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It had been a case they were on. Another cabbie, as fate would have it. Not working for Moriarty this time but still a serial killer, albeit a bit of a copycat. Not exactly though; a rich man, passing as a poor cabbie, poisoning people with pills, but this time by force. None of the victims had self administered the lethal substances, as they'd learned from one who was on the very edge of death when they found him. He'd said the cabbie told him as he forced the pills down his throat that he did this for fun, wanted to see how many people he could take down before he tumbled headfirst with them. After the man had died (despite John's best efforts, he couldn't save everyone), they had started heading home. John's limp was starting to act up, however, as it often did when he lost a patient, and he held his hand up for a taxi before he'd even realized what he was doing. A vehicle pulled up while Sherlock was facing the other way, and when he turned back John was in the cab. He had only a few seconds to deduce that this was the killer (far longer than it should have) but before he could tell John to get out, the taxi was speeding away, Sherlock running futilely behind it trying to catch up.
He was a fair distance away when he heard the crash, rather than saw it. Turning a corner, he saw a mess of broken glass, the result of the small cab colliding with an 18 wheeler coming around the side. The taxi was demolished, the left side, the side John had gotten in, bent as if it were nothing more than aluminum foil. He couldn't see the back of John's blonde head, and for a moment, Sherlock panicked. Only for a moment though, before he remembered that he was supposed to be beyond panic, was supposed to be unaffected by emotions.
But this was John. And keeping John was more important that keeping up his ridiculous facade.
This entire train of thought passed in about 10 seconds, and finally he sprang into action. He'd run to the taxi, completely ignoring the cabbie, not even caring in that moment if he got away as long as John was okay.
If John was hurt though? Oh, Sherlock would kill that man himself, consequences be damned.
He heard the driver of the 18 wheeler climb out of his truck, shouting some nonsense about not seeing the cab and that he was calling an ambulance right then but Sherlock was trying to tune him out. Sherlock could barely make out John through the shattered window, so he sprinted to the other side, ripping the unlocked door open and pulling the doctor out into the street. He was covered in blood, some from a small wound on his head, most from a gash in his leg from the metal of the car door. There was also a deep red staining the front of his shirt, but Sherlock couldn't find the source, and John wasn't saying anything and oh, god this feeling was awful and-
"Not mine," came a weak voice below him, and if the detective hadn't seen his lips moving at the end of his sentence, he'd have hardly believed he spoke at all. He must've looked confused, because John confirmed, "the blood. The blood isn't mine. Got him good, I did. Reckon that's what made us crash." He pointed with a shaky finger into the cab (shaky, not good, Sherlock thought, it means there's no adrenaline keeping him steady). The taller man glanced into the vehicle, noticing a clear wound on the now dead man's shoulder, just a bit lower than the one on John's, straight through his heart. This caused an irrational beating in Sherlock's own chest, as he realized that if the bullet that had struck John so long before had been just that little bit lower, John wouldn't even he here, and that thought was unbearable...
John was still speaking. "You with me, Sherlock?" He coughed up a bit of blood, his entire body wracking, and Sherlock then noticed the large shard of glass in his partner's side, staining the awfully wonderful jumper with an angry red. A lump formed in his throat, hard and unmoving, as he realized the potential danger in the situation, but his mind was, for once in his life, numbingly blank. He couldn't find a single thing that could help him, his mind palace empty of any useful information. Thankfully though, even in his injured state, John was a doctor through and through, and guided Sherlock's hands to his side, pulling the shard out quickly and helping the detective apply pressure to reduce the blood flow. Sherlock was still in a bit of shock, watching the color drain out of John's face and his breathing grow ragged.
Finally (after an unbelievable amount of time, it seemed to Sherlock), the ambulance arrived and took John away, refusing to let Sherlock accompany them because of his tendency to snap out deductions when he was stressed. So, he'd gone home, washed up a bit, then made his way back to the hospital, where he was now. He made sure he was fully composed once more before he entered.
The tall, dark haired man strolled purposefully through the hospital's doors, expressionless face displaying none of his worry and restlessness, keeping his features blank in a way he had learned made many people uncomfortable. He walked, deceptively calm, up to the front desk, voice drifting easily over the small space. "John Watson." Not a single quiver shook his voice, but he was not surprised, because something so common as grief he would not allow to control his speech and make it waver. The woman at the desk searched her files for a moment then glanced up, taking in the pale skin and curly black-brown hair, smiling suggestively at him. "John Watson is currently in ICU. Only family members and spouse are allowed in to see him at this time. Relation?" She asked cooly, leaning forward and letting her fingers tap across the top of the desk.
Sherlock fought not to roll his eyes. "Husband," he replied, inwardly smirking as she leaned back, the smile melted off her face when he flashed his gold band at her. "And please, stop drumming your fingers, its quite irritating." The incessant noise instantly stopped and the woman scowled at him, obviously peeved at her blatant flirting failing. After she grudgingly told him John's room number, glaring at him the entire time, he made his way to the elevator, but before he had gone the whole way, he stopped and turned around, coming back towards her. Calling across the lobby, he said, "the doctor's not interested, by the way," waiting only long enough to hear her cry of indignation before grinning and closing himself in the elevator, immediately pressing the 6.
His smile disappeared though, as the small lift slowly began its upward climb. He ran a hand through his unruly hair, knowing he didn't look as disheveled as he felt on the inside, because he was Sherlock Holmes, damn it, and he was always in control of his body and how he appeared to others. He allowed his mind to wander over the events that had lead them here, then shifted, his thoughts running a mile a minute as he continued upward at a slow pace.
He found himself thinking how absolutely lucky that cabbie was. How lucky he was that he was already dead. Because Sherlock would have gone after him and destroyed him after all of this was over.
Finally the elevator came to a stop, and Sherlock strode out into the hall, fully in character once more. He quickly found the room he was looking for, on the far end of the corridor, and when he entered he found himself filled with equal parts relief and sadness. Relieved because yes, his John was still alive, but the grief came from the sight of John hooked up to so many machines and needles, his heart going at a steady rate, so said the monitor beside him.
He came quietly into the room, careful not to disturb his husband. He wasn't sure if John was sleeping or not, but just the same, he looked calm, if not a little troubled. He sat in the chair at the bedside, gently laying his hand on top of John's, and the smaller man immediately held tight, opening his eyes slightly. "Hello, love," he said tiredly, rubbing small circles on the back of Sherlock's hand. "How are you?" His voice sounded weak, and Sherlock hated that he hadn't been quick enough to prevent this from happening.
"I'm fine," the doctor said conversationally, as if Sherlock had asked him the question instead of the other way around. "Bit of a headache, leg acting up, broken glass in my side, nothing serious, I-"
"Don't joke about that," Sherlock interrupted, eyes wide as he grasped John's hand tighter. "You could've been seriously hurt, and it would've been my fault, and I couldn't... Oh, John." The detective released the doctor's hand and cupped him face, leaning forward to give him a gentle kiss. "I couldn't have lived with myself."
John smiled at him, shifted a bit, and winced as his side twisted the wrong way. His pulse immediately spiked, and Sherlock glanced panicked around the room, ready to run off in search of a doctor. But John gave him one of his Looks, as if to say hey, I'm a doctor. So Sherlock settled down a little, remaining in his place at the man's side.
The detective knew John wasn't in very good condition. After looking through the records the doctor had left (John's doctor, not John himself), he discovered John had a minor concussion, one that could prove fatal if not given the utmost attention and care. Additionally, the glass in his side had amused him to lose quite a lot of blood, and he was bound to limp for a while from the gash in his leg until it healed. So Sherlock talked quietly, slowly, not doing or saying anything that might upset his husband and make the situation worse. So basically, he didn't say a lot besides "I'm sorry" and "I love you."
Several hours later, sitting in the chair next to the army doctor, Sherlock heard John's pulse slowing down. "John?" When the man didnt reply, Sherlock grabbed his hand, pulling lightly until John pulled back.
"M'fine, Sherlock," he whispered, but his voice was quiet, weak. He was pale, shaking slightly on the hospital bed, and there wasn't much strength to his hold on Sherlock's hand. "It's fine. You haven't lost me yet." His eyelids fluttered, like he was struggling to keep them open, and the entire time, his pulse kept going down.
"But I still could. I could still lose you, John. You can't go, you can't... Die." The words forced themselves from his lips, stuttering on the last word. But John just smiled, his eyes sliding closed, heartbeat slowing.
His voice was merely a whisper. "You know that only the good die young, Sherlock."
A single tear slipping down his cheek, Sherlock held tighter to John's hand.
"Then I will miss you, my love."
~•~•~•~•~•~
The funeral had a good turnout. A few people went up and said a few words, and more than a few tears were shed. Family members apologized for not being there for him, friends said they'd miss him dearly, and there were several whispers that they would never have been gathered if it wasn't for a psychopath.
Sherlock stood in the back. He did not speak, he did not move. He watched the proceedings with careful indifference on his face, even though he wanted to scream.
When it was finally over, he approached the grave, reading the engraving that family members had decided on.
Beloved husband.
Loving Friend.
Loyal citizen.
It was all very boring. Sherlock hated it. He thought it should've said something about how this man died a hero in his own way, and that his memory would live on forever. That would've been more fitting.
There was a crunch of dead grass beside him, and suddenly he was joined. Another figure stood beside him, and they observed the stone together, remarkably comfortable with the silence. But Sherlock couldn't live with silence forever, so he spoke first.
"Only the good die young," he said, as if stating a fact, turning to face the man beside him.
John Watson gave him a small smile in return. "Well then, I guess you're lucky I'm not as young as I used to be. And that I'm not particularly good either." He slipped his hand into Sherlock's with a light laugh, and Sherlock pulled him closer, inhaling his scent, never wanting to let this beautiful man go.
The funeral had been for the young man who had died at the hands if the cabbie just before the crash. Sherlock hadn't wanted to go, of course; he'd wanted to stay home and celebrate the fact that John was finally home, that he'd finally be doing something other than falling asleep when he was talked to, but John insisted. And Sherlock would never deny the doctor anything ever again.
"I suppose I am quite lucky," the detective replied, placing a kiss in the top of John's nose. "I have you, after all."
"They say there's a heaven for those who will wait
Some say it's better but I say it ain't
I'd rather laugh with the sinners than cry with the saints
Sinners are much more fun...
You know that only the good die young."