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Sherlock looked down at the man before him. Ignoring the tubes leading from his hand and nose, the constant beeping of different machines and the overly sterile smell common in hospitals, he could almost imagine John was sleeping in their room—or had he moved back to his original room? Had he even stayed at 221B? Sentiment was a tricky thing. Would John have stayed in their room, hoping to keep his smell close, or would it have proved too much for him to bear?
Gazing at the man before him, the ultimate result had been the latter.
Sherlock had missed vital traits in John that had led him to this. He should have known that John, as a soldier/doctor, had a sense of responsibility for those he considered his charges, of which Sherlock had been his greatest and most valued. The detective-cum-vigilante hadn’t seen the guilt that would eat away at the blogger, but oh, how he should have. Sherlock had deleted whatever John had said in their last face-to-face conversation, correctly assuming it was simply John’s strong reaction to Sherlock’s apparent apathy to Mrs. Hudson’s state of well-being. John, however, had remembered, fretted, and assumed the responsibility of the soldier/doctor for Sherlock’s ‘suicide’.
Love is a much more vicious motivator.
Three years had whittled John’s self-worth and will to continue without his partner until it had driven him to one day collect all of the sleeping medication he had been ignoring and take it. Sherlock’s imagination ran wild as it showed John taking handful after handful, then curling up with that goddamned hat resting on the skull and preparing to join him in the afterlife.
“John.” Sherlock’s voice was a hoarse whisper as his eyes darted from the sleeping man’s face to his hand, IV pumping fluids into his system. I did this to you, he thought. You were the reason I had to die, the reason I lived, the reason others had to die. In return I was the reason you stopped living, and for that I am sorry. I am so sorry, John. Please wake up and forgive me. Or don’t forgive me, I’m not sure I deserve it anymore. Wake up. I’ve destroyed too many lives over these three years. Don’t let ours have been one of them.
“He’ll wake up,” came a voice behind him.
Turning, he saw Mycroft in the doorway, back straight and umbrella in hand. Sherlock looked back at John and blinked several times in quick succession. “He’s in a coma. How would you know?”
“Because the alternative is unthinkable.” He took the last remaining steps to Sherlock’s side just as the detective broke, sobs wrenching themselves from the too-thin frame. Sherlock did what he hadn’t since he was seven, and wrapped his arms around Mycroft’s waist, pushing his forehead against the waistcoat. Mycroft stroked Sherlock’s hair as he had long ago and said nothing more.