping. Breathe, John.
Only when he has satisfied himself that Sherlock is definitely, definitely still alive, does he look back towards Sarah.
‘Are you okay?’ she asks; he glares at her in answer, feeling irrationally angry with her presence, but she doesn’t back away. ‘Sorry,’ she says, ‘I only meant - you weren’t hurt, were you?’
‘Not really,’ John replies. It’s easier than explaining how much he wishes he could change places with Sherlock. Easier than describing the shock that won’t even let him process it, like missing his footing on the stairs, times a million...like the world has dropped away beneath him. How can he have gone, so quickly, from having everything, everything he has wanted for so long, to having it all ripped away from underneath him? How can he so suddenly be so unbalanced and lost - feeling as though he has tripped and is still falling, is yet to reach the ground - and is there even a ground to reach?
‘How did you -?’ he begins quietly,
‘I saw it on the news,’ she says, ‘I had to come and make sure you were...’ she trails away. John shakes his head, not sure what to think, or why her being here irritates him so much.
‘I’m sure he’ll be fine,’ she tells him kindly,
‘Yeah,’ John un-sticks his throat with difficulty; the trouble is, if any of the people telling him this actually believed it, they wouldn’t feel the need to reassure him of the fact. And he wouldn’t feel the need to hear it.
‘Is there anything -?’
‘Not really.’
Part of him even blames her. If not for her he wouldn’t be here; he wouldn’t have left the flat. They wouldn’t have gone to Angelo’s if she hadn’t texted and they wouldn’t have caught the taxi. He would have gone with Sherlock to Lestrade and then they would be on the chase again and it would be normal.
He forces these thoughts away with difficulty, but can’t help the resentful glare that flickers across his face.
‘Are you sure you’re - you were...well, you were talking and -’
‘Bad dream,’ John informs her shortly, ‘I’ll - don’t worry.’
‘John...’
‘Don’t.’ She looks as though she might open her mouth to speak again, before another voice cuts across from the doorway; a voice John definitely doesn’t want to hear.
‘Really, don’t,’ it says, ‘it’s safer for all of us if you don’t piss him off.’ Sarah looks round, startled, and John sighs without so much as glancing towards the new arrival.
‘Harry, go away,’ he instructs her tiredly without looking. Harry makes a sound between amusement and derision, standing resolutely where she is until Sarah squeezes John’s shoulder, makes him promise to call if he needs anything, and murmurs look after him to his sister on the way out. John cannot decide who he would least like to have a conversation with right now; his ex-girlfriend or his sister, but it seems the choice is not his to make.
‘John,’ his name, again - why do they insist on saying it so much? Do they think it will help somehow? He forces himself to look up, at long last, and is surprised by what he sees; something that would almost cause a pleasant jolt in his stomach if not for his all-encompassing fear for Sherlock.
Harry looks...healthy. Almost. For her, at least...her hair, usually quite limp and unkempt of late, is tied haphazardly back into a ponytail, her face is pinched and drawn, but her eyes seem bright, her pupils normal. She isn’t swaying on the spot or slurring her speech, which is a bonus, and she looks deadly serious, which is terrifying.
‘I’ve been sober for over three weeks,’ she tells him firmly, knowing only too well the thoughts that are running through his head, ‘you’d know that if you picked up the phone every once in a while.’
‘Sorry,’ he says mechanically, ‘that’s good...really good, Harry.’ He’s sincere as he says it, but he doesn’t think it comes through in his voice. He just sounds worn out.
‘Yeah, well,’ she steps further into the room, hands thrust deep into the pockets of her jeans, ‘guess I’m just sick of fucking everything up.’
‘You don’t -’
‘Oh, leave it, John, I know what you think of me,’ she shrugs, and John finds himself grateful for the fact that she hasn’t mentioned Sherlock yet, because this feels almost ordinary. ‘Don’t worry about it. I’m fixing things. Or trying to anyway. But I’ll do it my own way,’ she finishes stubbornly. John nods his agreement, proud and pleased under the exhausting worry, giving her a tight smile.
‘I’m glad.’
‘And I’m not here to talk about me,’
‘Harry, just -’
‘Your girlfriend called me. She told me she thought I ought to come and make sure you were okay. So here I am. And I’m not going to ask, I already know the answer, but I’m staying anyway.’ She’s perched on the edge of the bed now, regarding John with eyes almost the exact same shade as his, set in a sharper, older face which otherwise barely resembles his own.
‘She’s not my girlfriend,’ John mutters. Harry raises an eyebrow and her lip twitches as she glances towards Sherlock, but then she is serious again and she slides off the bed. She paces for a moment before replying.
‘Were you hurt?’ She phrases the question carefully, John notices, not asking him if he’s alright or okay, which he appreciates. He shrugs.
‘Not really,’ he stands too, because he can’t sit any longer, he can’t be doing nothing. The bleeping of the heart monitor fills his ears - it’s only been a few hours, he tells himself, not long at all given the injuries...Sherlock will be awake in no time, no time at all. But he saw the blood; he saw how much Sherlock lost...and what about the internal injuries? His heart stopped...what if his brain was oxygen deprived? What damage might that have done...?
‘He’ll be -’
‘I really wish people would stop saying that,’ John growls dangerously; Harry is unperturbed, and takes a step towards him.
‘They’re trying to help.’
‘It’s not working,’ his voice cracks on the words. He squeezes his eyes shut and deliberately turns away from Harry, who is still regarding him steadily.
‘It’s only been...’
‘I know, okay?’ He whirls back around - he doesn’t know why he’s so upset, he wouldn’t expect Sherlock to be awake yet, but the fact is that he isn’t. John can still feel the blood, still smell it, he can still see the paramedics furiously trying to restart Sherlock’s heart.
‘Oh, John...’ Harry’s voice is suddenly gentle and she moves to wrap her arms around him, but John backs away,
‘No - don’t do that, Harry. Don’t.’
‘Why?’ she asks. John would prefer they argue over her drinking again. He doesn’t want to answer.
‘Because...’ he says. It’s stupid, it’s so stupid he can’t believe he’s letting himself buy into it, but it’s true, he can’t help it. ‘Because last time you hugged me was because our parents were dead,’ and now his voice is definitely not steady, but he’s holding it as best he can, forcing the words out shakily. ‘If you hug me now - if you - then it means that you think -’ he doesn’t like that his voice is that much higher pitched than normal, doesn’t like the effort it is taking to speak. ‘It means you think that Sherlock is going to...that he won’t - it means -’
But then her arms are around him anyway, and he’s gripping the back of her jacket tightly in his fists, gritting his teeth and fighting the tears because he knows they are stupid, but they come anyway. Harry rubs his back soothingly while he takes shuddering breaths to calm himself, ignoring the fact that the shoulder of her jacket is now damp.
‘No, it doesn’t,’ she whispers. ‘It means I’m trying to make my little brother feel better, because he’s just been in a car accident, he’s in shock, and he’s scared. It’ll be fine, John, I promise, it’ll be fine...he’ll be awake by tomorrow morning, you’ll see. Remember all those things you write about on your blog? He’s a stubborn bastard; he’ll get bored of being in here in no time...’
00000
No time is apparently longer than five days though, because that’s how long has passed. John has, when forced to leave the hospital, very reluctantly stayed at Harry’s. He doesn’t think he can stand to go back to Baker Street, but he has spent as much time as possible beside Sherlock’s bed.
Still time, he tells himself, there’s still plenty of time. Five days isn’t very long, not for someone with Sherlock’s injuries, it’s not very long at all...Harry is right, which he would never normally admit. Sherlock will be bored of something so dull as being unconscious very soon, and will be his usual insufferable self...he will be fine...how he is coming to hate that word...
No time at all.
00000
And no time at all is longer than two weeks, but John keeps assuring himself that this is still not as bad as it could be. At least Sherlock is in a stable condition, and he will be awake before they know it. The normal rules just don’t apply to Sherlock. This won’t even slow him down. He’ll just open his eyes and...he just will. Who cares that it isn’t medically that simple? What does he give a damn about Glasgow Coma Scales or brain damage or any of the other million things that argue against it being true? It doesn’t matter that the chances dwindle every day or that John knows the statistics by heart, because this. Is. Sherlock.
Mycroft does not visit often, but he is solemn and quiet when he does. John mostly avoids talking to him, but of all Sherlock’s guests he turns out to be the one John dreads the least. John smiles weakly, and promptly bursts into a fresh wave of tears, when he thinks what Sherlock would say to this information.
Molly visits twice, leaving flowers and a small stuffed teddy bear which produces a similarly confused reaction when John imagines Sherlock’s response.
Sarah doesn’t come again after the third time. John knows she visits more for his sake than Sherlock’s, but he still can’t really talk to her; all of their conversations are awkward and stilted. There are a dozen things she is too tactful to say and an equal number John’s conscience quickly stifles when they surface. Gradually she just stops trying, and despite the guilty pain in his chest, John finds he doesn’t really care about losing her company. Part of him is even glad.
Lestrade pops his head in at least as often as Mycroft. Even Eduardo checks in from time to time, always frantically apologetic and nervous. John tells him over and over that it is not his fault, knowing all the while that it is he, John, who is to blame. He hasn’t even got the heart to hold Sarah responsible after the second week passes.
It’s when Mrs Hudson comes that John finds it hardest. She doesn’t know what to do or say, and fusses around plumping Sherlock’s pillows and trying to get John to eat, which he knows he should. He feels guilty for making her worry even more, but he can’t make himself keep the food down. She asks him to come back to Baker Street.
On the sixteenth day, John accepts.
‘I’ll get you some tea,’ Mrs Hudson says, hurrying inside before John does. He wonders vaguely if this is just because his company has become so difficult that she doesn’t want to be around him.
Sherlock should be awake by now, Sherlock should be here. He’s numb as he walks up the stairs, numb as he opens the door, and numb as he looks at the room beyond. He’s numb until he sees the first aid kit still sprawled on the floor, when the weight of it seems to hit him at last and he almost literally reels with it. He can’t breathe, he can’t see - this isn’t right, Baker Street is empty and it isn’t right. He hates that first aid kit now. He hates it because it should be enough. It should be all that Sherlock needs. John should be able to do something to save him - but no, don’t think that, he doesn’t need saving, he only needs saving if he’s going to -
No. This just - Sherlock will wake up, Sherlock has to wake up because John can’t do this. It burns not seeing Sherlock curled on the sofa with his violin, it aches not being told he is an idiot, it stings to go to the kitchen and know exactly what he will find there; it hurts.
Without thinking, John aims a kick towards the first aid box and it flies across the room. He pushes a stack of papers to the floor, not knowing what they are. He throws the glass that was sat on the table and hears it shatter against the wall -
He comes to his senses as he watches the shards clatter to the floor, glittering sharply. He stands, shaking and ashamed, for a long time before he goes to pick it up. His trembling fingers slip on the pieces so that one slices deep into his hand but he ignores the pain and tries to gather the others up. He can’t feel it, not really, doesn’t even notice until Mrs Hudson’s hand closes around his wrist - he didn’t hear her enter - and she pulls him gently to his feet.
‘Now, that’s not helping is it?’ she says, sounding very much like his mother. John doesn’t reply, and she shakes her head as she gathers plasters and antiseptic. She leaves him sitting in the red chair on his own as she, much more carefully, clears up the mess he has made. He picks absently at the plasters, staring at the empty grey chair opposite.
Sixteen days since he’s last been here. It’s wrong that nothing has changed. Everything is exactly where he and Sherlock left it, and it shouldn’t be. He doesn’t want to be here, he doesn’t want to see it; he doesn’t want that empty chair staring at him. Sherlock should be sat in that chair, or leaning over an experiment in the kitchen or scraping noisily at his violin, shooting holes in the wall, or typing away on his laptop or something.
It echoes without him. The room echoes. John’s own thoughts echo.
He sleeps on Mrs Hudson’s sofa for the night, because he cannot stand it in here alone.