Cemetery Road - Chapter 13
Title: Cemetery Road
Author:
revwestwood
Rating: Teen (Mild Violence, Medical Situations)
Status: WIP
Characters: Sherlock, John, Lestrade, Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson
Spoilers: Through "The Reichenbach Fall"
Disclaimer: I don't own them. Just having a bit of fun.
Summary: "You think that their dying is the worst thing that could happen. Then they stay dead."
Sherlock returns to 221B to take out the last strands of Moriarty's web with John's help, but Sherlock underestimates just how far that web stretched. This time, Sherlock won't fall alone.
Author's Notes: Thanks to my friends who encouraged this whole process. I. owe. you.
Chapter 13
Mycroft’s call comes precisely as the courier places the package on his desk. Lestrade fights the urge to look over his shoulder as Mycroft says without preamble, “Would you be so good as to take this to my brother? He will need it. I’m sorry I cannot do so myself. Too busy today, I’m afraid.”
Lestrade refrains from mentioning that Mycroft has been “too busy” to return to the hospital at all after the night of John’s attack over a week ago. As soon as Sherlock had been permitted to see John, Mycroft had left. Lestrade suspected Mycroft simply did not want to deal with Sherlock in this state, but what did he know? To his credit, Mycroft was obviously well informed about every tiny shift in John’s condition. Maybe he really does have a diplomatic emergency that requires his near-constant attention right now. It’s not like the world stops turning because John Watson is in a coma. Although, for one Holmes brother it did.
“You sent a courier with a package for Sherlock to me so I could deliver it?” Lestrade asks, picking up the small parcel wrapped in brown packing paper and turning it over in his hands. “I am at work, you know. I also have a job,” he says, rising, putting on his coat, and tucking the package in a pocket.
Mycroft sniffs. “Don’t be difficult, Inspector. If he isn’t in John’s room, try the roof.”
“Wait. What?” Lestrade says, nearly shouting in surprise. Mycroft has already ended the call.
After nodding to the short, suited man reading the paper in a folding chair outside John’s door, Lestrade grabs a face mask and holds it up to his mouth as he sticks his head in the room. John’s still form and the cacophonous choir of machines are the only occupants.
Lestrade finds Sherlock pacing on the roof of the hospital.
It’s a surprisingly bright morning for April in London, if brisk. The hospital grounds committee has taken some effort to make the hospital roof an inviting space. Weathered wooden benches are scattered about, facing different directions to allow for the illusion of privacy. Malnourished saplings are staked into cement troughs in a loose geometric pattern meant to offer a bit of shade and a hint of color without obstructing the view. Despite the hospital’s attempt to welcome patients and their visitors into the fresh air, Sherlock and Lestrade are alone.
Sherlock is pacing near the waist-high brick wall that surrounds the roof. He stops and turns to Lestrade as he approaches.
“Let’s have it then,” says Sherlock, holding his hand out.
“What?”
“The package Mycroft sent you here with.”
“How did you...? Sod it. I don’t want to know,” mumbles Lestrade. He fishes the parcel from his pocket and places it in Sherlock’s palm. “Here.”
“Oh, dear,” says Sherlock, wrapping his fingers around the package. “Big brother is concerned, isn’t he?”
Sherlock tears the paper from the package and deftly removes the plastic from the carton in one movement. He smacks the bottom of the carton on the heel of his palm three times and rips the top open, removing a cigarette and placing it between his lips. He holds the carton toward Lestrade and gives it a little shake. The filter of one cigarette rises slightly above its companions so Lestrade can easily pluck it out.
Lestrade looks at the carton and sighs. He pushes up his sleeve and rips off the nicotine patch, balling it up and sending into a nearby bin with a flick of his fingers. There goes another six weeks of quitting. Maybe it will stick one of these times.
The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitches into a brief smile as Lestrade takes the cigarette. He pulls out a small lighter and ignites Lestrade’s cigarette and then his own, inhaling deeply.
“John is going to be furious about this,” Lestrade offers.
“I’m looking forward to it.” Sherlock says, blowing smoke into the chilly morning air.
“I have to say I’m surprised to find you up here.”
“I need to think. John’s room is too...noisy. He doesn’t mind. He’s used to it, my leaving to think,” says Sherlock defensively.
“No,” says Lestrade, “I mean I’m surprised to find you on a roof at all. I would have assumed...”
Sherlock’s expression of baffled judgment makes Lestrade trail off. How does he do that? How can he be confused and superior at the same time?
“Does nothing frighten you?” he asks Sherlock in exasperation.
“Don’t be an idiot,” Sherlock says, turning away from him to look over the wall. “Falling is nothing to fear if one takes a few precautions.”
Lestrade has no idea what to say to that.
They smoke in silence for a few minutes. Sherlock leaning on his forearms, looking toward the horizon as ash breaks off the tip of his cigarette and disappears off the edge of the building.
“It seems like ages ago now, but there was a time when the only thing I found frightening was boredom.”
Lestrade is silent. This is the most forthright statement Sherlock has ever offered him. It’s new territory for them both.
“Now it seems there are a great many things that frighten me,” Sherlock continues. “Or just one, depending on how you look at it.”
“John,” says Lestrade.
Sherlock nods slightly. “Fear separates people from what they have come to rely on. It takes away their resources and leaves them with nothing but irrational emotion and regrettable decisions. Even me, it turns out. Losing John is the very definition of fear.”
Sherlock says all this calmly, looking out over the rooftops of neighboring buildings, effortlessly indexing the architectural styles and suspected build dates with business names and traffic patterns.
Lestrade looks at the cigarette between his fingers, wondering at the mission Mycroft sent him on.
“He’s not getting better, is he?” Lestrade asks.
“No,” says Sherlock and hops agilely onto the roof wall. He sits on the roof ledge, legs dangling.
Lestrade thinks he might stop breathing. “Jesus! Be careful!” he shouts before he can stop himself.
Sherlock rolls his eyes and pats the ledge next to him. “If you’re worried I’m going to jump, perhaps you should get up here with me, Inspector.”
“You are the most infuriating man on the planet, you know that?” Lestrade says and climbs onto the wall next to Sherlock, but faces toward the interior patio. He figures he can tackle them both back onto the roof should it come to that.
“So I’ve been told,” says Sherlock. “No. John isn’t getting better. He isn’t, in point of fact, getting worse, either. Since being put on the ventilator there has been no discernible change in his condition whatsoever. But, if he stays intubated much longer, the chances of him ever being able to breathe without it diminish significantly.”
“What does that mean?” Lestrade asks.
“It means I have to decide whether to turn off the ventilator.” Sherlock sighs. “It’s possible that John might start breathing on his own without it. It’s also possible that he will stop breathing entirely.”
“You could turn it back on in that case, right?”
“Yes. That would be an option,” says Sherlock.
“But you don’t know if John would want that.”
“I think we moved outside the realm of what John wanted a long time ago.”
Lestrade looks at the skinny trees braving the wind, London smog, and concrete encasement to survive on a lonely hospital rooftop. He wonders if patients who come up here find their presence hopeful or just depressing.
“What are you going to do?” asks Lestrade.
“I don’t know,” Sherlock says after a moment.
“When do you have to decide?”
“Now,” says Sherlock and pivots on the wall, swinging his legs toward the interior. He jumps off and tucks the carton of cigarettes into his coat pocket. He turns toward the door to the stairwell. “Come on, they’ll be waiting for me.”
Lestrade hops off the wall, feeling the jolt in his knees and ankles. He follows behind Sherlock as they take the stairs to John’s floor. Sherlock swipes a hospital ID badge that Lestrade is quite certain he has no legitimate claim to and lets them both onto the floor.
Sherlock keeps a measured pace going past the nurses’ station, trying to buy time. All the patient call bells seem to be going off at once judging from the trill binging at the station. Every nurse on duty must be in patients’ rooms answering the summons.
“Sherlock, do you want someone else here?” Lestrade asks as they turn onto John’s corridor. “I’m sure Mycroft would come, or Mrs. Hudson... Hey!” Lestrade yells as Sherlock takes off at a sprint.
A second later he notices the empty chair beside John’s door and breaks into a run himself.
The sound of alarms is deafening as Sherlock throws open the door. Severed tubes and wires hang between the shrieking machines, leaking onto the bed or twitching weakly.
John is gone.
Author:
revwestwood
Rating: Teen (Mild Violence, Medical Situations)
Status: WIP
Characters: Sherlock, John, Lestrade, Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson
Spoilers: Through "The Reichenbach Fall"
Disclaimer: I don't own them. Just having a bit of fun.
Summary: "You think that their dying is the worst thing that could happen. Then they stay dead."
Sherlock returns to 221B to take out the last strands of Moriarty's web with John's help, but Sherlock underestimates just how far that web stretched. This time, Sherlock won't fall alone.
Author's Notes: Thanks to my friends who encouraged this whole process. I. owe. you.
Chapter 13
Mycroft’s call comes precisely as the courier places the package on his desk. Lestrade fights the urge to look over his shoulder as Mycroft says without preamble, “Would you be so good as to take this to my brother? He will need it. I’m sorry I cannot do so myself. Too busy today, I’m afraid.”
Lestrade refrains from mentioning that Mycroft has been “too busy” to return to the hospital at all after the night of John’s attack over a week ago. As soon as Sherlock had been permitted to see John, Mycroft had left. Lestrade suspected Mycroft simply did not want to deal with Sherlock in this state, but what did he know? To his credit, Mycroft was obviously well informed about every tiny shift in John’s condition. Maybe he really does have a diplomatic emergency that requires his near-constant attention right now. It’s not like the world stops turning because John Watson is in a coma. Although, for one Holmes brother it did.
“You sent a courier with a package for Sherlock to me so I could deliver it?” Lestrade asks, picking up the small parcel wrapped in brown packing paper and turning it over in his hands. “I am at work, you know. I also have a job,” he says, rising, putting on his coat, and tucking the package in a pocket.
Mycroft sniffs. “Don’t be difficult, Inspector. If he isn’t in John’s room, try the roof.”
“Wait. What?” Lestrade says, nearly shouting in surprise. Mycroft has already ended the call.
After nodding to the short, suited man reading the paper in a folding chair outside John’s door, Lestrade grabs a face mask and holds it up to his mouth as he sticks his head in the room. John’s still form and the cacophonous choir of machines are the only occupants.
Lestrade finds Sherlock pacing on the roof of the hospital.
It’s a surprisingly bright morning for April in London, if brisk. The hospital grounds committee has taken some effort to make the hospital roof an inviting space. Weathered wooden benches are scattered about, facing different directions to allow for the illusion of privacy. Malnourished saplings are staked into cement troughs in a loose geometric pattern meant to offer a bit of shade and a hint of color without obstructing the view. Despite the hospital’s attempt to welcome patients and their visitors into the fresh air, Sherlock and Lestrade are alone.
Sherlock is pacing near the waist-high brick wall that surrounds the roof. He stops and turns to Lestrade as he approaches.
“Let’s have it then,” says Sherlock, holding his hand out.
“What?”
“The package Mycroft sent you here with.”
“How did you...? Sod it. I don’t want to know,” mumbles Lestrade. He fishes the parcel from his pocket and places it in Sherlock’s palm. “Here.”
“Oh, dear,” says Sherlock, wrapping his fingers around the package. “Big brother is concerned, isn’t he?”
Sherlock tears the paper from the package and deftly removes the plastic from the carton in one movement. He smacks the bottom of the carton on the heel of his palm three times and rips the top open, removing a cigarette and placing it between his lips. He holds the carton toward Lestrade and gives it a little shake. The filter of one cigarette rises slightly above its companions so Lestrade can easily pluck it out.
Lestrade looks at the carton and sighs. He pushes up his sleeve and rips off the nicotine patch, balling it up and sending into a nearby bin with a flick of his fingers. There goes another six weeks of quitting. Maybe it will stick one of these times.
The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitches into a brief smile as Lestrade takes the cigarette. He pulls out a small lighter and ignites Lestrade’s cigarette and then his own, inhaling deeply.
“John is going to be furious about this,” Lestrade offers.
“I’m looking forward to it.” Sherlock says, blowing smoke into the chilly morning air.
“I have to say I’m surprised to find you up here.”
“I need to think. John’s room is too...noisy. He doesn’t mind. He’s used to it, my leaving to think,” says Sherlock defensively.
“No,” says Lestrade, “I mean I’m surprised to find you on a roof at all. I would have assumed...”
Sherlock’s expression of baffled judgment makes Lestrade trail off. How does he do that? How can he be confused and superior at the same time?
“Does nothing frighten you?” he asks Sherlock in exasperation.
“Don’t be an idiot,” Sherlock says, turning away from him to look over the wall. “Falling is nothing to fear if one takes a few precautions.”
Lestrade has no idea what to say to that.
They smoke in silence for a few minutes. Sherlock leaning on his forearms, looking toward the horizon as ash breaks off the tip of his cigarette and disappears off the edge of the building.
“It seems like ages ago now, but there was a time when the only thing I found frightening was boredom.”
Lestrade is silent. This is the most forthright statement Sherlock has ever offered him. It’s new territory for them both.
“Now it seems there are a great many things that frighten me,” Sherlock continues. “Or just one, depending on how you look at it.”
“John,” says Lestrade.
Sherlock nods slightly. “Fear separates people from what they have come to rely on. It takes away their resources and leaves them with nothing but irrational emotion and regrettable decisions. Even me, it turns out. Losing John is the very definition of fear.”
Sherlock says all this calmly, looking out over the rooftops of neighboring buildings, effortlessly indexing the architectural styles and suspected build dates with business names and traffic patterns.
Lestrade looks at the cigarette between his fingers, wondering at the mission Mycroft sent him on.
“He’s not getting better, is he?” Lestrade asks.
“No,” says Sherlock and hops agilely onto the roof wall. He sits on the roof ledge, legs dangling.
Lestrade thinks he might stop breathing. “Jesus! Be careful!” he shouts before he can stop himself.
Sherlock rolls his eyes and pats the ledge next to him. “If you’re worried I’m going to jump, perhaps you should get up here with me, Inspector.”
“You are the most infuriating man on the planet, you know that?” Lestrade says and climbs onto the wall next to Sherlock, but faces toward the interior patio. He figures he can tackle them both back onto the roof should it come to that.
“So I’ve been told,” says Sherlock. “No. John isn’t getting better. He isn’t, in point of fact, getting worse, either. Since being put on the ventilator there has been no discernible change in his condition whatsoever. But, if he stays intubated much longer, the chances of him ever being able to breathe without it diminish significantly.”
“What does that mean?” Lestrade asks.
“It means I have to decide whether to turn off the ventilator.” Sherlock sighs. “It’s possible that John might start breathing on his own without it. It’s also possible that he will stop breathing entirely.”
“You could turn it back on in that case, right?”
“Yes. That would be an option,” says Sherlock.
“But you don’t know if John would want that.”
“I think we moved outside the realm of what John wanted a long time ago.”
Lestrade looks at the skinny trees braving the wind, London smog, and concrete encasement to survive on a lonely hospital rooftop. He wonders if patients who come up here find their presence hopeful or just depressing.
“What are you going to do?” asks Lestrade.
“I don’t know,” Sherlock says after a moment.
“When do you have to decide?”
“Now,” says Sherlock and pivots on the wall, swinging his legs toward the interior. He jumps off and tucks the carton of cigarettes into his coat pocket. He turns toward the door to the stairwell. “Come on, they’ll be waiting for me.”
Lestrade hops off the wall, feeling the jolt in his knees and ankles. He follows behind Sherlock as they take the stairs to John’s floor. Sherlock swipes a hospital ID badge that Lestrade is quite certain he has no legitimate claim to and lets them both onto the floor.
Sherlock keeps a measured pace going past the nurses’ station, trying to buy time. All the patient call bells seem to be going off at once judging from the trill binging at the station. Every nurse on duty must be in patients’ rooms answering the summons.
“Sherlock, do you want someone else here?” Lestrade asks as they turn onto John’s corridor. “I’m sure Mycroft would come, or Mrs. Hudson... Hey!” Lestrade yells as Sherlock takes off at a sprint.
A second later he notices the empty chair beside John’s door and breaks into a run himself.
The sound of alarms is deafening as Sherlock throws open the door. Severed tubes and wires hang between the shrieking machines, leaking onto the bed or twitching weakly.
John is gone.