Work Text:
A C T O N E
A drop of crimson shone upon John’s left shoe. Loakes; a rich shade of chestnut. They’d been a gift from Sherlock. Unwanted and expensive in a discomfiting sort of way; a way that had made his skin prickle from an odd, unidentifiable emotion as soon as he’d opened the (unadorned and unwrapped) box under the tree.
The shoes served as a tangible marker of his change in societal status since meeting Sherlock Holmes. The great brain Himself hadn’t understood John’s reaction. He’d insisted that the cost was negligible and that he couldn’t be seen with someone as shoddily dressed as John if they were to be taken seriously by their posh London clientele.
Of course he’d seen it that way. Mycroft had long (at least partially) bankrolled his lifestyle; it was unclear how aware Sherlock even was of a matter as pedestrian as personal finance, let alone the concept of budgeting. Of saving. Of any type of economic planning at all. John had then presented him a blue wool scarf – John Lewis, ashamedly on clearance – with reddened cheeks, though Sherlock had seemed satisfied enough with the gift and even deigned to wear it on occasion. John never quite figured out whether this was an indulgent, charitable act of Sherlock’s or a genuine sign of his approval.
Regardless. John had since learned to accept whatever came to him with a tight grin and a firm, decidedly manly pat on the shoulder by way of thanks.
But now there was blood on one of his shoes. The same shoes he’d refused to wear and kept in a safe corner of his wardrobe during the dark two years Sherlock was dead.
Blood.
Deep red.
Perhaps it would stain the leather. Mark it indelibly. Permanently. Make it so that John could never wear the shoes again without thinking of Sherlock, motionless and bleeding on the otherwise unremarkable floor of Magnussen’s dull and sanitized office.
He’d binned the entire outfit he’d worn that day at Bart’s, after all. Save for the jacket. Shirt, trousers, shoes… all gone.
But not the jacket.
He’d known Sherlock had liked that jacket. Discarding it had seemed a bit like discarding the memory of how Sherlock’s laugh lines had appeared at the corners of his eyes as he’d grinned and given John his rare stamp of approval.
“Adequate choice of attire, John.”
“Smart, is it?”
“Smart indeed. What an unexpected lapse of your generally poor judgement.”
“Erm, thanks?”
John stared down at his shoes.
And kept staring.
He couldn’t quite remember how he’d gotten… wherever it was he now found himself. The A&E department of a hospital. Yes. The problem was that he wasn’t sure which one. Modern. Nice. Unfamiliar. Though that probably wasn’t right; chances were he’d been there at least once before. His memories were muddled; smashed beneath a grinding pestle.
Shock. (Obviously, Sherlock’s voice drifted from nowhere).
John was intimately familiar with the sensation. With shock.
Upon seeing the bleeding wound hiding behind Sherlock’s lapel, autopilot had taken over so quickly that he’d not been consciously paying attention to anything at all. He vaguely recalled shouting obscenities at Magnussen, who was injured and hunched into himself, face pale and glasses askew. He claimed – quite dubiously, from John’s perspective – to have already called 999 prior to John’s arrival. As uncharacteristically weak as Magnussen appeared, he’d steadfastly refused to divulge the identity of Sherlock’s assailant. His murderer.
Hence the shouting of obscenities.
“Who shot him?!”
“Ah. I’m afraid their visage quite escaped my notice.”
“I’ll fucking tell you what won’t escape your–”
“–999. Please state the nature of your emergency.”
“Christ. Christ! Ambulance. Immediately. CAM Global, 33rd floor. A man has been shot. Late 30s. Lower chest, right side. Unresponsive. Bradycardia indicates acute internal hemorrhage. I’m a doctor, but I don’t have- Sherlock… Sherlock! Stay with me!”
“We received a call from the same address just three minutes ago, sir. Help is already on the way.”
“I did tell you that I–”
“You. You. Just… shut up. Shut the fuck up.”
“I’m… sorry, sir?”
“Not- Not you. Just. Ensure they come quickly. Please.”
Hot, syrupy blood had been seeping through Sherlock’s white shirt and onto John’s hands as he applied pressure, waiting with taut nerves and a dangerous amount of adrenaline for the paramedics to finally arrive. He couldn’t look for more than a second at Sherlock’s still face.
Screams of pain – even of agony – would have been preferable to the terrifying silence that had persisted for what seemed to be an eternity but that must have been fewer than five minutes.
They at least would have indicated Sherlock was awake. Alive.
John had surely said something embarrassing. Emotional. He’d whispered the words onto deaf ears as he knelt beside Sherlock’s prone form, periodically lifting his face to the high ceiling as he closed his eyes and tried to breathe. It was the closest to prayer he’d found himself since Afghanistan.
Please God, don’t let him die. Not again.
Damn. He’d forgotten to tell the 999 operator about Janine and the unconscious white supremacist downstairs. Janine had started to come ‘round by the time he’d gone to find Sherlock, though. She’d be fine. And Sherlock had been correct. No one bloody cared about the racist.
“And look at how you care for Sherlock Holmes. How utterly heartwarming to know your loyalty is mutual. Fire and bullets both seem to expose our pressure points. Isn’t that right?”
“Stop it now. Stop talking.”
“Oh, we shall have such fun together. What a lark, trading in secrets. Would you like to know some of mine?”
“Unless you’re going to tell me who the bloody hell shot him, kindly fuck off.”
“One shouldn’t be so rude to a friend, you know. It portends poorly for the outcomes of the games they’ve yet to play.”
“That’s why you want him alive, hm? Why you fucking called 999? To keep playing your little games? Euphemistic word for blackmail, that.”
“Why, what else am I meant to do with my time, Dr. Watson?”
Minutes (hours, a bloody lifetime) later, John’s legs wobbled like jelly as he struggled to run alongside Sherlock’s gurney. He’d needed to keep pace to maintain his position amongst the rushing paramedics. Sherlock seemed to wake a bit upon being manhandled onto the stretcher, head lolling and cold fingers occasionally twitching in John’s hand.
Jesus.
Yes, there was a small drop of crimson blood on his shoe.
But John’s hands were entirely stained red.
He stared at them in horror, flexing his fingers and rotating them both in front of his face. Darker patches surrounded his nailbeds and had settled into the lines of his skin, particularly the fine whorls of his left palm. The one that had been pressed directly against the bullet hole in Sherlock’s chest.
Bloody pavement.
Lifeless eyes.
Limp hand.
Absent pulse.
No. No. Not this time.
John frantically rubbed his hands against his thighs. The effort was in vain, of course. Most of Sherlock’s blood had already dried into a flaky patina. The remainder tracked itself in grotesque smears down his jeans.
God no.
His heart was pounding in his ears. Acid threatened to rise from the confines of his stomach.
I’m going to vomit.
The room spun as he stood on unsteady feet. Restroom. He needed a restroom. Urgently. His eyes scanned the pristine walls for the telltale stick figure that would mark the men’s room. Better yet, for the multiple stick figures that would indicate a family room. For privacy. It had to be private.
Breathe, John.
“We’re losing you! Sherlock!”
Sherlock!”
A long exhale. He’d somehow managed (he’d already forgotten how) to find his way into an accessible single restroom; gleaming white inlay and the overpowering smell of antiseptic were a welcome shock to his brain. Shock. Again. Some types of shock were necessary sometimes. Moderate. Not severe. Shock was an inbuilt defense mechanism employed by the brain, but – if one weren’t careful – it would numb the body to the point of death.
By all indications, Sherlock had started to go into hypovolemic shock in the ambulance.
That was the one sort of shock that was never beneficent.
Avoiding the mirror, John ran one hand under scalding water, pumping at the soap dispenser with his other hand until his entire palm was coated and slimy. He began a frantic lather, renewed nausea arising at the sight of pink bubbles whirling in small circles down the drain.
John barely had time to turn off the faucet and dry his hands before he was on his knees for the second time that night, retching over the toilet bowl.
With trembling fingers and blurry vision, he grabbed his mobile from his pocket. Calling somehow seemed more difficult; he didn’t trust that his voice wouldn’t break. Texting it would be, then.
21:02: Mary. I need you. Please come. Sherlock’s been shot.
Breathe, John.
The tile floor radiated coldness through the denim of John’s trousers. He was very nearly sprawled on the floor, clutching the porcelain toilet bowl as though it were a life raft.
21:04: Where are you? Is he all right?
Breathe, John.
21:04: I don’t know.
Breathe, John.
21:04: You don’t know where you are? Or you don’t know if he’s all right?
21:06: Yes. No. I don’t know. Theatre.
21:06: Sherlock’s in surgery?
Breathe, John.
21:08: Yes. Please come.
John forced himself onto his feet, suddenly desperate to leave the confines of the small restroom. It was making him claustrophobic. Surgery, yes. Sherlock was in surgery. Had been for… a while now. Ten minutes? A half an hour? Two hours? Something… something like that. He should call Mycroft. He might already know. Be on his way. Admittedly, the defenses in Magnussen’s fortress of an office building might have stalled matters; interfered with the range of the many hidden eyes Mycroft had installed across the city. Well, if Mycroft didn’t know, it was just a matter of time. It was all just too… He couldn’t…
News. I need news.
They can’t tell me he pulled through if I’m still in here.
21:09: Oh honey. I need to know where you are before I can come. I’m still tied up with that thing at Beth’s. Until morning, unless I can work a miracle. Go ask someone, would you? It will be all right.
John attempted to type back a response, but his hands had started shaking. Again. He flushed the toilet – the water now swirled with foamy saliva and streaks of stomach acid mixed with old coffee – and turned on the faucet to splash some cold water onto his face. He then braced himself against the sink, chin to chest.
Breathe, John.
Stand up straight.
Take a step toward the door.
One.
Two.
You’re there.
A C T T W O
The restroom door clicked shut. A singular empty chair in the waiting area immediately made its way into his line of sight. John focused upon it, the only clear object he could see. It would guide him; allow him to walk in a straight line. There were just a few more steps left before he could sit. Get his bearings. Find out where he was.
Just a few more–
“–Family of Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”
John froze in motion. He could feel multiple pairs of eyes on him boring holes into his skin with their penetrating gaze. He’d become a sideshow act: the poor sod who was about to receive tragic news. He was a victim of one of those terrible traffic accidents at which passersby couldn’t help but gawk.
No. Don’t get ahead of yourself. He’ll be fine. He has to be.
“I– ahem. Not family. But I’m who’s here, yeah? I came with him. I’m his friend. His doctor.” Surprisingly enough, his final words came out clear. Confident. John squeezed his fists until his nails dug into his skin.
The doctor was young. Handsome, John supposed. He had brown eyes, wide and shell-shocked. His hair was still hidden beneath a turquoise surgical cap.
“Yes, I- I know who you are, Dr. Watson. You’re listed in our records as an emergency contact. I’m Dr. Fredericks. Would you please come this way?”
“No, no. I know what you’re doing. I’ve bloody well done it before. Doctor, remember? Just tell me. Tell me.”
“Sit down, please.”
“I don’t want to sit down. Please, just…” John could feel his voice growing hoarse. A painful lump had started to form in his throat. The room was spinning once more.
Dr. Fredericks exhaled, shaky and uneven. “I’m afraid we- We lost him. Mr. Holmes has passed on. I am deeply sorry. We did everything we could.” A hand came to rest upon John’s shoulder, but he flinched away from it like a startled animal.
The touch felt like a hot iron.
“No. See, no. You’re mistaken. He’s done this before, hm? You must’ve seen the papers. But he wasn’t actually… He wasn’t…”
He’d never voluntarily do that to me again. He promised.
No. No.
John shook his head, eyes squeezed shut. His teeth scraped against the inside of his mouth as he clenched his jaw, cheeks hollowed and lips pursed.
“Sit, Dr. Watson. I beg of you. I’ll get you some water and then I’d be happy to take you to him so you can say goodbye.”
“Ah. Mm. No. No. It’s not possible, all right? It’s Sherlock. Sherlock. I already… I already…”
I already suffered this once. This time, it’ll kill me.
“Is there anyone we can call for–”
But John was no longer listening. He was walking. Fast; in strides as long as his legs could manage. Away from Dr. Fredericks. Far from the A&E waiting area. Toward the grand glass entryway. Shouts followed him as he went – requests for him to come back, to sit down, to listen. They faded in volume the farther John’s feet carried him and dissipated entirely as soon as the automatic doors slid shut.
A C T T H R E E
He didn’t think anyone would follow him outside.
He hoped they wouldn’t.
Breathe, John.
I can’t. I can’t. Especially not in there.
The cold night air was a shock to his skin. A welcome shock. A necessary one. John sucked in a greedy inhale, jaw trembling as he tried to restrain the cries that were painfully building in his chest. There was a copse of trees lining the other side of the road, bits of shining black from a large body of water peeking through autumn-bare branches.
The Thames. John would know exactly where he was if he just thought for a second about it; if he just turned around to see the name of the hospital in large red lettering splayed across the building.
But he didn’t.
He couldn’t.
Fresh air.
Fresh air.
He needed…
He needed a moment. To breathe.
John pinched the bridge of his nose as he strode across the street, headed for the decked wall that marked the border of the riverwalk. Westminster Bridge spanned the width of the Thames, bright and stately in its architecture.
He’d walked that bridge (for the hundredth time, it seemed) with Sherlock just a couple of months ago.
“Did you know that 18th-century minds deemed this the Bridge of Fools, John? The lottery system which funded its construction was regarded as deplorably immoral by the staunchest of 18th- century Conservatives.”
“Bridge of Fools, hm? And what does that make us, then?”
Sherlock’s laugh lines crinkled adorably as he grinned back at John, ocean eyes glistening in the sun. “Two fools, I suppose. Attempting to ameliorate the abysmal crime rates in London could be deemed nothing save foolhardy, after all. And yet we persist in our endeavor.”
“Thought they’d have been more offended by the mid-afternoon cocks that appear on the ground on sunny days, to be honest,” John quipped.
“Ah yes, the inadvertent obscenity of the trefoil motif. At a certain angle, a sunbeam through the hollow carving elongates its top lobe in such a way as to resemble a penis. Delightful, isn’t it? I’ve long been fond of that particular shape.”
John snorted in surprise – failing, at to the time, to fully register any meaning behind the remark – and laughed instead at Sherlock’s expression until his stomach ached.
“Yeah,” he finally answered. “Bloody-fucking delightful.”
I’m going to vomit again.
Hands on his knees, John retched onto the grass; nothing more than spittle and yellow bile from his already-emptied stomach. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, sniffing as he scanned his surroundings.
There was almost no one else around; merely one or two shadowy silhouettes in the distance. The seasonal cold and relatively late hour had seen to that.
John threw his legs over the low concrete wall, dangling them over its side as he stared into the shimmering depths of the river just beyond the stone path below. The darkness of night was blessedly obscuring the smears of Sherlock’s blood on his thighs.
John thought of nothing.
Nothing at all.
If he allowed himself to think, he’d fall apart.
I’ve fallen apart already.
Breathe, John.
His chest was tight.
Panic.
Disbelief; denial.
Shock.
“We lost him…
Mr. Holmes has passed on…
We did everything we could.”
Shock.
Shock.
It rippled down John’s body in icy, powerful waves, squeezing his lungs and clamping down on his throat.
Breathe, John.
He sat for an indeterminate amount of time longer, staring into the black abyss of the Thames. The river looked peaceful. Quiet. Comforting.
I… I can’t. I can’t do this.
Breathe, John.
Something was vibrating against his thigh. Insistent. Irritating. As soon as tears finally began to fall in warm trails down his face, John realized that the culprit was his phone.
His inbox was clogged, in fact. There were some messages from an unknown number. Strangely, two accompanying missed calls originated from the same anonymous source. Those ones didn’t matter to John. Everyone important was saved to his contact list. There was a text from Greg, who’d undoubtedly learned of a shooting and the 999 calls via the Met. Mary had also apparently tried to call him once before she continued to text. He didn’t bother to open any of the messages – from her or from anyone else – let alone to read them.
Notably, there was no word from Mycroft.
So maybe he hadn’t heard. Not yet. Perhaps he was in some clandestine government meeting. Traveling overseas. Who the hell bloody knew, but it seemed the Ice Man might not be omniscient after all.
Well.
John’s breath caught in his throat at the mere thought of Mycroft Holmes. As odd and often adversarial as his relationship with Sherlock may have been, they were brothers, and… and.
I cannot do this now. Not yet.
I need…
I need Sherlock.
My wife, then. I need my wife.
Fingertips damp with tears slid across a glass screen as John painstakingly typed out the words he needed to say. The most he could bring himself to write.
21:36: Mary. He’s gone. I need you.
21:36: Gone? John…
Breathe, John.
Do it. Say it.
Breathe, John.
21:38: Sherlock is dead.
He couldn’t bear to read the venomous message on the screen again. It had been hard enough to type each letter in the first place. The word dead in such close proximity to Sherlock made his heart race and his eyes burn. An image of a solid black headstone wavered in front of him like a mirage.
Christ, was the wretched thing ever even taken down? Would it be reused?
21:38: I’m coming. Where are you?
She’s all the way across town. At Beth’s.
John’s brain whispered some imprecise reminder about a personal emergency. Some kind of ladies’ emotional support night for a friend’s recent divorce. He had no sodding idea.
It’s far from here. An hour or more with traffic. She’ll be a while yet. I’m alone.
21:40: Outside. By the Thames. St. Thomas’. Must be.
John put his phone back into his pocket. He had no energy left. None at all. The worst of the initial shock had worn off and lifted its temporary veil of protection. Now, something was igniting beneath his ribcage. Anguish, angry and reawakened. It had never fully left him; simply lain dormant. Its fiery tendrils licked at his diaphragm. John coughed and sputtered through the spasms, his chest rising in heaves as he struggled to suck enough air into his lungs.
Meanwhile, his phone kept vibrating in his pocket. More calls and texts.
Breathe, John.
“Breathing is boring.”
John was weeping like a child now, the heels of his palms pressed to his eyes as his forehead rested against his fingers. It had taken him longer to… get here last time. To become visibly emotional. By now, however, his heart and mind were intimately familiar with the pain of Sherlock’s loss and with the extent of the suffering that came along with it. The grief simmered just beneath the surface of his skin at all times, volatile yet quiescent. As the months passed, it had begun to masquerade as a slumbering dragon. A vicious one. John had always known that as soon as the dragon awoke – and one day, it was bound to – it would breathe a fiery inferno liable to set ablaze everything in its path.
Including John himself.
Here come the flames.
Each time he took a heaving breath, the air seemed to be filled with stinging nettles. There was no relief. No escape.
John had managed to climb out of this very same chasm once. Just barely. He’d grasped Mary’s outstretched hand, the only person who’d been brave enough to reach into the cavernous expanse and yank him from its blazing, infernal depths. Down where grief’s dragon lived.
And I never told Sherlock the stuff I meant to say. Always.
I thought I had more time.
He couldn’t do it again.
John had a feeling Mary couldn’t do it again, either. Their relationship had barely survived the intensity of John’s grief the first time around.
And it feels strained enough as it is these days. At least to me.
None of these thoughts were fully developed in John’s mind. Fragments occurred to him during the rare intervals he was able to breathe as his cries momentarily ebbed, but it was never long before the intensity of the agony struck again.
Dead. Sherlock is dead.
Dead.
Dead.
Dead.
Cognizance dawned with an almost abrupt clarity, carried in by an especially strong gust of pre-winter wind. The cold concrete was steadily permeating his jeans as the bitter air nipped at his skin, leaving it red and raw. It was as if both forces of nature were trying to fight the fire inside of him.
Shock had returned. Of a different kind this time. The kind he welcomed. The kind that calmed the storm, at least for now. It would be a losing battle in the end.
“John, oh thank God. There you are.”
One last inhale. A sniff. Wet, abating tears wiped away with a knuckle.
Breathe, John.
“Mary.” Flat. Emotionless. Dull. Had enough time already passed for her to travel clear across London? Jesus. John didn’t know. He couldn’t think.
“What are you doing out here? It’s freezing, honey. Let’s go inside.” Mary’s lilting, lovely voice wavered a bit with barely controlled emotion.
“Can’t,” he said simply.
John heard Mary sigh, and – though he opened his mouth to respond – words wouldn’t come. Instead, he silently allowed her to grab his limp, numb hand and to pull him to his feet, then to encompass his body in an embrace. Clair de Lune was usually a calming scent for him – his wife’s favorite perfume – but it was making him nauseous now. It was too much. Overstimulating. But there was… something else.
“What’s that?” The question was intuitive; reactive. Without concerted thought. Something hard was pressing against John’s chest as they hugged. Something that felt off.
“What’s what?”
“That- What are you wearing?”
“How many times must I say it? You see, but you do not observe.”
“It’s generally considered rude to shout out everything you notice about people, Sherlock.”
“Oh, who cares? I’d rather be rude than oblivious.”
“Well, some of us do care. What others think, you know. And how we’re perceived.”
“Yes, and some of you will learn that social niceties don’t work to your advantage. There is nothing more dangerous in this world than dulled senses.”
“I- John, do you really want to talk about my outfit right now? It’s black. Just black clothes, honey. Nothing else. I really don’t think–”
“–That’s not what you were wearing when you left.”
Stop talking, John. Christ. None of this matters.
Breathe.
“Of course it is.”
John frowned. “Is it?”
Mary stared into his eyes, expression inscrutable. Worried, perhaps. Alarmed. Sad.
Right, yeah. She’d be sad too, wouldn’t she?
“Yes. You’ve had a shock. You’re still in shock, honey. You’re focusing on anything you possibly can except, well…”
Breathe, John.
Say what really needs said now. Put it to words.
John nodded once, sharp and decisive. “Mm. Sher. Ah. Mm. Sherlock. He. Mm. Mary, he’s…” Christ, the tears were welling in his eyes again. Mary was right. His mind was just desperate to focus on something – anything – other than the incomprehensible devastation that had somehow befallen him.
For a second time.
“I know. I know. Have you… seen him?” Mary grabbed his hand, squeezing it tight. Her tone was cautious; almost unnaturally light.
John shook his head so quickly that his neck twinged in painful protest. “No. Ah, no. Couldn’t. Ran out here.”
“Oh, John. I can’t imagine. But you know we need to go back so we can… sort out everything.”
So much was encompassed in the ostensibly innocent term “sort out” that it made John’s empty stomach roil. Alerting Mycroft. Molly. Greg. Oh God, Mrs. Hudson. Being questioned by police. Discussing Sherlock’s final wishes. He’d made them clearer since… before. He’d even written a will, as far as John knew. Divvied up his assets.
It was too much.
Yet there was no avoiding it.
“I can’t believe I’m back here again,” he finally said, voice low. “Back in this… place. Back where I was when you met me.” John’s throat felt sore as he spoke, cruelly abraded by harsh sobs.
“And I’ll take care of you again,” Mary insisted. “Just as I did before. All right?”
Breathe, John.
Inhale, exhale.
A C T F O U R
John walked obediently in Mary’s wake as she gently pulled him by the hand. Soon – far too soon – they were at the street; Mary quickly looked both ways before leading him in a dash across the double lanes.
And there it was.
St. Thomas’ Hospital.
Sherlock was in there. Well, not in the A&E; not anymore. Not in an OR. Not recovering upon a bed in the CCU. No, his body would already have been taken to the morgue. His slowly stiffening corpse had almost certainly been stripped naked and would now be wrapped in a white sheet, laid atop a metal slab inside of a narrow, refrigerated body locker.
Breathe, John.
Mary turned to face him. She was biting her lip, obviously uncomfortable. Her pale skin glowed under the bluish light of the moon. The odd black knit cap she was wearing did nothing more than serve as a stark, unsettling contrast to the whiteness of her complexion. She squeezed both of John’s hands in hers before kissing him lightly on the lips. He closed his eyes and exhaled once – wavering, prolonged – before resting his forehead against his wife’s as he allowed himself to be comforted.
Just one more moment.
Breathe, John.
The doors slid open before them. John wasn’t yet ready. Not at all.
He stayed a step behind Mary as they walked into the A&E department. Artificial heating instantly and thankfully welcomed John with its warmth, but the immediate sight of injured patients and the smell of antibacterial cleaning solution once again threatened to throw his body back into shock.
“Come on honey, let’s just ask at the front–”
“–Dr. Watson! Oh, I’m so chuffed you’ve come back.” The voice belonged to a young woman stationed at reception, more than a little flustered and clutching at her chest in relief.
“What, why?” asked Mary for him, voice sharp with surprise. Silly question, some part of John’s distracted mind whispered to him. Of course hospital staff would be happy to see the man who’d fled as soon as they’d announced a patient’s death. It all would have been extremely inconvenient for everyone involved. Just one more complication on top of the standard chaos.
The woman at the desk – Elizabeth, according to ID card clipped to her front pocket – gaped at John and Mary for a few seconds as she looked back and forth between them. It appeared that she desperately wanted to say something, but she restrained herself with a deep breath and cleared her throat instead. “Ahem. Yes. Let me page Dr. Fredericks. I’m not permitted to divulge patient information.”
John could feel his heartbeat in his throat. Shock was seeping in again, the very force of it causing his body to sway a bit with vertigo. He pursed his lips to help keep the tears at bay and stared at the ceiling instead of looking anywhere else around him. Especially the spot he’d been standing when he’d last spoken to Dr. Fredericks.
Minutes ago. Hours ago. He couldn’t even hazard a guess.
Breathe, John.
Mary squeezed his hand, then whispered to John out of the corner of her mouth. “What’s this about, d’you think?”
John didn’t quite understand what she was asking. Or perhaps he just hadn’t heard her properly. The surgeon just needed to speak with him, that was all.
“Hm?” he muttered, still staring at the ceiling titles.
Before he could properly look at his wife, however, a young doctor wearing a turquoise surgical cap burst through the double doors at the other side of the room. He was huffing from exertion; it was almost as though he’d been running to meet them.
Bit odd.
“Dr. Watson. Thank goodness you’re here. Come this way, please. There is something urgent….”
…Dr. Fredericks continued to speak. John was aware of this fact. The man’s lips were still moving, at least. But John couldn’t hear him anymore.
“I’m Dr. Fredericks. Would you please come this way?”
“No, no. I know what you’re doing. I’ve bloody well done it before. Doctor, remember? Just tell me. Tell me.”
Every single word the man uttered incited a spark of panic within John. Three in particular.
“Come this way.”
“Come this way.”
“Come this way.”
Mary proceeded ahead of him as Dr. Fredericks gestured her along, but she spun on her heel a moment later when she noticed John was no longer at her side. Rather, he stood frozen – paralyzed – at the center of the pure white corridor, blinking rapidly as his mind raced with thoughts and memories. Bitterly cold adrenaline pumped through his veins. His heart felt as though it would burst out of his chest. His vision was blurring.
John closed his eyes and bowed his head, chin to sternum and hands on his knees. Just below the dried smears of Sherlock’s blood.
A panic attack. Breathe, John.
Inhale, exhale.
“Dr. Watson.”
Breathe, John.
“John dear, are you all right?”
Indistinct chatter. It sounded as though it were happening underwater. Shushing; the shooing away of bystanders. Careful footsteps toward him.
“Dr. Watson, can you hear me?”
Breathe, John.
A warm hand gripped his upper arm. Another light hand traveled up and down his back, smoothing down his jacket with reassuring, circular touches. Mary, of course. She knew how to calm him during these attacks. She’d certainly had to do so enough times before.
The room gradually stopped spinning.
John opened his eyes with deep breath, gulping down the saliva that had pooled in his mouth. His ears, at least, seemed to be working again.
“I was going to wait until we were in a more private area, but it’s evident you need to hear this immediately. Mr. Holmes is alive. Did you hear what I said, Dr. Watson? Sherlock is alive. He’s alive.”
Christ. Full auditory hallucinations. It’s been a while.
Alive.
Alive.
Alive.
“Ah- Excuse. Ahem. Excuse me? I thought I heard you say, erm. God. But–” That was it; John’s legs were going to give way. He reached out his arms, desperate to find purchase. He was going to fall. A chair magically appeared beneath him instead. John sank into it, jaw clenched and hands gripping his knees so hard that his knuckles were turning white.
Shock.
Dr. Fredericks knelt before him, expression gentle; tentative. “I’m at a loss as to how to properly apologize to you. I cannot fully explain what happened. He’d gone into asystole, so our surgical team began CPR. 23 minutes, Dr. Watson. We continued CPR for 23 minutes, but to no avail. Sherlock remained unresponsive. We followed protocol and… ceased lifesaving measures. Called time of death. I- I couldn’t stay in the OR, not any longer. Not one more second. I left, Dr. Watson, and came to speak to you. But after you… after you’d gone, I was paged. Sherlock had spontaneously revived. I’m far from a religious man, but it was…”
“A miracle,” John whispered. “Another bloody miracle. Jesus.” Silent tears were streaming down his face. He stared straight ahead for a moment before bringing his palms to his eyes, pressing them into their sockets to stem the tears.
Breathe, John.
After a few long moments, John pulled his hands away to look over the shoulder of the still-kneeling Dr. Fredericks and up toward his wife. He needed her to confirm that he wasn’t imagining things; that he’d heard what he’d thought he’d heard.
Mary’s mouth was slightly agape, eyes wide. Shock, surely. He could empathize. There’d been plenty of shocks that evening. Paradoxically, her skin somehow looked paler than it had under the cold light of the moon. “Did you–” John began, then cleared his throat. “Mary, you heard him too, right?”
“Yes. Yes,” she replied softly. “I heard him, John.”
“Mary? You’re Mary? Sherlock’s first word immediately upon regaining consciousness was Mary. At least, that’s what I was told. You must be very special to him. By all rights, he shouldn’t have been able to speak at all.”
John cocked his head. “She’s my wife. Sherlock, he- they’re just… friends.”
Dr. Fredericks opened his mouth with a slight gasp, clearly eager to change the subject. “Oh, I see. Okay. I– Dr. Watson, I’m just… I’m so incredibly sorry. I tried calling and texting – we had your information on file – but–”
John rose a hand. “–Can’t do all that now, yeah? I’m barely fucking holding it together. I did tell you, though. That you were mistaken. Hm?” John felt the barest beginnings of a smile tug at the corners of his mouth. It shocked him that he was capable of such a sudden shift in emotion; that relief could be so bone-deep and manage to settle itself into every pore of his skin. It had all been a bit… different the first time around.
“You certainly did, yes. I suppose I should have listened.”
John tried for a proper smile, but he wasn’t sure it looked quite right. Tears were still drying on his cheeks. “Where– ahem. Where is Sherlock now?”
“As of two minutes ago, upstairs. Second floor, PACU. Stable, but he needs to closely monitored for at least the next two weeks. He hasn’t yet awoken from the second round of anesthesia, but he should come ‘round within the next four to six hours. He’s been administered a morphine pump for when he does wake. I am aware of his history, but it is critical his pain is managed to limit any undue writhing and movement. There was a tear to his IVC; that caused the worst of the hemoperitoneum as well as a traumatic retroperitoneal hematoma. Liver involvement was substantial and necessitated resectional debridement. He may still need further surgery, but if he limits his physical activity the risk of complications is reduced. As I’m sure you are aware.”
“APF graft?” asked John, his mind rapidly clearing.
“Yes,” answered Dr. Fredericks with a smile. “Autogenous peritoneo-fascial patch graft. A fellow surgeon, eh? It certainly makes this a simpler conversation. Gore-Tex or Dacron would be the next intervention should the graft sutures tear with any excess physical activity. We opted against this time as–”
“–As there is also the risk of intestinal perforation to consider with synthetic options,” finished John. “Agreed.”
“Precisely,” said Dr. Fredericks. “You have been granted full access to his file to further review, should you so wish.”
John coughed into his hand, then shook his head a bit in an attempt to fully reactivate his damaged neurons. He still felt unsteady; out of sorts. Grief’s dragon was refusing to go back into total hibernation. It had started to slumber once more, but the great beast exhaled fire every few seconds as a reminder of its continued presence. There might just always – forevermore – be a slight burning in his chest cavity, just behind his heart.
He managed to stand, then stretched out his left hand in offering. Dr. Fredericks took it, shaking it immediately and enthusiastically.
“Thank you,” said John, voice hoarse. “And it’s John, hm? Just John. Not your fault. Onwards. Always onwards. It’s the only… the only way. As a doctor. A soldier. All right?”
Dr. Fredericks nodded, though his face still looked unsure. “Andrew. Call me Andrew. Though ideally you’ll never see me again, eh? You’re welcome to head upstairs. 208 of our post-anesthesia care unit; Sherlock will be transferred in the morning to CCU. His attending is Dr. Soo. She’s superb. I believe a Mr. Mycroft Holmes arrived just a short time ago. We alerted him after we were immediately unable to contact you.”
Guess he didn’t think to call.
John then recalled the incessant and ignored vibrations that had been coming from his pocket all evening. Perhaps he had, then. It didn’t matter. Nothing else in the world mattered right now.
“I’ll meet you there, John,” said Mary. “This microscopic baby of ours already seems to be pushing against my bladder. I’ll just be a few, honey. Promise.”
“You’d better be,” said John with a huff. “I cannot be left alone with Mycroft bloody Holmes for too long. I’ll end up with another ASBO.”
Mary took off down the corridor without saying another word. He might have appreciated a hug to ensure he remained tethered to reality. A smile at his weak witticism, maybe. Something.
Dr. Fredericks clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, then clapped his hands together. “All right then. It’s been a pleasure, John.”
“Can’t exactly say the same, hm? Nothing personal, mate. Andrew. It’s been a bloody fucking nightmare on my end.”
“Right, yes. Understood.”
John aimed for the staircase with a mutual wave and a nod goodbye. With each step he took, the shock that he was steadily approaching Sherlock Holmes – who was alive, not dead – set in even more deeply. By the time he found himself standing in front of room 208, his palms were sweating with anxiety and his heart was once again fluttering in his throat.
What if he’s not in there? What if none of this has been real after all? What if I’m still sitting outside, staring into the depths of the Thames? Dreaming? Hallucinating?
John lightly knocked at the door, afraid beyond any logical measure to open it.
“Come in, Dr. Watson,” came Mycroft’s voice from inside.
Breathe, John.
Take a step through the doorway.
One.
Two.
You’re there.
And there he was. Sherlock.
He was lying on his back, the thin hospital blanket rising only to the midway point of his abdomen. The wound had to be accessible in order to be closely monitored. It was stunningly and deceptively small for what should have been a mortal injury; a rectangular white bandage was stretched just beneath Sherlock’s right pectoral, the barest twinge of pink visible through its sterile cotton pad. Three round ECG sensors were stuck to his exposed chest. John glanced at the display screen, his own breath catching in his throat at the visible confirmation that Sherlock was alive. That his heart was still beating.
Sherlock’s NIV mask whooshed in regular intervals. John found himself breathing alongside its steady, audible flows of oxygen. Somehow, they calmed his heartbeat.
Breathe, John.
His legs couldn’t seem to carry him to Sherlock quickly enough. Ignoring Mycroft – who was sitting at the far side of the bed, eyes raised to him in expectation – John pulled up a chair as close as was possible to Sherlock’s right side. His hand was cold and dry in John’s, but… yes.
A pulse.
There it was. Real. Beneath his own fingers.
89 bpm.
A miracle.
Bloody pavement.
Lifeless eyes.
Limp hand.
Absent pulse.
No. No. Not this time.
Not this time.
Renewed tears ran down John’s face. He didn’t try to stop them, nor even to dry them. Instead, he wrapped both of his hands around Sherlock’s right hand, squeezing it lightly as he folded his body toward their singular point of contact. He felt his shoulders shake with silent cries.
“Sherlock,” John whispered, once his sobs had slowed enough for him to speak. “I’m here.” He placed a soft kiss to the top of Sherlock’s hand without thought or consideration, then brought it to his forehead as he leaned into it. “I’m here.”
Mycroft rose to his feet; John detected the movement in his peripheral vision, but his attention was still decidedly fixed on the sleeping man directly in front of him. “I’ll give you a moment, shall I? It seems Dr. Soo is overdue for another round of interrogation. She’s been infuriatingly imprecise about my brother’s long-term treatment plan.”
“Hm,” answered John, non-committal; barely aware. “All right.”
Mycroft paused for a minute outside the door, casting a shadow past Sherlock’s bed and into John’s line of sight. He could feel his eyes upon the back of his head.
“Allow yourself to admit the truth, John. I beg of you.”
Yet another shock. A jolt. John furrowed his brow, ready to ask Mycroft to explain himself. To demand it, in fact. But the shadow had disappeared. Mycroft was gone.
I know exactly what he meant.
I do. God, I do.
John was almost certain Sherlock wouldn’t be able to hear him. It didn’t matter; John needed to speak the words regardless. He’d say them again later, when Sherlock could look into his eyes and listen to him properly. The gates just needed to open. It had been long enough.
"There’s stuff that you wanted to say... but didn’t say it."
"Yeah."
"Say it now."
"No. Sorry, I can’t."
John opened his mouth, then closed it. Fear.
Breathe, John.
“Sherlock,” he began, in a voice no one could hear. His thumb was rubbing against Sherlock’s knuckles; a grounding touch. “One of these days you’re going to die. For good. There won’t be any miraculous resurrection, not next time. I- I don’t know what this all means for me. What I’m about to tell you now. For my marriage. My child. Christ, for any part of my life. But I know… I know that I’m not going to be anywhere but at your side when that happens. Hm? I don’t want to be. No more running away. No more leaving you alone to… drugs. To confront criminals. To take off without me to some far corner of the globe. Whatever may come, just. I’ll be right here. I don’t care, Sherlock. I don’t care if nothing changes in our- our relationship. It doesn’t matter. I don’t even know that it can. It’s complicated, hm? But I know my place now. It’s right here beside you. And I feel like- yeah. I feel like there’s a chance you might agree.”
There were no more tears. Grief’s dragon failed to roar. Something settled into place behind his ribcage.
I love Mary.
I love Sherlock more. Always have.
I can still be a father.
A better one. A happier one.
Nothing else matters. Nothing matters now except that he’s alive. Nothing matters except that I got a sec- a THIRD – chance. It shan’t be wasted. I was too scared before. Angry. Hurt. Prideful.
All that’s gone now.
John looked down at the floor as he continued to grasp Sherlock’s hand in his. There was still a dark red stain atop the leather of his chestnut Loakes. Left side. One that could prove permanent.
It marked the first day of the rest of his life.
Indelibly.
Breathe, John.
E P I L O G U E : A C T F I V E
Mary never came back.
Abrupt awareness of that fact came at least twenty minutes after John had poured out the true contents of his heart onto Sherlock’s deaf ears. Unwilling to break his promise and immediately leave Sherlock’s side to search for his wayward wife – what if he wakes up when I’m gone? – John called her instead. Sent texts. Increasingly desperate ones. He continued to ignore his own bursting inbox.
No reply.
Shock and denial had once again set in by the time Mycroft re-entered the room with soft footsteps and settled himself back into the chair across from John. They stared at one another over Sherlock’s prone form. It was fast approaching midnight.
“You’ve deduced it. As have I.”
John nodded tightly. “I think I may have, yeah. I- Christ, Mycroft. I need you to say I’m wrong. Please say I’m wrong.”
“Tell me,” said Mycroft instead, arms crossed. He sat back into his chair.
“Mary was never across town. At Beth’s.”
“What else?”
“She was still wearing the damned chest holster. There was nowhere secure for her to discard the gun, not as quickly as she’d wanted to. But there’s probably a ballistic vest behind a tree somewhere outside, hm?”
Mycroft lifted his chin, expression hard. His eyes seemed to shine black in the darkness of the room. “And?”
“She killed him. Mary – my wife – shot and killed Sherlock. Or thought she had, right? Then she waltzed into hospital with the fucking murder weapon still strapped to her bloody chest.” His voice was rising in volume. Mycroft shushed him with a sharp glance down at Sherlock, but he appeared just as (silently) incensed.
If not more so.
“She had the gall to comfort me. Jesus, I can’t- Who is she? Who did I fucking marry, Mycroft?”
There was a moment of silence. John’s chest was heaving with exertion.
Shock.
Once again.
The kind that caused his heart to pound through his chest. The kind that felt like betrayal.
Breathe, John.
“I imagine she is a mercenary of some kind. An assassin; one of Moriarty’s hired hands. Most likely assigned to you during Sherlock’s exile and more recently coerced by Charles Augustus Magnussen into doing his bidding. He was her true target this evening. She couldn’t leave a witness, nor implicate you as a suspect in Magnussen’s murder. Ah, love. She must have viewed the gesture as romantic.”
“You knew.” John’s voiced scared him; it almost sounded like a growl. “You must have known. There’s no way you didn’t. You investigate everyone Sherlock even looks at, yeah? Anyone who dares share his oxygen. How could you not know?”
Mycroft sighed. He suddenly looked quite a bit older than his age. “Sherlock begged me to stay out of his affairs upon his return. I… I’ll admit I had her under close watch, but I failed to- I failed to protect him. To protect you both.”
The only sound that could be heard for the next minute or so was the beeping of Sherlock’s heart monitor and the steady whooshing of oxygen.
Breathe, John.
“Sherlock’s first word was Mary when he woke,” John muttered. “Jesus, he must have been terrified.”
Mycroft nodded. “I was told the same. The deduction was a simple one after that. I expect you wouldn’t have seen her until tomorrow morning should the news you relayed have been any different. Anything other than a declaration of Sherlock’s death, I mean. She’d already established geographic distance with you; a convenient, prepackaged excuse. Had you instead informed her of his survival, she would have taken the entire night to plan her next move. Oh, she’d certainly have been tempted to flee, but she’d go to any lengths to keep you. She likely would have waited until Sherlock was alone to threaten him. If that failed, then–”
John clenched his left fist at his side. “–Stop. Stop. I get it. Is she even pregnant? I need to know. We need to find out, Mycroft.” Unshed tears were blurring his vision.
Mycroft just nodded, then crossed his hands carefully over his lap. “We shall, John. I promise you that.” He glanced down at his younger brother, expression softer than John had ever seen it. It looked as though he might cry.
He’d also used John’s first name; a (very possibly) unprecedented choice.
Something important had shifted. For them all.
John followed Mycroft’s gaze to Sherlock’s face, lax and still. “I’m here now,” said John. To the both of them, maybe. The message remained the same. “You don’t need to worry about that anymore. I’m staying. Nothing can change my mind.”
“Oh John, as if I would ever attempt to change your mind.”
…
…
Orange rays of dawn were brightly illuminating the hospital room when Sherlock finally woke. A low groan and the rustling of a blanket were all it took to immediately rouse John from his own – much lighter – slumber. It had proven almost impossible to sleep while uncomfortably curled into the vinyl hospital armchair, after all; his thoughts refused to stop racing. Grief’s dragon seemed to have resumed its hibernation, but the shock of Mary’s treachery still filled his veins with ice water. The periodic nurses’ rounds hadn’t helped matters, of course. John had been the one to stay alone with Sherlock overnight. Mycroft had left hours ago to “oversee” (a word which John was fairly certain really meant “control”) the police investigation. He was campaigning to involve MI5. Even MI6, should it be discovered Mary had fled the country. He’d stop at nothing.
And for that, John was grateful. Neither would he.
“John?” Sherlock’s voice was hoarse. Croaky, even, like a frog. A hungover one. It was the most beautiful sound John had ever heard.
“I’m here,” John whispered. “Right here.” He pressed his lips to Sherlock’s forehead. “I love you. I love you. I’m here.”
Sherlock’s face crumpled as tears began to stream down his face.
“Just breathe, love. Breathe.”
E N D