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I sit in the chair, my hands tight around the umbrella in my lap.
I watch his chest rise and fall. Despite the machines surrounding him, I trust only this to assure me he's still alive.
I know his injuries. Injuries that by right should be mine. Would have been mine if he had not been facing the direction where the shots came from and pushed me out of the way.
Bullets meant for me tore thru his body as I watched. I heard the shouts and running as people sought cover. Someone shouting to call for an ambulance. I'm glad they did. Cause I was useless. I could only stare at him til a low moan freed me to rush to his side.
I hear them, coming in and out. They've stopped trying to talk to me. I'm not sure what had been done to insure I remained at his side and I do not care. I am not moving til he opens his eyes or-
I have a feeling the person responsible for this has been caught, but no one is telling me. Because they don't know what I would do to him. I don't know myself, but it could mean the ruin of my career at the very least.
Sherlock and his John were here when he was first brought in. John said the words you're supposed to as a doctor. Sherlock at least kept quiet til they left.
I should not have stopped him on the street. Was is only yesterday? Or was it the day before? Whatever I needed to know about Sherlock could have waited, I don't even remember what it was now. I know it wasn't worth his life.
I hear the sound of heels clicking down the hall. I don't look up as she leaves the coffee and sandwich at the small side table. She doesn't try to speak to me either. She knows I will eat the food. To collapse would give them reason to pull me from his bedside.
I know she is handling the phone calls and demands for me to return to my work. My work that I always put before anything else in my life. Til now.
Til this. TIl my love was-
“My love.” I feel like I should be shouting the words, but they come out in a whisper. And now the rest comes tumbling out.
“It should not have taken this for me to call you that. To let you know how I feel. And I'm so sorry. I feel like I'm losing my chance to be happy. To have you in my life the way you should be. The way I need you to be. Please, my love. Give me that chance. Give me the chance to tell you. To convince you.” I reach for his hand. “Please.”
I stare, certain that I imagined his hand moving. Then I feel it again, a squeeze. “My love?”
I push myself up, leaning on the umbrella to stand. I stare at his face and see his eyes open. He blinks, trying to focus. Then he looks at me and my breath catches in my throat.
It takes him a minute to work out where he is and why. There is a wince as he registers the pain, then there's a different look. There's the squeeze of my hand again.
“Your love?” His voice is faint and for a second I don't let myself believe I heard him right. It must show in my face because he says it again, a little stronger. “Your love?”
I can only nod.
“Tell me. Please.”
I lean down and kiss his forehead. “I love you, Mycroft Holmes.”