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"John!" Sherlocks voice is hoarse and sounds strange in his ears.
White light. White walls. The light is annoingly bright and Sherlock is utterly dazzled. Can't see anything but white. It's too bright after tunnels. He's laying on the bed and there is someone else in the room.
"John?"
It must be John, it must be. John would sit next to him, maybe hold his hand. Why isn't he holding his hand?
"John.." Just a whisper this time. Doubts and fear strike without warning. What had happened? He can't remember. His head hurts and something makes annoying ringing and beeping noise.
Suddenly there is cold hand on his forearm. It definitely isn't John. He jerks back.
"It's all right, you're in the hospital. Can you hear me?" Womans voice.
"John!"
"Mr. Holmes, can you hear me?"
He can't bring himself to answer the question, too drowned in fear. Flashes of memories emerges. Light of the torch on Johns dirty face, his eyes frightened. Smell of sewers. Dirty walls. Their running feet sliding in mucus. Gunshot. Johns blood on his hands. Whispered comforts. John slumped in his arms. An explosion.
"John!" He tries to sit on the bed but his body doesn't comply so he just squirms fruitlessly.
"Please don't move, Mr. Holmes!" Same voice, worried this time. Nurse, obviously.
"I need John." He rasps. "John Watson."
"I'm sorry Mr. Holmes, but there is no John Watson here."
Panic floods him instantly. He tries to sit again. His sight is slowly coming back, still fuzzy, but he can make out the doors which is enough. He's going to find John, he must be around, probably hurt. Why the nurse doesn't know about him? What if he's worse than Sherlock? At this thought his entrails perform something of a twist and the air in the room turns thin and unbreathable. He forbids himself more theories and focuses on another attempt to sit.
"No, Mr. Holmes, you can't get up! You are hurt and sedated, please!" It explains strangely soft edges of his sight and sharp pain in his leg and chest but he doesn't care. He needs John. The need to see him, to touch him is so overwhelming that the pain feels just like something slightly annoying in the background. He sits on the bed and the nurse immediately seizes his shoulders. He tries to shake her off but she's unexpectedly strong for such a small woman. Pain flares brightly in his chest with that movement and his pained gasp startles her even more. She releases him and turns to push the buzzer. He takes advantage of the moment of inattention, slides from the bed and his legs immediately give out. Last thing he remembers before he blacks out is sharp tug of IV ripped out from his skin and panicked scream of the nurse.
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The second awakening isn't much better. He's stil on hospital bed, but this time he's sharply aware of all his injuries and it hurts like hell. He can´t move.
"John?" He gasps half unconscious, because someone is sitting with him. His sight is again a bit blurry and his imagination helpfully supplies short blond hair and affectionate, weary smile, but the image is ruthlessly torn by reality of Mycrofts sharp and very tired eyes on him.
"Where is John?"
Mycroft only sighs and takes his hand. Sherlocks eyes go wide while his heart clenches.
"Mycroft, where is John?" Sherlock repeats and is painfully aware of panic in his voice.
"What do you remember?" Mycroft asks silently.
"I know about the explosion. John have been hurt." Snaps Sherlock impatiently, but his voice is cracked, thin and sound somehow higher than usually.
"Mycroft where is he?"
"We didn't find him yet."
"What?" Another memories flood his brain and all pieces click to their places. Their last fierce argument and John sending him forward for help. Desperate, painful hope in his chest while he run through tunnels alone. And then it hits him hard. Their last touch, so tender. Softness, affection and love in Johns eyes. The secret goodbye. He must had known the tunnel is about to collapse. Sherlock gasps few times, then whines loudly. John must had seen the counter on the bomb, he knew how much time they had left and was able, for the first time in his life, successfully lie to Sherlock. John sent him to safety because he knew Sherlock was determined to stay with him. He knew Sherlock would never agree to save only himself, so he lied and sent him away.
Sherlock feels his lips tremble. Mycrofts hand tightens on his but he is too stunned to flinch away. He was ready to die with John if necessary. He wanted to stay, he needed to be with John until the end, good or bad. He needed to hold his hand and tell him so many things, but John took this decision from him. His body starts shaking. The pain is too much, sharp in his heart and much worse than his injuries could ever cause.
“Sherlock, there still is a hope.” Says Mycroft softly and his grip on Sherlocks hand tightens even more.
“Get out.”
“Sherlock..”
“Get out!” He screams and everything is readable in his voice, even when he turns his face away.
Mycroft sighs again and complies without another word. Sherlock listens to the click of the doors and only then realizes that his immobility is caused by ties on his wrists. He is literally tied to the bed. He looks at the restrains but doesn't try to struggle. It's hopeless anyway. If John's not around, there is no point in going anywhere. In fact there is no point in anything.
He lays silently, staring at the ceiling and tries to not acknowledge wetness on his cheeks. He knows he is destroying himself by thinking about reality without John, but he cannot stop himself. He knows he should clench himself around irrational hope which Mycroft have tried to give him, but somehow he is certain that Johns body lays broken under debris and everything he held most dear in his life has just ended. He feels as if an empty hole opened in the center of his chest and since this moment everything that happens to him will just fall through it numb, untasted, inexperienced. Life without John equals void itself.
Images start flashing in front of his eyes unbidden. John handing him mug of tea, the motion and whole act of making tea for Sherlock natural like breathing. John sitting in front of his laptop, pecking at it with two fingers and waving of Sherlocks remark. Johns face crumpled in the morning, hair standing in funny angles. John coming home with shopping bags and affectionate smile. John in his favourite chair sitting in front of fire with a book, soft light smooth on his skin. John in his arms covered in blood, his ragged breath on Sherlocks skin, his trembling fingers tightly holding Sherlocks shirt. "John.. John..." Quiet sobs fill the silent room. It sounds strange and it takes him a while to realize that he is crying aloud.
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The next day Mycroft enters Sherlocks room almost hesitantly and merciless truth is crystal clear in the instant. They found John.
Mycroft is well aware Shelock have read his news. He sits and waits, looks like doesn't know what to say. Under different circumstances Sherlock would be delighted and he realizes that through thick fog separating him from his emotions. He can't allow himself to feel anything until he sees John, otherwise he'd crumble like an ashen statue in the wind.Finally Mycroft opens his mouth just to be interrupted.
"Don't even say that. You are not truly capable of being sorry." Spits Sherlock. "I want to see him."
"Sherlock, you're not even able to walk. You need to rest." Mycrofts tries to reason.
"I want to see him."
"Sherlock please, it's not wise."
"I want to see him." Sherlock sets his jaw and lets his determination show on his face. A bit. He's well aware that in its full strength it's more of frenetic obsession and Mycroft would startle and wouldn't let him do what he needs.
"Please help me." He whispers quietly after a while of tense silence. It's partly staged performance designed for Mycrofts protectionist self. He knows Mycroft can't resist that. Partly it's sincere plea and it's surprising how easily it slips from his lips when he no longer cares for his dignity. Under different circumstances he would be alarmed.
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They enter the morgue in Bart's, Mycroft pushing Sherlock in the wheelchair. Molly silently appears from her office, eyes red from crying and gasps at the sight of Sherlocks pale face. He can only guess what she reads there, but she doesn't try to say anything, merely nods to him.
"Molly."
"They brought him in few hours ago."
"Take me to him." Sherlock whispers and for the first time ever she hears sincere supplication in his voice.
Johns body lays on the slab, covered with sheet from head to toes. Sherlock draws sharp breath at the sight and Mycroft stops in the instant. Everything he felt in last few days resembled very bad dream. Sherlock finds that part of him secretly awaited awakening and the sight on Johns body just bereaved this tiny hope. The final candle is blown and darkness spreads into the last hidden corner of his mind.
"Are you all right?" Mycrofts hand on his shoulder is warm as is his voice. He is capable of emotions after all. Sherlock smirks but it's just muscle memory, not conscious act.
"I need you to give me an hour with him. Alone."
They both open their mouths to protest, to reason, to comfort.
"Please!" He puts everything into that one word. Everything that lurks under the fog in his mind and hopes that Mycroft won't be able to read it's true meaning.
"I didn't get to say my farewell. Please. Give me an hour with him. The last one. Please."
There is silence, stretching like an eternity. Mycroft stands in front of him now, scanning him, obviously looking for signs of a breakdown. He can't find any. It's clear he sees something but isn't able to grasp it, to comprehend. Sherlock just starts to contemplate more persuasion when Mycroft complies.
"An hour it is." Mycroft smiles tentatively and for a second Sherlock is almost certain that he knows. For another second it looks like Mycroft is about to hug him, but old habits outweigh fleeting intensity of the moment and he retreats. He nods to Molly as he walks from the room.
Molly is about to follow him before Sherlock ask her to adjust the height of the slab to be accessible from the wheelchair.
"Do you want me to uncover him?" She asks in small voice and Sherlock shakes his head.
"Just dim the lights a bit please." He's quite afraid of how Johns face will look like and definitely doesn't want to have the first look in bright morgue lights which makes even living look like dead.
Molly does that on her way out and when he is finally alone with John, he allows himself to stop pretending. First his fingers start to tremble lightly but in few seconds both his hands are shaking and his breath is short and ragged. He finds he can't bring himself to lift the sheet. He desperately tries to steady himself knowing that he only has one hour.
Now or never. He braces himself for whatever he's going to see and lifts the sheet slowly. Johns face is dirty, much dirtier than in his memories, but apart from few deeper scratches on the left cheek and temple unharmed. His eyes are closed and his features peaceful.
"Hello John." Sherlock speaks softly, quietly, while lifting his trembling hand to touch his cheek, but the dirt is so out of place. He needs to make it right. With no small effort he pushes wheels of his chair to small cabinet near the sink. He finds everything what he came for and hissing with pain comes back to John.
He starts to gently wash Johns face, uncovering few more scratches and bruises.
"I'd really like to wash you all, but I don't have enough time. This will have to do ok?" He murmurs while dabs gently on Johns forehead.
"I was ready to stay with you, you know. I wanted to. You was never able to lie to me. Never. How is it possible that you accomplished that just in the literally last moment?" Talking calms him and grounds him in the way talking to John always did.
"You should have let me stay. I'd hold you and caress you and have told you what you really mean to me..." his voice breaks there so he continues the washing in silence. When he is finished John looks almost as if just fell asleep.
"Allright. You have one last chance to wake up and tell me to stop. You can tell me I'm an idiot and you can yell at me all day long. I won't say a word and I swear I don't throw a fit." He strokes Johns cheeks and forehead slowly. His eyes are prickling with tears and all unspoken words are transforming themselves in a thick lump in his throat.
"No? Fine, you've had your chance." He takes a deep breath and tries to stand on his good leg. Very weak good leg in fact. He steadies himself with hands on Johns shoulders and a loud sob escapes him when he remembers the last time he held John like that, alive.
Very slowly and with lot of pained gasps and hissing he climbs on the slab and lays awkwardly on his better side next to Johns body.
"John." He whispers to Johns ear and as his fingers pet Johns hair he feels tears start flowing down his cheeks. "You are the only thing in the world that makes me want to live, did you know that? I didn't know myself, not until you decided to 'save' me and left me to live without you. I know you ment well, you always do. But I can't." He can't resist to plant a kiss to Johns cold lips. It feels wierd. "I haven't had a chance to tell you how much important you are to me. It's like you're woven into my mind and I can't even think properly now when half of me is... dead." He sobs the last word and breaths hard for a while. "It's like you'd been my only source of light and now I'm condemned to eternal darkness. See, you're even making me sentimental. I.. I love you John. I should have told you how much I love you every day when I had a chance and I curse myself I didn't. I was frightened to show so much devotion. Stupid. But I know you've always been mine anyway. As I am yours."
He unwraps the scalpel which he took from the cabinet before.
"I need to go with you John. I know you disapprove. And I also know that there is no possibility we'll see each other after I die. I almost wish I'd believe in some of those religious nonsense. In fact I begin to understand why people take that placebo. I'm sorry John, but I absolutely refuse to live in total emptiness for the rest of my life." He bares his left forearm and thinks of all the times he contemplated this before and stopped himself before crossing the point from which is no coming back. The difference between now and then is absolutely clear. Following John feels right in the way it never felt before.
The blade is delicate and quite short, but he manages deep long cut as needed. Blood spurts immediately in pulses and he is overwhelmed by unexpected relief as the immense pain in his chest starts to dissipate, flowing away with blood. He knows he is acting irrationally, driven by emotions he always disdained and broken heart he was reliably informed he don't even have. He scoffs at his sentimentality and also his prejudices. None of them matters. All fades before the astounding need to stay with John, however irrational it is.
He tries to switch the scalpel and cut the artery in the other hand but this time it's much harder. He must have cut some tendons because he's almost unable to even hold the scalpel in the injured hand. He gives up on attempting to perform neat incision and stabs with the scalpel instead. He's running out of time. He has it meticulously counted and he knows precisely how long he needs to die. He can't let them find him earlier.
His abused body is screaming at him with waves of pain from recent and previous injuries but he manages to position himself partly on Johns body like they'd lay in bed together. He's bleeding all over him but this time John won't complain. He places his head on Johns shoulder, nuzzles to his neck and thread his fingers in Johns hair.
"It's like falling asleep, isn't it?" He whispers. "I won't ever wake up without you." He allows himself one last kiss even when the moving is hard and quite uncomfortable. "Good night John." He closes his eyes and imagines that Johns body under his is warm and breathing. He can almost feel it and the sense is glorious. He sighs contentedly and slowly drifts to oblivion.
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He's almost there, the darkness reaching for him when hears familiar voice. He knows it's a hallucination, a figment of his brain shutting down, but gladly allows himself to indulge.
"You stupid wanker!" Chastises John. "You can't mourn like normal people do, can you? You just have to be dramatic until the bitter end!"
"You haven't given me much of a choice, have you?" Sherlock retorts in his head. He can't make his lips move anymore. Imaginary John hears him anyway.
"I'm not going to argue about that, Sherlock. Especially when you'd do the same for me. How would you feel, when you'd save my life and I'd throw it away the first thing after I woke up?"
"Oh… Well I"m..." Sherlock didn't think about that this way at all and he must admit it is quite selfish from him. But he stands his ground. "I'm sorry for throwing it away, but you can't expect me to face the eternity of the rest of my life alone!"
"I know." Relents imaginary John in the way the real one probably wouldn't. Sherlock can almost feel fingers caressing his jaw, petting his hair. He's desperately trying to call up also the sight of John but the darkness prevails.
"I love you John." He says because he won't miss his last opportunity. Fingers in his hair stop and he feels gentle touch of lips on his own.
"I love you too." Breathes John and the empty hole in Sherlocks chest is suddenly filled with tranquility. Smiling, he lets out his last breath.