Waking Hour
Waking Hour
A/N: Just watched Season Two of Sherlock. Sort of AU story inspired by one line from the song Drought by Vienna Teng.
It isn’t the sound of the gunshot that stops him. He’s run headlong toward air-shattering bullets before, and the noise barely registers. Just the slight disturbance of the air against his sharp, high cheek.
It isn’t the bright flash, like a supernova, from the muzzle which briefly lights the dark autumn night either. He’s disturbingly accustomed to being shot at. His blue eyes soak up the burst of light and he adjusts the path of his chase.
No, it isn’t the sound and it isn’t the light.
He stops when he no longer hears John’s echoing footfalls behind him. The familiar, steady, constant and reassuring sound of his friend has ceased.
That’s when the fear settles in his gut, heavy and dark and cold.
He stops in the cool, damp alley. Just another non-descript, cool, damp alley in the middle of nowhere that they must’ve run down a thousand times before. He barely hears the gunshot, but he knows the sickening sound of a body striking the earth.
He turns, his long, dark coat stirring the mist, catching the faint moonlight and causing the damp air to swirl gracefully about it. It is a beautiful sight, and even John himself would have been struck by the appropriate imagery. Of course, he would have thought. But John doesn’t see it from where he has slumped to the ground. Sherlock’s mind reels. Running. Flash. Gunshot. John.
And it doesn’t take the worlds only and brilliant consulting detective to figure this one out. He’s dialed 999 and given the location before he even reaches John, hanging up on the dispatcher even as she pleads with him not to. How can he listen to her when all he wants is to hear John’s voice?
John, all trained soldier and medical doctor, has already applied pressure to the wound and is trying to keep himself upright and awake. But there’s a lot of blood and it hurts so much…he’s struggling to maintain his calm.
Sherlock is on his knees beside him now, muttering his name and asking him, “John? John. What can I do? Tell me what to do.”
John shakes his head wearily. “Phone an ambulance…have you?”
Sherlock nods impatiently, “Yes, of course. But what now, there must be something?” He pulls off his scarf and wads it up. “Here, let me see…at least use this against it. You’ve only your coat.” Sherlock pulls John’s hand away, and instantly regrets it. There’s so much blood, made black in the pale light of the moon. It has soaked John’s thin T-shirt and spread through his jumper. He presses the scarf against the wound, wincing as John hisses against the pain. In the distance, he can hear shouting and sirens and the commanding voice of Lestrade. He doesn’t cry out for them, preferring to keep this time with John to himself. Afraid it may be all they have left.
“Not your scarf, Sherlock. It’s far too expensive to be wasted on me..” Sherlock looks to John sharply, pale against the wall. There is humour in his pain-filled eyes. Realizes he is teasing him, even in his condition. “I’m sorry.” John says simply. “I’m so, so sorry.”
Incredulity takes a hold over Sherlock’s face. “For what, John? For going above and beyond what I’ve ever asked of you?” He shrugs out of his coat, draping it over John. He’s showing signs of shock now and he calculates the ambulance is still another 3 minutes away. John looks drawn, for a moment, but tries again to bring some levity to their situation. “No…for ruining your scarf…you’ll never get the blood out.”
Sherlock forces a smile, tries to return the sentiment. “Yes, well, don’t get anything on the coat, John…it’s very precious to me.” They both know he isn’t speaking about the coat. Quiet now in the damp alley. Only far off sounds as if from another world seep through. Barking dogs, breaking glass. The wind scuttling dead leaves.
“Do you know what I thought when I heard that shot?” John asks him, breaking their silence. Sherlock sets his mouth into a grim line, willing himself to hear whatever his friend has to say. “I thought, ‘Not Sherlock, please, not Sherlock.’ And when I felt it hit home, my next thought was, ‘thank god, thank god it wasn’t Sherlock’.” John leans his head back against the brick, the damp helping to keep him conscious. Sherlock closes his eyes, swallowing hard against the emotions which threaten him. “I thought I’d always remember what it felt like, getting shot, you know? But either I’ve forgotten or this one hurts a hell of a lot worse.”
“John, the medics are almost here. Hang on…I need you to hang on. They’ll get you patched up in no time.” He shifts so he is closer to John. “I need you back on your feet. I can’t take a case without my blogger, can I?” John smiles weakly, but they both know how bad it is. John’s treated wounds like this before…with very little success. The patient usually ended up bleeding out before they could get started. John knows the chances of getting a transfusion in time are low.
“Sherlock,” he starts, swallows, starts again, “Sherlock…I want to say, thank you.” He looks directly at his friend, chocolate eyes deep in the gloom. “Thank you for being there when I needed you. I was so despondent, so alone…you saved me, you know?” John shifts slightly as a wave of pain hits him. “You saved me from myself, and I want you to know how much that meant to me.”
Sherlock notes the past tense usage in John’s speech. He places his free hand on John’s shoulder, squeezing it a bit to make him focus. He knows the doctor is in danger of slipping out of consciousness. He needs him to stay awake. Can’t have it end this way.
The sounds of Lestrade and company are closer now, and he sees the Detective Inspector round the corner in his periphery, eyes never leaving John’s face. Sally and Anderson are trailing the Detective, skidding to a halt at the scene before them. Lestrade raises his hand and stops them from following. Only the Detective Inspector comes close, sees what has happened. “Jesus Christ, Sherlock. Have you phoned for an ambulance?” He kneels next to them; trying to get his hands on John, assess the damage, do what he can. But Sherlock doesn’t want the help, doesn’t want anyone else even touching John.
He lashes out, his anger all he has at the moment, “Of course I have. I’m not some idiot member of your team. Don’t touch him, Lestrade…keep your inept hands off of him!” He regrets it instantly, “Lestrade…I…” but he cannot continue. He turns back to John, back to his friend. “It’s bad…very, very bad, Lestrade. And I don’t think…can you keep them all back?”
“Sherlock, we’ve all seen things like this before. They’re all season veterans of the force. They aren’t here to gawk,” Lestrade answers, with a tinge of annoyance.
Sherlock closes his eyes, willing him to understand. “I know, Lestrade. But not here, not him. Please,” he asks, opening up his haunted blue eyes, “I just…we need…can you leave us? Give us some time?”
The Detective Inspector hears more than what Sherlock says in what is before him, sees more in the clasped hands and tight voice, more in the desperate look on Sherlock’s face. He nods understandingly, places a comforting hand on the broken man’s shoulder before standing up and backing away.
“I’ll keep everyone else away…give you some privacy.” Lestrade turns to the assembled group and pushes them back, around the corner and out of view. He places himself as sentinel. No one will be disturbing them on his watch.
“You should be nicer to him, you know. He really… respects you.” John manages to rasp out. “Matter of fact, you should try being nicer to everyone. You’re only going to end up being alone, again.” He isn’t trying to hide it now. He’s dying and he knows it. “You should find someone, Sherlock. You need a partner. There must be someone out there as daft as me to take you on.”
“John.” Sherlock says, and his voice is graveled with sorrow, and he thinks, absently, ahh, so this is what emotion feels like. “John, I want to apologize to you. I got you into this mess…I always get you into some kind of mess. And yet you follow me anyway. You should have stayed away, John.” He sniffs once, twice, blinking up at the moon. “You’d have been so much better off without me. I should have been more responsible with your welfare. Should have pushed you away…” Sherlock trails off, finding it hard to both continue to admit that he was at fault and that his friend is dying. “Why’d you do that, John? Why keep following me?”
John speaks, though his eyes are closed. “You know perfectly well, why, Sherlock. You don’t really need to hear it from me. Not with your perfect deducing skills.” The sirens are louder, now. “You’ve always known, I suspect.”
Keep him talking, Sherlock thinks, keep him conscious. “No, John, I don’t know. Tell me, John…John? Tell me why you stay.”
John smiles, despite everything, he smiles. “Sherlock, I swear you are the most ethereal, unearthly thing I have ever beheld. But sometimes you are a completely obtuse git. It doesn’t matter now anyway, not anymore.” His voice grows fainter, and Sherlock has to lean in to hear him. “No regrets, Sherlock. Never.” But Sherlock is shaking his head, so he has to speak more firmly, “No, Sherlock listen. Listen.” He raises his hand, trembling from pain and cold and something else…raises it up as if to cup Sherlock’s cheek. “I would do it all over again, Sherlock. All of it. Every, single, day.” John’s hand hovers there, quivering the air with his emotion. He can’t seem to finish the move, though. Restrained by weakness or uncertainty, Sherlock cannot say. So he completes the gesture for him, and adds one of his own. Taking John’s bloodied and shaking hand in his, he brings it to rest against his cheek. He turns to place a kiss to the palm, then covers John’s hand with his, pressing it against his face. Only Lestrade sees them, eerily still in the moonlight. Painfully beautiful.
And Sherlock realizes an irony then. The irony of the desire for a normal day with John, any day with John. A boring and mundane day. He realizes he’d give anything to have more of those. It wasn’t fair, to learn to appreciate life only when it was presented to you wrapped in the brilliant cloak of death. It wasn’t fair to finally know yourself, to find love in the knowing, and to lose that love in the space of a heartbeat. Of a gunshot. Of a breath.
“I told…her once, the Woman…” John says, and Sherlock raises an eyebrow at this mention of Irene, “she insinuated we were…a couple.” Sherlock gave him an everybody does that look, and he continued, “I know…I know. But I told her…I told her I wasn’t…that I’m not…well, that we weren’t a couple. She insisted we were. And I…I don’t know. Look, I’m not sure how…to label what we have…you and I…” John sighs, unable to continue, too tired to try.
Sherlock places his free hand under John’s chin, gently bringing his face up so he can look him in the eye. “John…why does it need to have a label? Straight, gay, bisexual, asexual….it doesn’t matter, does it, in the end? Love is love.” He waits a moment, letting that sink in for them both. “Love is love.”
The ambulance arrives then, and before they either of them can say anything John is being taken from him, loaded onto a gurney, and there are just too many people and lights and sounds. Sherlock finds himself being supported again by Lestrade, and he tries desperately to climb into the ambulance with John. He cannot let him out of his sight again. But he’s being held back by the driver, and he vaguely hears something about family only, and follow the ambulance and meet us at the hospital and other rules made for normal people.
Words fail him and he stammers, shrugging off the blanket that’s been wrapped around his shoulders and again pushing through the medics to try and reach John’s side.
It is Lestrade, in the end, who works a miracle. Sherlock sees him speaking to the driver, hears the words, ‘ride’, ‘hospital’, ‘John’, and ‘husband’, and realizes he does really need to try and be nicer to the Detective in the future. But he has no future without John and if pretending he’s his husband is the way to remain with him, he’ll pretend until the stars all fade away.
And maybe he won’t have to work so very hard to pretend, anyway.
Sherlock clambers in, all grace and lithe movements even in the cramped space, and sits by John’s head, one hand gripping his free one as the medics place an IV in the other.
In the space of an instant the alley is nearly silent again. The ambulance has sped away and the rest of his team are headed back to their waiting cars. Only Lestrade remains, in that non-descript and damp alley, clutching Sherlock’s blood soaked scarf. He takes a moment, folds it carefully, and places it in his coat pocket, not caring about the stains on the fabric.
Sally is waiting for him as he climbs into the car, unspeaking, and heads for the hospital. She has the grace to wait a few moments before asking, “Do you think he’ll make it?”
Lestrade doesn’t look at her, keeping his eyes on the road. “I hope so. For Sherlock’s sake, I bloody hope so.”
She seems to mull something over, then, finally, “You told the medics they were married, didn’t you? That’s the way Sherlock got into that ambulance. You said they were married.”
He turns to her for the first time since getting in the car. “I did.” A level, dark stare. “Do you have a problem with that?”
She turns back to the dark streets that speed by, the ambulance lights swirling ahead of them. “No sir,” she replies, and means it. “Not at all.”
A/N: Just watched Season Two of Sherlock. Sort of AU story inspired by one line from the song Drought by Vienna Teng.
It isn’t the sound of the gunshot that stops him. He’s run headlong toward air-shattering bullets before, and the noise barely registers. Just the slight disturbance of the air against his sharp, high cheek.
It isn’t the bright flash, like a supernova, from the muzzle which briefly lights the dark autumn night either. He’s disturbingly accustomed to being shot at. His blue eyes soak up the burst of light and he adjusts the path of his chase.
No, it isn’t the sound and it isn’t the light.
He stops when he no longer hears John’s echoing footfalls behind him. The familiar, steady, constant and reassuring sound of his friend has ceased.
That’s when the fear settles in his gut, heavy and dark and cold.
He stops in the cool, damp alley. Just another non-descript, cool, damp alley in the middle of nowhere that they must’ve run down a thousand times before. He barely hears the gunshot, but he knows the sickening sound of a body striking the earth.
He turns, his long, dark coat stirring the mist, catching the faint moonlight and causing the damp air to swirl gracefully about it. It is a beautiful sight, and even John himself would have been struck by the appropriate imagery. Of course, he would have thought. But John doesn’t see it from where he has slumped to the ground. Sherlock’s mind reels. Running. Flash. Gunshot. John.
And it doesn’t take the worlds only and brilliant consulting detective to figure this one out. He’s dialed 999 and given the location before he even reaches John, hanging up on the dispatcher even as she pleads with him not to. How can he listen to her when all he wants is to hear John’s voice?
John, all trained soldier and medical doctor, has already applied pressure to the wound and is trying to keep himself upright and awake. But there’s a lot of blood and it hurts so much…he’s struggling to maintain his calm.
Sherlock is on his knees beside him now, muttering his name and asking him, “John? John. What can I do? Tell me what to do.”
John shakes his head wearily. “Phone an ambulance…have you?”
Sherlock nods impatiently, “Yes, of course. But what now, there must be something?” He pulls off his scarf and wads it up. “Here, let me see…at least use this against it. You’ve only your coat.” Sherlock pulls John’s hand away, and instantly regrets it. There’s so much blood, made black in the pale light of the moon. It has soaked John’s thin T-shirt and spread through his jumper. He presses the scarf against the wound, wincing as John hisses against the pain. In the distance, he can hear shouting and sirens and the commanding voice of Lestrade. He doesn’t cry out for them, preferring to keep this time with John to himself. Afraid it may be all they have left.
“Not your scarf, Sherlock. It’s far too expensive to be wasted on me..” Sherlock looks to John sharply, pale against the wall. There is humour in his pain-filled eyes. Realizes he is teasing him, even in his condition. “I’m sorry.” John says simply. “I’m so, so sorry.”
Incredulity takes a hold over Sherlock’s face. “For what, John? For going above and beyond what I’ve ever asked of you?” He shrugs out of his coat, draping it over John. He’s showing signs of shock now and he calculates the ambulance is still another 3 minutes away. John looks drawn, for a moment, but tries again to bring some levity to their situation. “No…for ruining your scarf…you’ll never get the blood out.”
Sherlock forces a smile, tries to return the sentiment. “Yes, well, don’t get anything on the coat, John…it’s very precious to me.” They both know he isn’t speaking about the coat. Quiet now in the damp alley. Only far off sounds as if from another world seep through. Barking dogs, breaking glass. The wind scuttling dead leaves.
“Do you know what I thought when I heard that shot?” John asks him, breaking their silence. Sherlock sets his mouth into a grim line, willing himself to hear whatever his friend has to say. “I thought, ‘Not Sherlock, please, not Sherlock.’ And when I felt it hit home, my next thought was, ‘thank god, thank god it wasn’t Sherlock’.” John leans his head back against the brick, the damp helping to keep him conscious. Sherlock closes his eyes, swallowing hard against the emotions which threaten him. “I thought I’d always remember what it felt like, getting shot, you know? But either I’ve forgotten or this one hurts a hell of a lot worse.”
“John, the medics are almost here. Hang on…I need you to hang on. They’ll get you patched up in no time.” He shifts so he is closer to John. “I need you back on your feet. I can’t take a case without my blogger, can I?” John smiles weakly, but they both know how bad it is. John’s treated wounds like this before…with very little success. The patient usually ended up bleeding out before they could get started. John knows the chances of getting a transfusion in time are low.
“Sherlock,” he starts, swallows, starts again, “Sherlock…I want to say, thank you.” He looks directly at his friend, chocolate eyes deep in the gloom. “Thank you for being there when I needed you. I was so despondent, so alone…you saved me, you know?” John shifts slightly as a wave of pain hits him. “You saved me from myself, and I want you to know how much that meant to me.”
Sherlock notes the past tense usage in John’s speech. He places his free hand on John’s shoulder, squeezing it a bit to make him focus. He knows the doctor is in danger of slipping out of consciousness. He needs him to stay awake. Can’t have it end this way.
The sounds of Lestrade and company are closer now, and he sees the Detective Inspector round the corner in his periphery, eyes never leaving John’s face. Sally and Anderson are trailing the Detective, skidding to a halt at the scene before them. Lestrade raises his hand and stops them from following. Only the Detective Inspector comes close, sees what has happened. “Jesus Christ, Sherlock. Have you phoned for an ambulance?” He kneels next to them; trying to get his hands on John, assess the damage, do what he can. But Sherlock doesn’t want the help, doesn’t want anyone else even touching John.
He lashes out, his anger all he has at the moment, “Of course I have. I’m not some idiot member of your team. Don’t touch him, Lestrade…keep your inept hands off of him!” He regrets it instantly, “Lestrade…I…” but he cannot continue. He turns back to John, back to his friend. “It’s bad…very, very bad, Lestrade. And I don’t think…can you keep them all back?”
“Sherlock, we’ve all seen things like this before. They’re all season veterans of the force. They aren’t here to gawk,” Lestrade answers, with a tinge of annoyance.
Sherlock closes his eyes, willing him to understand. “I know, Lestrade. But not here, not him. Please,” he asks, opening up his haunted blue eyes, “I just…we need…can you leave us? Give us some time?”
The Detective Inspector hears more than what Sherlock says in what is before him, sees more in the clasped hands and tight voice, more in the desperate look on Sherlock’s face. He nods understandingly, places a comforting hand on the broken man’s shoulder before standing up and backing away.
“I’ll keep everyone else away…give you some privacy.” Lestrade turns to the assembled group and pushes them back, around the corner and out of view. He places himself as sentinel. No one will be disturbing them on his watch.
“You should be nicer to him, you know. He really… respects you.” John manages to rasp out. “Matter of fact, you should try being nicer to everyone. You’re only going to end up being alone, again.” He isn’t trying to hide it now. He’s dying and he knows it. “You should find someone, Sherlock. You need a partner. There must be someone out there as daft as me to take you on.”
“John.” Sherlock says, and his voice is graveled with sorrow, and he thinks, absently, ahh, so this is what emotion feels like. “John, I want to apologize to you. I got you into this mess…I always get you into some kind of mess. And yet you follow me anyway. You should have stayed away, John.” He sniffs once, twice, blinking up at the moon. “You’d have been so much better off without me. I should have been more responsible with your welfare. Should have pushed you away…” Sherlock trails off, finding it hard to both continue to admit that he was at fault and that his friend is dying. “Why’d you do that, John? Why keep following me?”
John speaks, though his eyes are closed. “You know perfectly well, why, Sherlock. You don’t really need to hear it from me. Not with your perfect deducing skills.” The sirens are louder, now. “You’ve always known, I suspect.”
Keep him talking, Sherlock thinks, keep him conscious. “No, John, I don’t know. Tell me, John…John? Tell me why you stay.”
John smiles, despite everything, he smiles. “Sherlock, I swear you are the most ethereal, unearthly thing I have ever beheld. But sometimes you are a completely obtuse git. It doesn’t matter now anyway, not anymore.” His voice grows fainter, and Sherlock has to lean in to hear him. “No regrets, Sherlock. Never.” But Sherlock is shaking his head, so he has to speak more firmly, “No, Sherlock listen. Listen.” He raises his hand, trembling from pain and cold and something else…raises it up as if to cup Sherlock’s cheek. “I would do it all over again, Sherlock. All of it. Every, single, day.” John’s hand hovers there, quivering the air with his emotion. He can’t seem to finish the move, though. Restrained by weakness or uncertainty, Sherlock cannot say. So he completes the gesture for him, and adds one of his own. Taking John’s bloodied and shaking hand in his, he brings it to rest against his cheek. He turns to place a kiss to the palm, then covers John’s hand with his, pressing it against his face. Only Lestrade sees them, eerily still in the moonlight. Painfully beautiful.
And Sherlock realizes an irony then. The irony of the desire for a normal day with John, any day with John. A boring and mundane day. He realizes he’d give anything to have more of those. It wasn’t fair, to learn to appreciate life only when it was presented to you wrapped in the brilliant cloak of death. It wasn’t fair to finally know yourself, to find love in the knowing, and to lose that love in the space of a heartbeat. Of a gunshot. Of a breath.
“I told…her once, the Woman…” John says, and Sherlock raises an eyebrow at this mention of Irene, “she insinuated we were…a couple.” Sherlock gave him an everybody does that look, and he continued, “I know…I know. But I told her…I told her I wasn’t…that I’m not…well, that we weren’t a couple. She insisted we were. And I…I don’t know. Look, I’m not sure how…to label what we have…you and I…” John sighs, unable to continue, too tired to try.
Sherlock places his free hand under John’s chin, gently bringing his face up so he can look him in the eye. “John…why does it need to have a label? Straight, gay, bisexual, asexual….it doesn’t matter, does it, in the end? Love is love.” He waits a moment, letting that sink in for them both. “Love is love.”
The ambulance arrives then, and before they either of them can say anything John is being taken from him, loaded onto a gurney, and there are just too many people and lights and sounds. Sherlock finds himself being supported again by Lestrade, and he tries desperately to climb into the ambulance with John. He cannot let him out of his sight again. But he’s being held back by the driver, and he vaguely hears something about family only, and follow the ambulance and meet us at the hospital and other rules made for normal people.
Words fail him and he stammers, shrugging off the blanket that’s been wrapped around his shoulders and again pushing through the medics to try and reach John’s side.
It is Lestrade, in the end, who works a miracle. Sherlock sees him speaking to the driver, hears the words, ‘ride’, ‘hospital’, ‘John’, and ‘husband’, and realizes he does really need to try and be nicer to the Detective in the future. But he has no future without John and if pretending he’s his husband is the way to remain with him, he’ll pretend until the stars all fade away.
And maybe he won’t have to work so very hard to pretend, anyway.
Sherlock clambers in, all grace and lithe movements even in the cramped space, and sits by John’s head, one hand gripping his free one as the medics place an IV in the other.
In the space of an instant the alley is nearly silent again. The ambulance has sped away and the rest of his team are headed back to their waiting cars. Only Lestrade remains, in that non-descript and damp alley, clutching Sherlock’s blood soaked scarf. He takes a moment, folds it carefully, and places it in his coat pocket, not caring about the stains on the fabric.
Sally is waiting for him as he climbs into the car, unspeaking, and heads for the hospital. She has the grace to wait a few moments before asking, “Do you think he’ll make it?”
Lestrade doesn’t look at her, keeping his eyes on the road. “I hope so. For Sherlock’s sake, I bloody hope so.”
She seems to mull something over, then, finally, “You told the medics they were married, didn’t you? That’s the way Sherlock got into that ambulance. You said they were married.”
He turns to her for the first time since getting in the car. “I did.” A level, dark stare. “Do you have a problem with that?”
She turns back to the dark streets that speed by, the ambulance lights swirling ahead of them. “No sir,” she replies, and means it. “Not at all.”