Sherlock fic: What Friends Do, Part 7
In case anyone rereads this, you aren't losing your mind; I went back and proofread the story, after I learned where I was going. Concrit is welcome. For those who came aboard late, Part 1 is here. Thanks for reading!
Title: What Friends Do, Part 7 of 7
Characters: Holmes, Watson, Lestrade
Rating: PG
Warnings: Spoilers for episode 3 of the BBC modern-day Sherlock series.
Summary: One more take on a contemporary "Final Problem". Events take place immediately after the so-called end of episode 3, "The Great Game."
What
Friends Do, part 7
John's heart beat faster as he
watched the numbers in the lift count down. By the time the doors opened onto
the second subbasement, he was almost lightheaded from anticipation and nerves.
Two extremely large orderlies in
blue surgical garb stepped forward from a door where they'd been lounging
farther up the hall. John took one look at their size and the way their hands
strayed toward their chests, as if reaching for pistols secreted in unseen
holsters, to know that these weren't any kind of hospital staff. Probably
guards brought round by Mycroft; what did that fellow do, anyway? None
of John's business. The only item of relevance he gathered from all that was
that the two men obviously marked the proper door.
Lestrade walked directly toward it,
then nodded at the closest man to let him in. The guard gave them both the
once-over, but opened the door without comment. Mouth dry, John followed the
inspector inside.
The room was larger than a regular
one; after all, it was merely a converted storage room, not meant to be a
recovery room at all. A hospital bed was set up at the far end, with rows of
monitoring equipment flanking it. On the right side of the bed sat Mycroft in a
large, padded chair; his omnipresent assistant Anthea hovered over one
shoulder. She gave John a disinterested glance, then continued texting, or
whatever else she was doing.
John barely observed her. His
attention was on the man in the bed.
Sherlock's eyes flicked in John's
direction and stayed. They were dull, glazed over from pain or drugs. They'd
put in a chest tube for the pneumothorax caused by his pierced lung, and he
appeared to be halfway through a transfusion. They'd given him a clear drip as
well, which could be anything from fluids to antibiotics or some other drug.
John noticed a button for a morphine pump, or whatever painkiller they had
prescribed. Still, for all that, Sherlock was awake. Slowly, John approached
the bed.
Sherlock's face and neck were reddened
on the right side; burn marks from the blast. The rest of his skin was even
paler than usual, save for the hollows under his eyes, which looked bruised. He
breathed unsteadily through the nasal cannula, his lingering hypoxia evident by
the mild cyanosis expressed in his lips and fingernails. It seems the tales of
blood loss weren't mere fantasies after all.
Mycroft pursed his lips at John's
arrival, then shook his head and went back to reading (or pretending to read)
the folder of information he'd been perusing when John came in. John ignored
him, drawing up to the left side of the bed. Sherlock's oddly light eyes
followed him as he moved.
John nodded toward the bed. "I
see it's not broken."
"Broken?" Sherlock's thready
voice cracked.
"Your back- no traction."
"Spinal cord shock,"
Mycroft murmured, not looking up.
John looked quickly toward
Sherlock's feet, alarmed. "Can you feel anything?"
Sherlock whispered, "It's
improving."
"Thank God." John marginally
relaxed. "The steroids are helping, then?"
Mycroft answered. "It's a bit
early to say, I'm afraid." He turned a page. "We think so."
Hardly consoled, John simply nodded
and drew up a chair. "Well." He seated himself. "I've run you to
ground at last."
Sherlock merely looked at him, but
something both exasperated and vaguely amused twinkled in those drug-glazed
eyes. John knew instantly upon seeing it that he was forgiven.
He went through with his speech
anyway, as a matter of form. Giving Sherlock as hard a look as he could manage
under the circumstances, John said, "This ruse was unnecessary, don't you
think? You couldn't have expected me to fall for it."
"I hoped you might."
"So I could be miserable to no
purpose?"
"Safe." Sherlock's breath
caught. "I wanted you safe."
"Sherlock, you must know by
now, being safe is not the highest consideration with me."
"He's an enemy... unlike any
you've met with before."
"An arch-enemy. Well, I'll
grant you that. This one certainly qualifies."
"It's no light matter."
"Do you see me laughing?"
Sherlock mumbled something. John
leaned closer. "What was that?"
"I knew... it was a mistake."
"What was?"
"Us... becoming friends."
As John grappled with that notion, Sherlock added thinly, "Friendship
makes people do stupid things."
John relaxed. "Try not to take
it too badly, Sherlock. I'll forgive you for trying to save me from the bomb,
if you'll forgive me for trying to make sure it hadn't killed you afterwards. After
all, that's what friends do."
Sherlock's eyes flicked toward
Lestrade, who was leaning against the wall near the door with his arms crossed,
watching the proceedings with a look of satisfaction on his face. "Are
friends always this much trouble?" Sherlock asked him.
Lestrade smirked. "If they're
any good, they are."
"I knew I couldn't trust you."
John cut off Lestrade's protest. "You
forget who you're talking to," he said sternly. "I'm a doctor,
Sherlock. I had ample time to monitor your condition whilst we were trapped.
Did you honestly expect me to pass as a dying man someone who had no rise in
pulse or lowering of blood pressure?"
Sherlock's lips twitched; a smile.
"I should have known better... than to try to elude my blogger."
"You bloody well should have. Never
mind; it's just further proof that everyone's an idiot now and then."
The smile grew.
"So, what do we do now?"
John asked. "Hang round the basement until you're well enough to scarper
off to Bulgaria, or wherever it is that you had in mind?"
"We'll be moving him to a
secure location tomorrow," Mycroft interjected. "We can hardly keep
him secret here in the basement."
"All the better that I caught
up with you now, then."
"You can't go," Sherlock
whispered.
John was hurt. "I know I'm not
some crack government physician, but you have to admit I've been useful to you
from time to time."
"It's not that." Sherlock
drew in a breath. "You can't..."
"Yes?"
"Give up your whole life."
John snorted. "Oh, yes. My
wonderful, full life." He narrowed his eyes. "You're not the only one
who gets bored, you know. What do you expect me to do with myself while you're
sneaking around the back country in disguise? Join a club? Get a dog and blog
about its antics? What kind of life is that?"
"John..." Sherlock's face
was troubled. "I won't be coming back."
"Oh, yes you will. Eventually. When
you've got your strength back, you'll put all your efforts into hunting
Moriarty down. Do you seriously expect me to sit that out?"
"It could take years."
"If that's what it takes."
Mycroft interrupted. "Have you
considered what you're committing to, John?"
John was indignant. "Of course
I have! I've never had so much fun-" Belatedly recalling that Lestrade was
in the room, he tried to catch back the words. Realizing it was already too
late, he said deliberately, "I've never had so much fun in my life as I've
had in the last two months. I don't want to give that up."
"You enjoy having your life
threatened?" Mycroft inquired primly.
"I enjoy pursuing criminals. Chasing
them down and bringing them to justice. Come on; you must admit, it's not
everyone who has the chance to do that. Not in the common populace, anyway."
"Sherlock isn't simply going
away," Mycroft said. "He's terminating his existence- at least as far
as the world is concerned. I find it hard to believe that you're prepared to do
that."
"Well..." For the first
time, John began to think it through. "There'd be no more pension. That could
be difficult."
"No sister," Mycroft
added.
John hesitated. He wasn't close to
Harry, but he hated to think of her mourning his fake demise. "I could
send her a note."
"No notes," Sherlock wheezed.
"If you really mean to join
Sherlock," Mycroft said, "you will have to appear to die as
well."
"Couldn't I just...
disappear?"
"Tut." Mycroft snapped
shut his file. "Moriarty would see through that in an instant. That's the
reason for this entire ruse. If Moriarty has the tiniest suspicion that
Sherlock is still alive, he will undoubtedly follow through on at least a few
of his plans to off some of you- just to test whether or not Sherlock is indeed
around to react to the incident."
John shifted uncomfortably. "Then
it's better that I go with him, isn't it? For my own safety."
"And for the safety of everyone
else you know. That means that they had better believe that you really are deceased.
If one of them were to act the least out of character, the game would be up-
and their lives along with it."
John felt the burden of his decision
sink into his soul.
"So," Mycroft went on,
"no notes. No farewells. No communications of any kind." His sharp
gaze skewered John where he sat. "Are you prepared to go through with
that?"
"You're forgetting one little thing,"
Lestrade interrupted.
Mycroft didn't relinquish his gaze.
"Yes, Inspector?"
"Dr. Watson has been released
from hospital. They've got all his records. How are you going to explain him
dying, suddenly and without warning, after he's already been examined?"
Sherlock raised his eyebrows at
John, calling for his reply.
"Easiest thing in the world,"
John replied, thinking frantically. "Ah... right. I have it. Arterial gas
embolism."
Lestrade frowned. "What's that?"
"A complication of pulmonary
barotrauma brought about by the explosion. One little air bubble to the brain
and- pfft!" John met Lestrade's eye. "It's relatively rare, but these
cases do occasionally occur in blast victims who've been released because they
exhibit no other symptoms, such as a rupture of the TM, which I don't. No blame to
the staff here if they missed it; they've had far less experience with blast
injuries than I have."
Mycroft considered a moment, then spoke
over his shoulder. "Anthea?"
"No problem, sir," she replied,
working her Blackberry.
Mycroft turned back. "Very
well, then, Doctor. You shall die of an arterial gas embolism. Congratulations.
We'll have your remains cremated the same time we do Sherlock's, and send the
box to your sister."
John hardly knew how to feel.
"Thank you." He looked Sherlock's way, to find him frowning.
"What?"
Sherlock whispered. "Why would
you turn your life upside-down, for me?"
"To be honest, Sherlock, my
life wasn't all that spectacular before you came along to mess it up- no
offense intended. And, the truth is-" He cast an uncomfortable glance at
Lestrade, then looked down. "I enjoy your company."
For a moment, John sat in miserable
silence, feeling his ears grow warm over his too-personal confession. Then he risked
a glance to see Sherlock smiling at him. A weight seemed to lift off his
shoulders.
Sherlock's voice was weak, but
clear. "John, what do you say to the two of us travelling round the world together?"
John sighed in relief. "I
thought you'd never ask."
They sat grinning at each other-
then Mycroft shoved back his chair sharply, bringing John to himself with a
jerk.
"Well, there's no accounting
for taste." Mycroft collected his hat, which Anthea was holding out for
him. "I'll let you sit with him, Doctor, as you'll be having an arterial
embolism soon, and we can't have you out on the street. Inspector, I'll need a
few more minutes of your time, as it seems we must adjust our
arrangements."
"That's fine."
John had lost track of Lestrade.
John glanced that way, to find the man smiling smugly. John caught his eye.
"Thanks."
Lestrade waved him off. "Always
happy to help deserving people die for a worthy cause." He opened the door
for Anthea, and kept it open for Mycroft, who followed immediately after. He
paused to give John a wink, then stepped after the others into the hall. The
door shut.
John shook his head, then turned
back to Sherlock. "Alone at last."
Sherlock puffed a breath in
acknowledgement.
John shifted. "Sgt. Donovan
said... there were sniper wounds?"
"One," Sherlock whispered.
"Across the back."
"Is it... serious?"
"Superficial."
"Well, good. That's good."
Sherlock nodded. He looked troubled,
which set John on edge once more.
"Is... everything all right?
Can I get you anything?"
Sherlock barely shook his head. Unhappily,
he met John's eyes. "Are you sure about this?"
Oddly, John felt relieved that
Sherlock could have an attack of insecurity just like anybody else. He settled
back in his chair. "Quite sure, thank you."
"I won't get on your
nerves?"
"You already get on my
nerves."
Sherlock nodded solemnly. "You'll
regret your decision, you know."
"I know. I regret it
already."
"Well, then." Sherlock's gaze
wandered over the ceiling.
John sensed his future travelling
companion was at his strength's end. Kindly he said, "Try and get a little
sleep, won't you?"
Heavy-eyed, Sherlock murmured, "Won't
that be dull for you?"
"Not at all. After tonight, I
could use a good stretch of dull."
"Oh." The eyes became
bleary, unfocused.
"Sweet dreams," John said.
"You... too."
The eyelids fluttered down. The thin
body sank a little into the bed, exhaustion quickly overpowering consciousness.
John was left alone with the steady beep of monitors, the periodic gurgle of
the water seal for the chest tube, the light but even breathing of Sherlock as
he slept.
John thought it was the most
beautiful sound he had ever heard.
The End
Title: What Friends Do, Part 7 of 7
Characters: Holmes, Watson, Lestrade
Rating: PG
Warnings: Spoilers for episode 3 of the BBC modern-day Sherlock series.
Summary: One more take on a contemporary "Final Problem". Events take place immediately after the so-called end of episode 3, "The Great Game."
What
Friends Do, part 7
John's heart beat faster as he
watched the numbers in the lift count down. By the time the doors opened onto
the second subbasement, he was almost lightheaded from anticipation and nerves.
Two extremely large orderlies in
blue surgical garb stepped forward from a door where they'd been lounging
farther up the hall. John took one look at their size and the way their hands
strayed toward their chests, as if reaching for pistols secreted in unseen
holsters, to know that these weren't any kind of hospital staff. Probably
guards brought round by Mycroft; what did that fellow do, anyway? None
of John's business. The only item of relevance he gathered from all that was
that the two men obviously marked the proper door.
Lestrade walked directly toward it,
then nodded at the closest man to let him in. The guard gave them both the
once-over, but opened the door without comment. Mouth dry, John followed the
inspector inside.
The room was larger than a regular
one; after all, it was merely a converted storage room, not meant to be a
recovery room at all. A hospital bed was set up at the far end, with rows of
monitoring equipment flanking it. On the right side of the bed sat Mycroft in a
large, padded chair; his omnipresent assistant Anthea hovered over one
shoulder. She gave John a disinterested glance, then continued texting, or
whatever else she was doing.
John barely observed her. His
attention was on the man in the bed.
Sherlock's eyes flicked in John's
direction and stayed. They were dull, glazed over from pain or drugs. They'd
put in a chest tube for the pneumothorax caused by his pierced lung, and he
appeared to be halfway through a transfusion. They'd given him a clear drip as
well, which could be anything from fluids to antibiotics or some other drug.
John noticed a button for a morphine pump, or whatever painkiller they had
prescribed. Still, for all that, Sherlock was awake. Slowly, John approached
the bed.
Sherlock's face and neck were reddened
on the right side; burn marks from the blast. The rest of his skin was even
paler than usual, save for the hollows under his eyes, which looked bruised. He
breathed unsteadily through the nasal cannula, his lingering hypoxia evident by
the mild cyanosis expressed in his lips and fingernails. It seems the tales of
blood loss weren't mere fantasies after all.
Mycroft pursed his lips at John's
arrival, then shook his head and went back to reading (or pretending to read)
the folder of information he'd been perusing when John came in. John ignored
him, drawing up to the left side of the bed. Sherlock's oddly light eyes
followed him as he moved.
John nodded toward the bed. "I
see it's not broken."
"Broken?" Sherlock's thready
voice cracked.
"Your back- no traction."
"Spinal cord shock,"
Mycroft murmured, not looking up.
John looked quickly toward
Sherlock's feet, alarmed. "Can you feel anything?"
Sherlock whispered, "It's
improving."
"Thank God." John marginally
relaxed. "The steroids are helping, then?"
Mycroft answered. "It's a bit
early to say, I'm afraid." He turned a page. "We think so."
Hardly consoled, John simply nodded
and drew up a chair. "Well." He seated himself. "I've run you to
ground at last."
Sherlock merely looked at him, but
something both exasperated and vaguely amused twinkled in those drug-glazed
eyes. John knew instantly upon seeing it that he was forgiven.
He went through with his speech
anyway, as a matter of form. Giving Sherlock as hard a look as he could manage
under the circumstances, John said, "This ruse was unnecessary, don't you
think? You couldn't have expected me to fall for it."
"I hoped you might."
"So I could be miserable to no
purpose?"
"Safe." Sherlock's breath
caught. "I wanted you safe."
"Sherlock, you must know by
now, being safe is not the highest consideration with me."
"He's an enemy... unlike any
you've met with before."
"An arch-enemy. Well, I'll
grant you that. This one certainly qualifies."
"It's no light matter."
"Do you see me laughing?"
Sherlock mumbled something. John
leaned closer. "What was that?"
"I knew... it was a mistake."
"What was?"
"Us... becoming friends."
As John grappled with that notion, Sherlock added thinly, "Friendship
makes people do stupid things."
John relaxed. "Try not to take
it too badly, Sherlock. I'll forgive you for trying to save me from the bomb,
if you'll forgive me for trying to make sure it hadn't killed you afterwards. After
all, that's what friends do."
Sherlock's eyes flicked toward
Lestrade, who was leaning against the wall near the door with his arms crossed,
watching the proceedings with a look of satisfaction on his face. "Are
friends always this much trouble?" Sherlock asked him.
Lestrade smirked. "If they're
any good, they are."
"I knew I couldn't trust you."
John cut off Lestrade's protest. "You
forget who you're talking to," he said sternly. "I'm a doctor,
Sherlock. I had ample time to monitor your condition whilst we were trapped.
Did you honestly expect me to pass as a dying man someone who had no rise in
pulse or lowering of blood pressure?"
Sherlock's lips twitched; a smile.
"I should have known better... than to try to elude my blogger."
"You bloody well should have. Never
mind; it's just further proof that everyone's an idiot now and then."
The smile grew.
"So, what do we do now?"
John asked. "Hang round the basement until you're well enough to scarper
off to Bulgaria, or wherever it is that you had in mind?"
"We'll be moving him to a
secure location tomorrow," Mycroft interjected. "We can hardly keep
him secret here in the basement."
"All the better that I caught
up with you now, then."
"You can't go," Sherlock
whispered.
John was hurt. "I know I'm not
some crack government physician, but you have to admit I've been useful to you
from time to time."
"It's not that." Sherlock
drew in a breath. "You can't..."
"Yes?"
"Give up your whole life."
John snorted. "Oh, yes. My
wonderful, full life." He narrowed his eyes. "You're not the only one
who gets bored, you know. What do you expect me to do with myself while you're
sneaking around the back country in disguise? Join a club? Get a dog and blog
about its antics? What kind of life is that?"
"John..." Sherlock's face
was troubled. "I won't be coming back."
"Oh, yes you will. Eventually. When
you've got your strength back, you'll put all your efforts into hunting
Moriarty down. Do you seriously expect me to sit that out?"
"It could take years."
"If that's what it takes."
Mycroft interrupted. "Have you
considered what you're committing to, John?"
John was indignant. "Of course
I have! I've never had so much fun-" Belatedly recalling that Lestrade was
in the room, he tried to catch back the words. Realizing it was already too
late, he said deliberately, "I've never had so much fun in my life as I've
had in the last two months. I don't want to give that up."
"You enjoy having your life
threatened?" Mycroft inquired primly.
"I enjoy pursuing criminals. Chasing
them down and bringing them to justice. Come on; you must admit, it's not
everyone who has the chance to do that. Not in the common populace, anyway."
"Sherlock isn't simply going
away," Mycroft said. "He's terminating his existence- at least as far
as the world is concerned. I find it hard to believe that you're prepared to do
that."
"Well..." For the first
time, John began to think it through. "There'd be no more pension. That could
be difficult."
"No sister," Mycroft
added.
John hesitated. He wasn't close to
Harry, but he hated to think of her mourning his fake demise. "I could
send her a note."
"No notes," Sherlock wheezed.
"If you really mean to join
Sherlock," Mycroft said, "you will have to appear to die as
well."
"Couldn't I just...
disappear?"
"Tut." Mycroft snapped
shut his file. "Moriarty would see through that in an instant. That's the
reason for this entire ruse. If Moriarty has the tiniest suspicion that
Sherlock is still alive, he will undoubtedly follow through on at least a few
of his plans to off some of you- just to test whether or not Sherlock is indeed
around to react to the incident."
John shifted uncomfortably. "Then
it's better that I go with him, isn't it? For my own safety."
"And for the safety of everyone
else you know. That means that they had better believe that you really are deceased.
If one of them were to act the least out of character, the game would be up-
and their lives along with it."
John felt the burden of his decision
sink into his soul.
"So," Mycroft went on,
"no notes. No farewells. No communications of any kind." His sharp
gaze skewered John where he sat. "Are you prepared to go through with
that?"
"You're forgetting one little thing,"
Lestrade interrupted.
Mycroft didn't relinquish his gaze.
"Yes, Inspector?"
"Dr. Watson has been released
from hospital. They've got all his records. How are you going to explain him
dying, suddenly and without warning, after he's already been examined?"
Sherlock raised his eyebrows at
John, calling for his reply.
"Easiest thing in the world,"
John replied, thinking frantically. "Ah... right. I have it. Arterial gas
embolism."
Lestrade frowned. "What's that?"
"A complication of pulmonary
barotrauma brought about by the explosion. One little air bubble to the brain
and- pfft!" John met Lestrade's eye. "It's relatively rare, but these
cases do occasionally occur in blast victims who've been released because they
exhibit no other symptoms, such as a rupture of the TM, which I don't. No blame to
the staff here if they missed it; they've had far less experience with blast
injuries than I have."
Mycroft considered a moment, then spoke
over his shoulder. "Anthea?"
"No problem, sir," she replied,
working her Blackberry.
Mycroft turned back. "Very
well, then, Doctor. You shall die of an arterial gas embolism. Congratulations.
We'll have your remains cremated the same time we do Sherlock's, and send the
box to your sister."
John hardly knew how to feel.
"Thank you." He looked Sherlock's way, to find him frowning.
"What?"
Sherlock whispered. "Why would
you turn your life upside-down, for me?"
"To be honest, Sherlock, my
life wasn't all that spectacular before you came along to mess it up- no
offense intended. And, the truth is-" He cast an uncomfortable glance at
Lestrade, then looked down. "I enjoy your company."
For a moment, John sat in miserable
silence, feeling his ears grow warm over his too-personal confession. Then he risked
a glance to see Sherlock smiling at him. A weight seemed to lift off his
shoulders.
Sherlock's voice was weak, but
clear. "John, what do you say to the two of us travelling round the world together?"
John sighed in relief. "I
thought you'd never ask."
They sat grinning at each other-
then Mycroft shoved back his chair sharply, bringing John to himself with a
jerk.
"Well, there's no accounting
for taste." Mycroft collected his hat, which Anthea was holding out for
him. "I'll let you sit with him, Doctor, as you'll be having an arterial
embolism soon, and we can't have you out on the street. Inspector, I'll need a
few more minutes of your time, as it seems we must adjust our
arrangements."
"That's fine."
John had lost track of Lestrade.
John glanced that way, to find the man smiling smugly. John caught his eye.
"Thanks."
Lestrade waved him off. "Always
happy to help deserving people die for a worthy cause." He opened the door
for Anthea, and kept it open for Mycroft, who followed immediately after. He
paused to give John a wink, then stepped after the others into the hall. The
door shut.
John shook his head, then turned
back to Sherlock. "Alone at last."
Sherlock puffed a breath in
acknowledgement.
John shifted. "Sgt. Donovan
said... there were sniper wounds?"
"One," Sherlock whispered.
"Across the back."
"Is it... serious?"
"Superficial."
"Well, good. That's good."
Sherlock nodded. He looked troubled,
which set John on edge once more.
"Is... everything all right?
Can I get you anything?"
Sherlock barely shook his head. Unhappily,
he met John's eyes. "Are you sure about this?"
Oddly, John felt relieved that
Sherlock could have an attack of insecurity just like anybody else. He settled
back in his chair. "Quite sure, thank you."
"I won't get on your
nerves?"
"You already get on my
nerves."
Sherlock nodded solemnly. "You'll
regret your decision, you know."
"I know. I regret it
already."
"Well, then." Sherlock's gaze
wandered over the ceiling.
John sensed his future travelling
companion was at his strength's end. Kindly he said, "Try and get a little
sleep, won't you?"
Heavy-eyed, Sherlock murmured, "Won't
that be dull for you?"
"Not at all. After tonight, I
could use a good stretch of dull."
"Oh." The eyes became
bleary, unfocused.
"Sweet dreams," John said.
"You... too."
The eyelids fluttered down. The thin
body sank a little into the bed, exhaustion quickly overpowering consciousness.
John was left alone with the steady beep of monitors, the periodic gurgle of
the water seal for the chest tube, the light but even breathing of Sherlock as
he slept.
John thought it was the most
beautiful sound he had ever heard.
The End