Fanfiction: Sherlock, BBC
Title: Fire Storm [Sequel to Black Ice]
Genre(s): Drama/Romance
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: Teen
Summary: "Do you regret it?" - A simple fall can change everything, but some things are always the same - and some are not quite what they seem. After all, no one said this would be easy.
Chapter Word Count: Approx 4000
Chapter One
There is less noise than before.
Still noise, but less than there was. Or at least, different now to then. Now it is voices - people. He doesn’t know how many. His brain isn’t functioning well enough to separate one from the next or even to try and figure out how close they might be, or why so many of them sound almost panicked.
Voices are a nicer sound than the last one he remembers hearing, even if they are afraid.
There was a scream, before. It might have been him. He doesn’t know. He is confused.
There was a screech too, but that wasn’t human. Machinery. Brakes, perhaps, though why this thought occurs to him he isn’t sure.
There was breaking glass.
There was crunching metal.
There was someone, he thinks, calling his name, or perhaps that is his imagination.
There were headlights, too. That was before the crunch. His brain isn’t remembering things in order. Headlights shining on him, shining bright bright bright...
Candles are bright. Why does he think of candles?
Little candles. Little flame. Little light.
Not like car lights. They are big and staring and yawning wide, burning, they hurt his eyes. But the candle is pretty. He wants the candle back. The candle reminds him of being quiet and warm and safe. It makes him think of smells. Smells that he likes. Food smells and coffee smells and nicotine smells.
Except he doesn’t smoke, so why does he like nicotine smells?
It’s a puzzle. He knows someone who likes puzzles. Maybe he should ask them. Who does he know who likes puzzles? He can’t remember. But he thinks they will know the answer, so he tries to think of a name so he can find them...
And this makes him think about other things.
It’s not only this person’s name he can’t remember. What is his own name? And why are the voices so scared? And why is he sore? And why is one of the voices much closer than the others?
He opens his eyes. Just a little bit. Not enough to see properly, but he makes out an olive skinned, blurry face in front of him. Not the face he wants to see. The face he wants to see is pale, and it likes puzzles, but he can’t remember the name which belongs to that face, and this annoys him.
‘Are you awake now?’ The face asks him. This voice has an accent, but he can’t place it. ‘Are you okay?’
The voice is concerned. Why is it concerned?
‘Do you hear me?’ Too many questions. The face is asking too many questions. ‘Do you know your name?’
And it comes to him, without really thinking about it very much. It hurts to think.
‘John Watson,’ he mumbles.
John blinks, and forces his eyes to open further. The anxious face of the taxi driver with the heavily accented voice stares back at him through the broken window, frowning. Why is the window broken?
‘I climb through front screen,’ says the driver, ‘you climb out too?’ John groans and tries to move, still not sure what has happened, but finds he cannot shift himself very far without it hurting, so he stops.
‘No,’ John manages, very quietly, ‘I’m stuck...’
‘Is okay,’ says the driver, glancing over his shoulder. ‘I call ambulance, they be here soon. Fire come too, they cut you out.’ He attempts to curl his mouth into a reassuring smile but it is hampered by fear, his eyes darting around nervously, sickeningly fast. John closes his eyes. His head hurts, and he still doesn’t know how he got here, wherever here is.
‘There was accident,’ the man tells him, ‘car accident - I okay, I climb out. Not many injuries. But you are stuck. They will cut you out. Do not worry John Watson.’
John doesn’t reply, and the taxi driver’s voice becomes urgent.
‘No sleep!’ He exclaims, ‘you keep talk to me, yes? No sleep now, you stay awake and you talk to me. I am Eduardo Lopez-Covas, you talk to me, okay?’
For some reason, the instructions sound familiar, but again, John cannot place them. He is forgetting something important, he knows. He tries to look around, as if this might give him some sort of clue, but Eduardo shakes his head frantically.
‘No, no! You keep look at me, you look this way and you talk to me, yes?’ John screws up his face in concentration. A car accident...there’s been a car accident. He is in the car. He is stuck. The taxi driver seems fairly unharmed, though he is hardly in a position to be assessing his own injuries let alone anyone else’s. But the fact that he was able to climb out means that the back of the cab must be more damaged than the front, because John is very much trapped where he is. He can feel all his limbs though, so this is a good sign, he thinks. He cannot be too badly stuck.
But he is still forgetting something. He wishes he knew what, because he knows it is very, very important - the most important thing he could possibly think of, the most important thing in the world, and he has forgotten it.
‘Where is home?’ Asks Eduardo, clearly casting around for conversation topics to keep John conscious; John thinks for a moment. Another important thing he can’t quite seem to bring to mind. He doesn’t think he is that badly hurt, but he knows he must have hit his head. How long ago was the ambulance called?
It takes him much too long to answer.
‘Baker Street,’ he says eventually, finding it a struggle to force the syllables out in the right order; the words seem to be getting muddled on the path between his brain and his mouth, and he has to speak slowly to give the sounds time to come out properly, ‘221b, Baker Street.’
There. Again. That spark of something he should definitely remember.
‘You have family?’ The man is still trying to get him to talk. John doesn’t want to, he is tired, and it hurts to talk, but he knows he should, he knows he has to. He forces the medical side of his brain to take stock of where and how it hurts, the soldier side to grit his teeth and bear it as best he can, and the civilian side to answer obediently and wait for an ambulance, if only to make the driver, who looks terrified, feel better himself.
And still there is something he is missing, something vital.
‘Sister,’ says John, ‘don’t see her much. Don’t get on,’ and something else, something he needs to think of...
‘Ah, that is too bad,’ Eduardo sounds apologetic, and shakes his head, pauses. John starts to turn again, but his gaze is drawn back to Eduardo when he begins to speak, very quickly, as though distracting him. ‘I have wife and two children. They are very beautiful.’ He looks proud. John forces a smile.
‘Was there anyone else...hurt?’ John asks, ‘the other car - is anyone -?’
Eduardo shakes his head.
‘Only one man in other car. He run off hurt but not very bad. Probably drinking, probably not see, not know what has happened. It is very slippery.’
‘So no one else was injured?’ So close to the important thing, so close...Eduardo looks very uncomfortable.
‘You not think about others, Mr Watson,’ he says, ‘you think about staying awake, you think about yourself, okay? Others worry. You concentrate on you.’
‘Was - anyone else - injured?’ John repeats with gritted teeth, angry now. The driver is keeping something from him. He hisses with pain as he tries to shift position.
‘No stress yourself Mr Watson, look at me and talk and we wait for ambulance to arrive. You hear it now?’ John hears it, and disregards it. He should turn around. He should turn and look, now, there is nothing stopping him, except the chilling fear that is creeping up his spine. He doesn’t want to see. He knows, with the instincts that lay almost dormant after childhood, those feelings that tell you that you know something is wrong, you know that the room is not safe in the dark - with that same, cold, dread, he knows that he does not want to see what is on the other side of him.
‘Why don’t you want me to look around?’ He demands, in as commanding a voice as he can manage, though it is weakened by the fear he hasn’t the energy to cover up.
‘Nothing, nothing - you concentrate on me though, yes - no, no look, not stress yourself -!’
John cannot stand it any longer. Swallowing a fear which is threatening to make him sick, he ignores Eduardo’s protests, and he turns his head.
He wishes he hadn’t. He desperately, desperately, wishes that he had not looked, because he will never, ever be able to forget that image. Never be able to get it out of his head and he will never, not for the rest of his life, he will never be able to forget this terrible, unbearable crushing feeling in his chest. His lungs collapse and his heart decides to stop beating. There’s a rushing sound in his ears as his vision tunnels and the only thing in the world is what he sees in front of him. It is the only thing that has ever been and the only thing that ever will be, because nothing else even exists, and certainly nothing else matters.
He knows why Eduardo tried to stop him seeing this.
He knows what the important thing is now.
The important thing is Sherlock.
And Sherlock is...
His whole body is twisted at an odd angle, the side of the taxi has caved in and is trapping him far more thoroughly than John, who finds himself scrambling to move now, ignoring pain and ignoring Eduardo’s calls. He tugs his legs from the wreckage around his feet desperately, reaching out for Sherlock - Sherlock is bleeding and unconscious, he is deathly pale and he is being crushed - the other car hit exactly where he is sitting. There is blood trickling from below his hairline, blood seeping from old wounds, blood on his abdomen, there is blood.
‘Mr Watson -’
‘Sherlock - Sherlock!’ John manages to pull himself free and moves awkwardly across, making no attempt to climb for the opening at the front of the car; the only thing he cares about is Sherlock.
Whose hand is cold. Icy cold.
‘No, no no no no no, Sherlock - Sherlock! Sherlock wake up, come on, wake up - talk to me Sherlock, please, please -’ his fingers are trembling, his whole body is trembling, and this makes it impossible to search for a pulse so he lays a hand tentatively on Sherlock’s chest and feels the tiniest, most wonderful movement in the world as the detective takes a barely perceptible breath. He moves his hands so they are cupping Sherlock’s face and turns it, ever so gently, towards himself. John’s eyes are wet. He does not care.
‘Sherlock - Sherlock, come on, come on, wake up. You’re not even badly hurt. Wake up, Sherlock! You’re fine. You’re fine. Stop it. Stop it now, Sherlock, wake up. You have to wake up.’ He chokes on the words, fighting furiously with the urge to shake the detective back to consciousness because he has to wake up, he has to -
His eyelids flicker minutely.
‘Sherlock?’
‘John...’ It is the quietest John has ever heard Sherlock speak, it is the most painful thing he has ever heard him say, and it is the most beautiful sound in the universe.
‘Thank God, Sherlock -’ John could pass out from relief, shivering even though he doesn’t feel cold, ‘- come on, wake up properly now. Stay awake, stay with me...’ he is still cupping Sherlock’s face in his hands, rubbing lines down the taller man’s cheeks, as much to sooth himself as Sherlock.
Sherlock opens his eyes blearily, finding it an exhausting effort just to raise his eyelids. He lets his head rest in John’s hands, too tired to keep it up himself, and through blurred vision manages to make out John’s drawn, terrified face. Injured - John must be injured -
‘Are you...alright?’
John could laugh, he really could. Of all the times Sherlock could decide to prioritise someone else’s wellbeing over his own, he has to choose now.
‘I’m fine,’ he chokes. He cannot say anything else; the words won’t seem to come.
‘Good...’ a long pause, while Sherlock almost frowns but finds it too difficult. John looks awful, pale, strained and...something Sherlock cannot identify. But if he is not hurt, what could the cause be? He realises slowly as he watches John’s searching eyes, and if he could spare the energy, he would wonder what the strange feeling he has at the revelation is. John is concerned for him. ‘Am I...alright?’
‘Yeah,’ John lies, ‘of course. Just another knock on the head, that’s all. We’ll get you out of here in no time; you’ll be on your feet before you know it.’
‘You’re a bad liar John,’ he coughs. It’s painful. John winces.
‘I’m not lying.’
‘Thank you,’ Sherlock breathes, eyelids drooping. He’s trying to keep them open, really he is, but it’s so hard...and isn’t John always telling him he ought to sleep more? But he says to stay awake now...he can’t, he just can’t. He’s never felt this fatigued, this bone-weary before, and he knows this is a bad sign; he doesn’t need John’s expression to tell him that. Oddly, though, he doesn’t feel anything more than a dull background ache of his injuries...nothing more than sore muscles after a chase, and John is overreacting again, as usual...yes, that’s it...
John forces himself not to think about how cold Sherlock’s skin is, banishing the doctor’s voice in his mind because he refuses to listen to its prognosis, as he tries to inject some confidence into his voice.
‘Don’t think you’ll be able to refuse the blanket this time,’ he says. Sherlock closes his eyes.
‘No - Sherlock! Don’t do that, you know you’re not supposed to do that. Just like before, okay? It’s nothing serious, but you need to stay awake.’ Strange, how he himself was so exhausted only minutes ago and now, he knows, he could not sleep if he was drugged. He has never been so afraid, not even in Afghanistan, because if he is bad at lying to Sherlock he is even worse at lying to himself and Sherlock is not alright. His breathing is short, shallow and ragged, his words are quiet and hoarse, and when John moves his hand down to the patch of blood on Sherlock’s abdomen, he is sure he feels glass but daren’t look even as the liquid seeps through his fingers. His hand comes away red, and he presses it back again, ignoring Sherlock’s sharp intake of breath.
Sherlock’s arm is not supposed to be bent that way. He has blood in his mouth. John’s heart feels like it has been placed in a clamp.
‘I don’t think...my legs - John,’
‘Can you feel them?’ Asks John, panicked. He can hear the sirens now, much closer. Please, please hurry...
‘No.’
‘Try and move them,’ he says automatically, knowing it is inadvisable, that he should be telling Sherlock to stay completely still in case of spinal injuries, but he says it anyway. His brain just isn’t working enough to think straight - Sherlock obeys, and immediately cries out in pain.
‘Can...feel them...now...’ he gasps once he has stopped trying to move them, ‘it...hurts.’
And the tears on Sherlock’s face frighten John more than anything he has seen so far. John sees blue lights out of the corner of his eye and moves to look, taking his hands away from Sherlock momentarily, praying, praying they are here...
‘John? John! Where - where are...’
‘I’m here,’ he quickly grabs Sherlock’s hand and squeezes it. Sherlock grips back as firmly as he can, but his hold is weak; John tries not to think about it, keeping one hand on the wound on Sherlock’s abdomen, but the bleeding won’t stop. Sherlock’ eyes are slipping shut again.
‘I can’t...breathe...’ he mumbles, his chest heaving without drawing in enough air, he is trying, he’s fighting it as hard as he can if only because he doesn’t like hearing John sound so afraid, and because he knows that he should be trying to stay conscious, but it is difficult…it is so, so difficult...John’s face is growing more blurry, his voice is more distant...
‘It’s okay, Sherlock, you’re just a bit stuck, your chest is a little squashed, you’ll be fine. Just breathe slowly, that’s it, concentrate...’
‘Can’t concentrate...can’t think...’
‘Sherlock - Sherlock!’ But he has fallen unconscious again - and John’s heart stops at the same time as Sherlock’s breathing. ‘No, Sherlock, no! Breathe, for God’s sake, Sherlock, breathe!’ He reaches out a shaking hand to check Sherlock's pulse and there isn't one. There are definitely emergency services here now but they can’t reach them, so John starts chest compressions as best he can in his position, barely thinking, frantically and desperately breathing for Sherlock until the lungs under his hands shudder into life again, until his heart stumbles back to a normal rhythm. John lets out something between a sob and a cry of relief. He kisses Sherlock’s forehead, brushing dark curls from the detective’s face, muttering words of comfort he knows that Sherlock can’t hear, but he won’t stop, he won’t leave space for that awful voice of realism in the back of his mind. He won’t listen to it.
‘You’ll be okay, Sherlock, you’ll be fine. The ambulance is here now, they’ll get us out, it won’t be long, you’ll be fine, you’ll be fine...fine...’
000000
Later - John forgets the exact amount of time, loses track - he is in the back of an ambulance with Sherlock. He refused to climb out of the car until they had got Sherlock out and insisted on travelling with him. He tugs the shock blanket they have given him further around himself with a mixture of revulsion and amusement - mostly simply a need for the paltry comfort it offers. The blanket reminds him of Sherlock, not in shock. It makes him think of what might have happened if he had not turned up on time at the scene, if he had missed the taxi driver and Sherlock had taken that damn pill, or worse, if he had not hit the driver, if instead the bullet had hit -
It makes him think of near misses and Sherlock’s indignant face. It makes him think of dawning realisation in Sherlock’s eyes and reminds him of Chinese food and door handles, of fortune cookies and the decision he made a long time before he ever voiced it.
And maybe, after all, he does need it. His teeth are chattering but he barely notices, ignoring the sting as one paramedic treats the minor cuts he has gained. This is not fair. He has not even broken a bone; his worst injury is the throbbing lump on the side of his head, the taxi driver has a dislocated shoulder but little else, and Sherlock...Sherlock is - Sherlock could - but no. He won’t think that, he won’t listen to that voice even when the whole ambulance is devoid of oxygen because Sherlock’s heart has stopped, and the air does not come back until it has started again. It is worse the second time, and John doesn’t realise he is shouting out until the paramedic lays a hand on his arm and tries to calm him, but he won’t listen, he can’t, and don’t they see?
When John collapses into a chair in the waiting room of the hospital, his body feels as though it, as well as Sherlock’s, has been subjected to the electric shocks in an attempt to bring life back to it. It doesn’t seem to have worked on him though.
Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock.
It isn’t even a real thought which chases itself around John’s head in time with the ticking clock, just a name and a face, sometimes a voice, a tired, hoarse, broken voice...
Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock.
He is in surgery. John doesn’t know how long for. He has stopped watching the clock - or rather, stopped registering the movement of its hands. He glances at the plastic face several times a minute, but he never really notices what the time is, or how much has passed; only that the hands don’t actually seem to move, and then suddenly they move much too quickly, time sliding past in uneven chunks without any sort of pattern.
The coffee in his hands is cold now - it’s not even how he likes his coffee, but he only realised that after he had made it and he hasn’t the energy to tip it away. He made it by accident. Black, two sugars - just how Sherlock drinks it.
His hands are shaking. He watches them, between the looks towards the clock. He cannot make them stay still.
Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock.
They are clean now. His hands. He didn’t do it - a paramedic must have wiped the blood away for him, but he wasn’t paying attention. He can still see it, still feel it. Warm. Red. A much too familiar sight...drying on his skin, blood that isn’t his, seeping from wounds he cannot heal - there have been too many of those, he decides, far too many.
Any good?
Very good.
Yes. He told Sherlock that, and it was - is - true. But not good enough, not good enough to save them all, not good enough to stop all the bleeding or cure all the disease, not good enough to pull himself together and do something more useful than babble nonsense words of pointless comfort...
Sherlock.
There is no false hope for a doctor to cling to, no comfort in ignorance. He cannot pretend not to understand.
‘I sit here?’ John looks up listlessly. The taxi driver gestures to the chair beside him; John nods tightly, not trusting his voice to work properly. ‘I am sorry,’ Eduardo says mournfully, ‘about your friend.’
‘Don’t -’ John begins, but his throat closes and he has to swallow the lump there before he can make another coherent sound. It can’t be that long ago that he and Sherlock were sat in Angelo’s restaurant... ‘he’ll be fine. It wasn’t your fault.’ Eduardo nods with grim understanding on his face,
‘I pray for you, and for your friend,’ he tells John, who closes his eyes and grips his coffee cup to stop his hands shaking. ‘I pray to heal him. I am sorry.’
Another silent nod, and Eduardo, true to his word, leans forwards with his elbows on his knees and his eyes closed, murmuring words in Spanish which John does not understand but which are oddly soothing. He finds himself listening just to take him away from his own thoughts, concentrating on the sound of the words more than trying to interpret their meaning.
And so they sit, and wait; Eduardo prays, John listens and tries to ignore the empty feeling which threatens to engulf him.
Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock.
Genre(s): Drama/Romance
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: Teen
Summary: "Do you regret it?" - A simple fall can change everything, but some things are always the same - and some are not quite what they seem. After all, no one said this would be easy.
Chapter Word Count: Approx 4000
Chapter One
There is less noise than before.
Still noise, but less than there was. Or at least, different now to then. Now it is voices - people. He doesn’t know how many. His brain isn’t functioning well enough to separate one from the next or even to try and figure out how close they might be, or why so many of them sound almost panicked.
Voices are a nicer sound than the last one he remembers hearing, even if they are afraid.
There was a scream, before. It might have been him. He doesn’t know. He is confused.
There was a screech too, but that wasn’t human. Machinery. Brakes, perhaps, though why this thought occurs to him he isn’t sure.
There was breaking glass.
There was crunching metal.
There was someone, he thinks, calling his name, or perhaps that is his imagination.
There were headlights, too. That was before the crunch. His brain isn’t remembering things in order. Headlights shining on him, shining bright bright bright...
Candles are bright. Why does he think of candles?
Little candles. Little flame. Little light.
Not like car lights. They are big and staring and yawning wide, burning, they hurt his eyes. But the candle is pretty. He wants the candle back. The candle reminds him of being quiet and warm and safe. It makes him think of smells. Smells that he likes. Food smells and coffee smells and nicotine smells.
Except he doesn’t smoke, so why does he like nicotine smells?
It’s a puzzle. He knows someone who likes puzzles. Maybe he should ask them. Who does he know who likes puzzles? He can’t remember. But he thinks they will know the answer, so he tries to think of a name so he can find them...
And this makes him think about other things.
It’s not only this person’s name he can’t remember. What is his own name? And why are the voices so scared? And why is he sore? And why is one of the voices much closer than the others?
He opens his eyes. Just a little bit. Not enough to see properly, but he makes out an olive skinned, blurry face in front of him. Not the face he wants to see. The face he wants to see is pale, and it likes puzzles, but he can’t remember the name which belongs to that face, and this annoys him.
‘Are you awake now?’ The face asks him. This voice has an accent, but he can’t place it. ‘Are you okay?’
The voice is concerned. Why is it concerned?
‘Do you hear me?’ Too many questions. The face is asking too many questions. ‘Do you know your name?’
And it comes to him, without really thinking about it very much. It hurts to think.
‘John Watson,’ he mumbles.
John blinks, and forces his eyes to open further. The anxious face of the taxi driver with the heavily accented voice stares back at him through the broken window, frowning. Why is the window broken?
‘I climb through front screen,’ says the driver, ‘you climb out too?’ John groans and tries to move, still not sure what has happened, but finds he cannot shift himself very far without it hurting, so he stops.
‘No,’ John manages, very quietly, ‘I’m stuck...’
‘Is okay,’ says the driver, glancing over his shoulder. ‘I call ambulance, they be here soon. Fire come too, they cut you out.’ He attempts to curl his mouth into a reassuring smile but it is hampered by fear, his eyes darting around nervously, sickeningly fast. John closes his eyes. His head hurts, and he still doesn’t know how he got here, wherever here is.
‘There was accident,’ the man tells him, ‘car accident - I okay, I climb out. Not many injuries. But you are stuck. They will cut you out. Do not worry John Watson.’
John doesn’t reply, and the taxi driver’s voice becomes urgent.
‘No sleep!’ He exclaims, ‘you keep talk to me, yes? No sleep now, you stay awake and you talk to me. I am Eduardo Lopez-Covas, you talk to me, okay?’
For some reason, the instructions sound familiar, but again, John cannot place them. He is forgetting something important, he knows. He tries to look around, as if this might give him some sort of clue, but Eduardo shakes his head frantically.
‘No, no! You keep look at me, you look this way and you talk to me, yes?’ John screws up his face in concentration. A car accident...there’s been a car accident. He is in the car. He is stuck. The taxi driver seems fairly unharmed, though he is hardly in a position to be assessing his own injuries let alone anyone else’s. But the fact that he was able to climb out means that the back of the cab must be more damaged than the front, because John is very much trapped where he is. He can feel all his limbs though, so this is a good sign, he thinks. He cannot be too badly stuck.
But he is still forgetting something. He wishes he knew what, because he knows it is very, very important - the most important thing he could possibly think of, the most important thing in the world, and he has forgotten it.
‘Where is home?’ Asks Eduardo, clearly casting around for conversation topics to keep John conscious; John thinks for a moment. Another important thing he can’t quite seem to bring to mind. He doesn’t think he is that badly hurt, but he knows he must have hit his head. How long ago was the ambulance called?
It takes him much too long to answer.
‘Baker Street,’ he says eventually, finding it a struggle to force the syllables out in the right order; the words seem to be getting muddled on the path between his brain and his mouth, and he has to speak slowly to give the sounds time to come out properly, ‘221b, Baker Street.’
There. Again. That spark of something he should definitely remember.
‘You have family?’ The man is still trying to get him to talk. John doesn’t want to, he is tired, and it hurts to talk, but he knows he should, he knows he has to. He forces the medical side of his brain to take stock of where and how it hurts, the soldier side to grit his teeth and bear it as best he can, and the civilian side to answer obediently and wait for an ambulance, if only to make the driver, who looks terrified, feel better himself.
And still there is something he is missing, something vital.
‘Sister,’ says John, ‘don’t see her much. Don’t get on,’ and something else, something he needs to think of...
‘Ah, that is too bad,’ Eduardo sounds apologetic, and shakes his head, pauses. John starts to turn again, but his gaze is drawn back to Eduardo when he begins to speak, very quickly, as though distracting him. ‘I have wife and two children. They are very beautiful.’ He looks proud. John forces a smile.
‘Was there anyone else...hurt?’ John asks, ‘the other car - is anyone -?’
Eduardo shakes his head.
‘Only one man in other car. He run off hurt but not very bad. Probably drinking, probably not see, not know what has happened. It is very slippery.’
‘So no one else was injured?’ So close to the important thing, so close...Eduardo looks very uncomfortable.
‘You not think about others, Mr Watson,’ he says, ‘you think about staying awake, you think about yourself, okay? Others worry. You concentrate on you.’
‘Was - anyone else - injured?’ John repeats with gritted teeth, angry now. The driver is keeping something from him. He hisses with pain as he tries to shift position.
‘No stress yourself Mr Watson, look at me and talk and we wait for ambulance to arrive. You hear it now?’ John hears it, and disregards it. He should turn around. He should turn and look, now, there is nothing stopping him, except the chilling fear that is creeping up his spine. He doesn’t want to see. He knows, with the instincts that lay almost dormant after childhood, those feelings that tell you that you know something is wrong, you know that the room is not safe in the dark - with that same, cold, dread, he knows that he does not want to see what is on the other side of him.
‘Why don’t you want me to look around?’ He demands, in as commanding a voice as he can manage, though it is weakened by the fear he hasn’t the energy to cover up.
‘Nothing, nothing - you concentrate on me though, yes - no, no look, not stress yourself -!’
John cannot stand it any longer. Swallowing a fear which is threatening to make him sick, he ignores Eduardo’s protests, and he turns his head.
He wishes he hadn’t. He desperately, desperately, wishes that he had not looked, because he will never, ever be able to forget that image. Never be able to get it out of his head and he will never, not for the rest of his life, he will never be able to forget this terrible, unbearable crushing feeling in his chest. His lungs collapse and his heart decides to stop beating. There’s a rushing sound in his ears as his vision tunnels and the only thing in the world is what he sees in front of him. It is the only thing that has ever been and the only thing that ever will be, because nothing else even exists, and certainly nothing else matters.
He knows why Eduardo tried to stop him seeing this.
He knows what the important thing is now.
The important thing is Sherlock.
And Sherlock is...
His whole body is twisted at an odd angle, the side of the taxi has caved in and is trapping him far more thoroughly than John, who finds himself scrambling to move now, ignoring pain and ignoring Eduardo’s calls. He tugs his legs from the wreckage around his feet desperately, reaching out for Sherlock - Sherlock is bleeding and unconscious, he is deathly pale and he is being crushed - the other car hit exactly where he is sitting. There is blood trickling from below his hairline, blood seeping from old wounds, blood on his abdomen, there is blood.
‘Mr Watson -’
‘Sherlock - Sherlock!’ John manages to pull himself free and moves awkwardly across, making no attempt to climb for the opening at the front of the car; the only thing he cares about is Sherlock.
Whose hand is cold. Icy cold.
‘No, no no no no no, Sherlock - Sherlock! Sherlock wake up, come on, wake up - talk to me Sherlock, please, please -’ his fingers are trembling, his whole body is trembling, and this makes it impossible to search for a pulse so he lays a hand tentatively on Sherlock’s chest and feels the tiniest, most wonderful movement in the world as the detective takes a barely perceptible breath. He moves his hands so they are cupping Sherlock’s face and turns it, ever so gently, towards himself. John’s eyes are wet. He does not care.
‘Sherlock - Sherlock, come on, come on, wake up. You’re not even badly hurt. Wake up, Sherlock! You’re fine. You’re fine. Stop it. Stop it now, Sherlock, wake up. You have to wake up.’ He chokes on the words, fighting furiously with the urge to shake the detective back to consciousness because he has to wake up, he has to -
His eyelids flicker minutely.
‘Sherlock?’
‘John...’ It is the quietest John has ever heard Sherlock speak, it is the most painful thing he has ever heard him say, and it is the most beautiful sound in the universe.
‘Thank God, Sherlock -’ John could pass out from relief, shivering even though he doesn’t feel cold, ‘- come on, wake up properly now. Stay awake, stay with me...’ he is still cupping Sherlock’s face in his hands, rubbing lines down the taller man’s cheeks, as much to sooth himself as Sherlock.
Sherlock opens his eyes blearily, finding it an exhausting effort just to raise his eyelids. He lets his head rest in John’s hands, too tired to keep it up himself, and through blurred vision manages to make out John’s drawn, terrified face. Injured - John must be injured -
‘Are you...alright?’
John could laugh, he really could. Of all the times Sherlock could decide to prioritise someone else’s wellbeing over his own, he has to choose now.
‘I’m fine,’ he chokes. He cannot say anything else; the words won’t seem to come.
‘Good...’ a long pause, while Sherlock almost frowns but finds it too difficult. John looks awful, pale, strained and...something Sherlock cannot identify. But if he is not hurt, what could the cause be? He realises slowly as he watches John’s searching eyes, and if he could spare the energy, he would wonder what the strange feeling he has at the revelation is. John is concerned for him. ‘Am I...alright?’
‘Yeah,’ John lies, ‘of course. Just another knock on the head, that’s all. We’ll get you out of here in no time; you’ll be on your feet before you know it.’
‘You’re a bad liar John,’ he coughs. It’s painful. John winces.
‘I’m not lying.’
‘Thank you,’ Sherlock breathes, eyelids drooping. He’s trying to keep them open, really he is, but it’s so hard...and isn’t John always telling him he ought to sleep more? But he says to stay awake now...he can’t, he just can’t. He’s never felt this fatigued, this bone-weary before, and he knows this is a bad sign; he doesn’t need John’s expression to tell him that. Oddly, though, he doesn’t feel anything more than a dull background ache of his injuries...nothing more than sore muscles after a chase, and John is overreacting again, as usual...yes, that’s it...
John forces himself not to think about how cold Sherlock’s skin is, banishing the doctor’s voice in his mind because he refuses to listen to its prognosis, as he tries to inject some confidence into his voice.
‘Don’t think you’ll be able to refuse the blanket this time,’ he says. Sherlock closes his eyes.
‘No - Sherlock! Don’t do that, you know you’re not supposed to do that. Just like before, okay? It’s nothing serious, but you need to stay awake.’ Strange, how he himself was so exhausted only minutes ago and now, he knows, he could not sleep if he was drugged. He has never been so afraid, not even in Afghanistan, because if he is bad at lying to Sherlock he is even worse at lying to himself and Sherlock is not alright. His breathing is short, shallow and ragged, his words are quiet and hoarse, and when John moves his hand down to the patch of blood on Sherlock’s abdomen, he is sure he feels glass but daren’t look even as the liquid seeps through his fingers. His hand comes away red, and he presses it back again, ignoring Sherlock’s sharp intake of breath.
Sherlock’s arm is not supposed to be bent that way. He has blood in his mouth. John’s heart feels like it has been placed in a clamp.
‘I don’t think...my legs - John,’
‘Can you feel them?’ Asks John, panicked. He can hear the sirens now, much closer. Please, please hurry...
‘No.’
‘Try and move them,’ he says automatically, knowing it is inadvisable, that he should be telling Sherlock to stay completely still in case of spinal injuries, but he says it anyway. His brain just isn’t working enough to think straight - Sherlock obeys, and immediately cries out in pain.
‘Can...feel them...now...’ he gasps once he has stopped trying to move them, ‘it...hurts.’
And the tears on Sherlock’s face frighten John more than anything he has seen so far. John sees blue lights out of the corner of his eye and moves to look, taking his hands away from Sherlock momentarily, praying, praying they are here...
‘John? John! Where - where are...’
‘I’m here,’ he quickly grabs Sherlock’s hand and squeezes it. Sherlock grips back as firmly as he can, but his hold is weak; John tries not to think about it, keeping one hand on the wound on Sherlock’s abdomen, but the bleeding won’t stop. Sherlock’ eyes are slipping shut again.
‘I can’t...breathe...’ he mumbles, his chest heaving without drawing in enough air, he is trying, he’s fighting it as hard as he can if only because he doesn’t like hearing John sound so afraid, and because he knows that he should be trying to stay conscious, but it is difficult…it is so, so difficult...John’s face is growing more blurry, his voice is more distant...
‘It’s okay, Sherlock, you’re just a bit stuck, your chest is a little squashed, you’ll be fine. Just breathe slowly, that’s it, concentrate...’
‘Can’t concentrate...can’t think...’
‘Sherlock - Sherlock!’ But he has fallen unconscious again - and John’s heart stops at the same time as Sherlock’s breathing. ‘No, Sherlock, no! Breathe, for God’s sake, Sherlock, breathe!’ He reaches out a shaking hand to check Sherlock's pulse and there isn't one. There are definitely emergency services here now but they can’t reach them, so John starts chest compressions as best he can in his position, barely thinking, frantically and desperately breathing for Sherlock until the lungs under his hands shudder into life again, until his heart stumbles back to a normal rhythm. John lets out something between a sob and a cry of relief. He kisses Sherlock’s forehead, brushing dark curls from the detective’s face, muttering words of comfort he knows that Sherlock can’t hear, but he won’t stop, he won’t leave space for that awful voice of realism in the back of his mind. He won’t listen to it.
‘You’ll be okay, Sherlock, you’ll be fine. The ambulance is here now, they’ll get us out, it won’t be long, you’ll be fine, you’ll be fine...fine...’
000000
Later - John forgets the exact amount of time, loses track - he is in the back of an ambulance with Sherlock. He refused to climb out of the car until they had got Sherlock out and insisted on travelling with him. He tugs the shock blanket they have given him further around himself with a mixture of revulsion and amusement - mostly simply a need for the paltry comfort it offers. The blanket reminds him of Sherlock, not in shock. It makes him think of what might have happened if he had not turned up on time at the scene, if he had missed the taxi driver and Sherlock had taken that damn pill, or worse, if he had not hit the driver, if instead the bullet had hit -
It makes him think of near misses and Sherlock’s indignant face. It makes him think of dawning realisation in Sherlock’s eyes and reminds him of Chinese food and door handles, of fortune cookies and the decision he made a long time before he ever voiced it.
And maybe, after all, he does need it. His teeth are chattering but he barely notices, ignoring the sting as one paramedic treats the minor cuts he has gained. This is not fair. He has not even broken a bone; his worst injury is the throbbing lump on the side of his head, the taxi driver has a dislocated shoulder but little else, and Sherlock...Sherlock is - Sherlock could - but no. He won’t think that, he won’t listen to that voice even when the whole ambulance is devoid of oxygen because Sherlock’s heart has stopped, and the air does not come back until it has started again. It is worse the second time, and John doesn’t realise he is shouting out until the paramedic lays a hand on his arm and tries to calm him, but he won’t listen, he can’t, and don’t they see?
When John collapses into a chair in the waiting room of the hospital, his body feels as though it, as well as Sherlock’s, has been subjected to the electric shocks in an attempt to bring life back to it. It doesn’t seem to have worked on him though.
Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock.
It isn’t even a real thought which chases itself around John’s head in time with the ticking clock, just a name and a face, sometimes a voice, a tired, hoarse, broken voice...
Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock.
He is in surgery. John doesn’t know how long for. He has stopped watching the clock - or rather, stopped registering the movement of its hands. He glances at the plastic face several times a minute, but he never really notices what the time is, or how much has passed; only that the hands don’t actually seem to move, and then suddenly they move much too quickly, time sliding past in uneven chunks without any sort of pattern.
The coffee in his hands is cold now - it’s not even how he likes his coffee, but he only realised that after he had made it and he hasn’t the energy to tip it away. He made it by accident. Black, two sugars - just how Sherlock drinks it.
His hands are shaking. He watches them, between the looks towards the clock. He cannot make them stay still.
Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock.
They are clean now. His hands. He didn’t do it - a paramedic must have wiped the blood away for him, but he wasn’t paying attention. He can still see it, still feel it. Warm. Red. A much too familiar sight...drying on his skin, blood that isn’t his, seeping from wounds he cannot heal - there have been too many of those, he decides, far too many.
Any good?
Very good.
Yes. He told Sherlock that, and it was - is - true. But not good enough, not good enough to save them all, not good enough to stop all the bleeding or cure all the disease, not good enough to pull himself together and do something more useful than babble nonsense words of pointless comfort...
Sherlock.
There is no false hope for a doctor to cling to, no comfort in ignorance. He cannot pretend not to understand.
‘I sit here?’ John looks up listlessly. The taxi driver gestures to the chair beside him; John nods tightly, not trusting his voice to work properly. ‘I am sorry,’ Eduardo says mournfully, ‘about your friend.’
‘Don’t -’ John begins, but his throat closes and he has to swallow the lump there before he can make another coherent sound. It can’t be that long ago that he and Sherlock were sat in Angelo’s restaurant... ‘he’ll be fine. It wasn’t your fault.’ Eduardo nods with grim understanding on his face,
‘I pray for you, and for your friend,’ he tells John, who closes his eyes and grips his coffee cup to stop his hands shaking. ‘I pray to heal him. I am sorry.’
Another silent nod, and Eduardo, true to his word, leans forwards with his elbows on his knees and his eyes closed, murmuring words in Spanish which John does not understand but which are oddly soothing. He finds himself listening just to take him away from his own thoughts, concentrating on the sound of the words more than trying to interpret their meaning.
And so they sit, and wait; Eduardo prays, John listens and tries to ignore the empty feeling which threatens to engulf him.
Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock.