Fic: Stand Without Flinching (1/2)
Title: "Stand Without Flinching" (1/2)
Authors: canonisrelative and impishtubist
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John; Lestrade; OC (Calvin Jack); Mrs Hudson; Mycroft Holmes
Rating: R
Disclaimer: We own nothing.
Word Count: c. 3,400 (this part); c. 6300 (total)
Warnings: Angst; Language; Descriptions of injuries
Spoilers: None
Summary: Sherlock lands himself in the hospital, again, but something about this time is different.
Notes: Operates in the "Winter's Child" 'verse when Calvin is two years old, but can be read as a stand-alone.
“I don't care about whose DNA has recombined with whose. When everything goes to hell, the people who stand by you without flinching--they are your family.”
-Jim Butcher
John looked around the living room one last time and nodded - everything closed up tight. He left Calvin playing happily by himself, his trains and trucks spread out around him as he narrated a tale of adventure and intrigue, and walked up the stairs, humming softly. Enjoying the relative quiet. It was the calm before the storm, he knew; angry clouds were churning the skies above London, and a heavy downpour was inevitable. And Sherlock, his own personal storm cloud, was due home within the hour.
John shut and latched the windows in their bedroom, wondering if Sherlock's mood will have improved at all after a day with Molly in the morgue. Cautiously hopeful that this might be the case, he decided not to let it affect the remainder of his quiet day with Calvin. The boy seemed, as always, to be growing before his eyes. But more than that, the mental leaps and bounds they'd witnessed in their son were nothing short of astounding. His skill and enjoyment in imaginative play was delightful. He didn't know when he'd laughed so hard as when Calvin marched his toast across his plate, making stomping, roaring noises, then reached up and smacked Sherlock's nose with it. Dino got daddy! Calvin had crowed, scattering crumbs as he waved around his breakfast-turned-T-Rex in delight. Dino got daddy!
John privately thought that the two-year-old was possibly the only thing, person, or force of nature that had ever or could ever hold Sherlock's interest, and keep him on his toes and unbalanced.
John closed the last of the windows against the oncoming storm, and turned to go back downstairs.
John regained the living room to discover that he’d missed two calls - both of them from Lestrade. The man hadn’t left a voicemail message, but he’d texted three times, and John’s heart seized at the words - all of them the same.
Call me immediately.
“What’s he done?” John demanded the moment Lestrade picked up his phone. “What’s the bastard gone and gotten himself into this time?”
“John -” Lestrade stopped, and in that beat of silence John’s world started to fray.
“He’s dead,” John said dully, and there was a hiss of breath on the other end.
“No, no, he’s not, but John - there was an accident. He’s in surgery right now; I can give you a lift to the hospital. Are you at Baker Street?”
John must have said yes, though he couldn’t recall it, because suddenly Lestrade was saying, “I’ll be there in ten minutes,” and then the line went dead.
He was able to, in five minutes, throw together a bag for Sherlock and pass Calvin onto Mrs. Hudson, who was blessedly free for the afternoon. Tears welled in her eyes the moment she opened the door to her flat and saw John’s face, but fought them back as she balanced Calvin on her hip and made John promise that he would call her the moment he knew anything. Calvin had noticed the change in John’s demeanor, but remained silent until he was in Mrs. Hudson’s arms.
“Daddy?” he queried, and John went white. He tried his best to smile.
“Daddy’s...busy,” he said. “And I’m going to go see him. I’ll be back soon, all right? But you - you stay here and play with Mrs. Hudson. And we can go see daddy together later.”
He desperately hoped, as he bounded up the stairs to the flat, that he hadn’t just lied to his son.
---
“What type of accident?” John asked the moment he was in Lestrade’s car and they were peeling away from Baker Street.
“Auto. Cab he was riding in got right smashed up, just outside Bart's. Teenaged idiot wasn't paying attention to the lights." Lestrade looked blankly at him. "Was shocked they called me first 'til I asked - were you aware that I'm still his emergency contact, not you?"
“Wanted you to be the one to break the news,” John said tightly. God, the row that had caused, when John found out that Sherlock hadn't switched that over after the wedding. It had taken him an age to figure out it was Sherlock's version of a romantic gesture. "He never wanted me to find out something had happened to him from someone else."
His head was throbbing. God, of all things, how could it have been a car accident? That was just...wrong. Right smashed up. Just outside Bart's. A vision of Sherlock on th pavement outside Bart's, his head haloed in a pool of blood, swam behind John's eyes and for a moment he felt about ready to pass out. A car wreck. Just a car wreck, that's all. He swallowed down bile and forced himself to speak, words to wrench his mind away from his memories. “Do you know anything else?”
Lestrade shook his head. “Haven’t heard a word, and if you haven’t either, I’d say that’s probably a good thing at this point. Means they’re still working on him. There’s still hope.”
John, even through his cloud of terror, found Lestrade’s words astounding and not the least bit comforting. How was it, he wondered as they sped towards the hospital, that a man who had lost so much could be so optimistic at a time like this?
---
John came to sometime in the middle of the night, his body one massive knot of pain. He'd been sleeping in the plastic chair - and really, in the 21st century, why were hospitals still putting the same moulded plastic torture devices in patients' rooms - with his head pillowed on his arms by Sherlock's shoulder.
He hadn't left Sherlock's side since he'd come out of surgery. He'd sent Lestrade home around midnight - the DI was in the middle of a harrowing case and he looked completely ravaged, though how much of that was the do with the sight of Sherlock lying comatose in a hospital bed John couldn't say. Calvin was staying with Mrs Hudson for the night.
John rubbed his neck and looked down at his husband, lying so still that John almost couldn't recognize him. He blinked and as sleep fell away he felt the icy grip of fear return, squeezing at his heart.
He took Sherlock's long, limp hand and pressed it to his lips, then to his heart, feeling his heart knocking against Sherlock's palm and trying to convince himself that Sherlock could feel it too, wherever he was. He brushed Sherlock's hair back from his forehead.
"How're you doing in there, love?” His voice wavered and he closed his eyes, breathing through his nose. "You'd better come back to me soon."
He realized he was squeezing his hand hard and slowly loosened his grip, stroking the inside of Sherlock's wrist with his thumb. Sherlock's pulse fluttered weakly. The terror that John had kept at bay 'til now could no longer be held back and he felt himself start to tremble, great waves of fear wracking his entire body as he stroked Sherlock's face with shaking fingers. The world around them blurred 'til there was only Sherlock.
"Do you hear me, sweetheart? Sherlock, you've got to...you can't...you can't leave me, you stupid... Not this time, you can't. You can't, you've got to come back to me and Calvin."
His voice broke around their son's name and he sagged against the bed, pressing his forehead to Sherlock's, shoulders heaving.
"I-I c-can't do this with-without you, Sherlock. I need you. I c-couldn't--and Calvin--you're everything to us. You're b-bloody everything, do you hear me?"
Sherlock's breath stayed steady against his cheek and John squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them again, it was morning.
---
"How was he?"
"A little terror," Mrs Hudson said softly. They stood in the door to the bedroom, watching Calvin sleep, his thumb in his mouth, a death grip on his teddy. "He's scared."
John blinked and bit the inside of his cheek.
Mrs Hudson touched his arm. "How is he?"
"Not awake yet."
She squeezed him. "He's a fighter, that one. He'll come through."
John leaned his head on Mrs Hudson's shoulder and she tutted and hugged him, stoking his hair.
"Daddy?"
John let out a sharp breath and steeled himself, turning to cross the room and kneel beside the bed, reaching out to stroke the boy's cheek. "It's just me, sunshine. Daddy's still busy."
Calvin blinked sleepily at him, hair standing up in clumps, his face red from the pillow. John leaned in and kissed his forehead, hugging him close. Calvin started to fidget. From the doorway he heard Mrs Hudson murmur, "You're scaring him, love."
John pulled back and tried to smile at his son. Calvin watched him warily, his thumb migrating back to his mouth.
"You want to go to the park today, buddy?"
"With daddy?"
"No, not today, buddy, daddy can't take you. It'll be just you and me, Cal, how's that sound?"
Calvin lay back down and pulled the covers over his head. John looked helplessly at Mrs Hudson, who looked about to cry but turned to bustle away, clucking promises of breakfast.
---
"Greg, hi, I'm so sorry, I know how busy you are--"
"Don't apologize. How is he, any news?"
"The same. Hasn't woke up."
"You with him now?"
"No I'm at the park with Cal."
"And how's he doing?"
"He's scared, Mrs Hudson says, he knows something's wrong."
"Yeah. Kids...they're too smart for their own good."
"Christ, Greg, what do I do? He won't stop asking for him."
"Are you going to take Cal to see him?"
"Oh, God, I don't...how would he...God, I don't want to. He wouldn't understand. Seeing his dad just laying there, not talking to him? He'd be so scared. But what if---"
"He's going to be fine, John."
"What if he's not? What if Calvin doesn't get to say goodbye? Oh, God, what if--"
"John, listen to me. You can't do that, you can't think like that, you've got to stay strong for Cal, do you hear me?"
"Yeah. Yeah. I hear you. I hear you. I just...I can't..."
"You can. Look, give me a bit but I can get away for an hour. Where will you be, I'll come meet you two."
"No, no, you can't do that, you're in the middle of a case. Sherlock wouldn't like it."
"Sherlock can yell at me later. You need me."
John brought his hand to his mouth, holding in the cry of anguish that wanted so desperately to get out. The world went blurry. His beautiful little boy playing on the merry-go-round was the only thing in focus. He nodded, gulped down his sob, and rasped, "God help me."
---
Calvin was down for his nap when Lestrade's steps sounded on the stairs. John opened the door and stepped aside to let him in, but Lestrade pulled him back, enveloping him in a fierce embrace.
John blinked and looked down when Lestrade let him go. "Do I look that miserable?"
"Yeah," Greg shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it onto a chair. "You do. Have you eaten today?"
"No," he admitted, picking up a plastic plate from the table that held the crusts of Cal's sandwich, carrying it to the sink. "Calvin did, though. And he's got an appetite like Sherlock after a case. It's frankly kind of alarming."
Lestrade flashed a smile over his shoulder before pulling open the fridge. "Anything in here I should be afraid of?"
"Not at the moment, far as I know. There's some leftover takeout on the bottom shelf, are you hungry?"
"Starving."
Lestrade pulled out the containers and dished out two servings, putting the plates in the microwave.
"What do the doctors say?"
John shrugged.
Lestrade handed him a plate and herded him to the table, putting a fork in his hand. “No change?”
“None,” John confirmed, voice raspy. He took a tentative bite of food, and then another. And then he blinked and half the plate had gone while Lestrade’s was hardly touched. Lestrade gave a sad smile.
“Nearly as bad as he is, you are,” he said.
“Rubs off on you,” John muttered. He eyed his plate, but as quickly as it had become appetizing, the food abruptly lost its appeal. He pushed the plate away and said, “If he wakes up today, if they think he's strong enough, they’re taking him in for another surgery in the morning. For the leg. Completely wrecked from the knee on down. He’ll need physical therapy when this is all over with. Be laid up for a long while. Can you imagine?”
“No,” Lestrade said earnestly.
“It’ll be like having two children on my hands.”
Lestrade snorted and said, “And how is that different from any other day?”
John smiled weakly, beginning once again to pick at the now nearly raw spot on his thumb that he hadn't been able to leave alone. He felt Greg's eyes on him, and in a rush the words left his lips, thoughts he hadn't been able to dismiss, thoughts he would rather he'd never had to face. "Because Sherlock's not supposed to be the child, anymore. He's..."
John trailed off, throat feeling thick, and Lestrade finished his thought, voice low. "He's dad, now. I know, John."
John lifted burning eyes to meet Lestrade's gaze, his eyes as red as John's felt. Through the haze of his own self-pity, the absolute terror that gripped his heart - fear for Sherlock, for himself, for Calvin - John felt fear for Lestrade begin to penetrate the fog. Lestrade was a survivor. He'd outlived his son, his marriage. What would it do to him to add Sherlock to that ugly list?
“Daddy?”
John closed his eyes and Lestrade twisted in his chair at the new voice.
“Hey, sport,” Lestrade said cheerfully, holding out an arm. Calvin’s face melted from confusion to delight, and he hurried into his godfather’s waiting arms. Lestrade lifted him easily and set him on his lap. “You’re supposed to be napping, I think, young man.”
“Not tired. Where’s daddy?”
“He’s not here right now,” John said, weary.
“No,” Calvin burst out, and fought his way out of Lestrade’s arms.
“All right - all right, easy, buddy,” Lestrade said gently, helping Calvin down off his lap, and when Calvin’s feet hit the floor he bolted for the living room, on the verge of tears. John sighed and rubbed his temple. He barely had the energy to lift his fork to his mouth; how he was supposed to comfort Calvin in the way that he needed, John didn’t have a clue. Lestrade, obviously reading John’s pain in his face, gave his shoulder a bracing squeeze.
It was only seconds before Calvin’s tortured mutterings became flat-out cries, and he worked his frustrations out on the mess in the living room, his toys and articles of clothing quickly falling victim to his grief and confusion.
"Where is daddy? Where is daddy?!"
A lamp was subjected to a violent push and an untimely death before John was halfway out of his chair.
"Calvin! Stop it--Calvin!"
A shoe crashed into the framed photograph on the mantelpiece and the sound of breaking glass and Calvin's wails filled the whole of the flat. John wrapped his arms around Calvin, lifting him bodily and carrying him with difficulty--thirty pounds of writhing, flailing limbs and a voice to split his ear drums--to the couch where he held him tight, letting Calvin sob himself out.
Lestrade set about cleaning up from their impromptu lunch, obviously not wanting to interfere but at the same time unwilling to leave. John was grateful for this, Lestrade’s presence being his only rock at a time when the rest of his world felt like it was fraying and slipping away.
When Calvin had subsided and John could make himself heard above his cries, he turned Calvin to look up at him. The boy's face was red and shining with tears and snot and John used his sleeve to wipe around his eyes.
"Daddy's had to go to the doctor. He got hurt."
"Why?" Calvin screwed up his face, trying again to escape his papa's arms.
"Sometimes people get hurt and they have to go away for a little while to get better."
"I want daddy!"
"I know, sunshine," John kissed his forehead, trying to will his son to stop moving, stop crying, stay calm. "I do too."
Calvin's little shoulders shaking, he chanted breathlessly around his thumb, "I want daddy...I want daddy..."
"When daddy's feeling a little better, he'll come home."
Calvin pulled his hand away from his face and beat it against John's leg. "No, now!"
John caught his hand and kissed each tiny finger. "He can't come home now, buddy. He has to stay with the doctors so they can look after him."
His eyes filled with tears and he asked plaintively, "Why?"
John closed his eyes and held in a pained sigh. He murmured softly into Calvin's hair, "I wish I was two, I'd be screaming and throwing things right along with you."
Cal quieted a bit, sticking his thumb in his mouth, hiccuping the end of his tantrum.
John continued to mumble into his hair, holding on to Cal as tight as he'd let him. "Daddy will be home soon, love. I know he will. You know he can't stand being away from us. He's bloody useless without us and he knows it. He'll be back and be as annoying as ever."
Lestrade, overhearing this, snorted a laugh, giving John an apoloetic look when he looked up at him. But John shook his head, giving a faint shadow of a smile himself.
Calvin, looking between the adults, asked softly, "Daddy...come home, come home now?"
"Soon, buddy."
"No. Now."
John took a deep breath, preparing for the tantrum to start up all over again, and his mobile started to ring.
---
Calvin's outraged screams echoed down the corridor but John hardly heard him as he slipped into the room.
Sherlock lay in bed, as immobile as before, except...
...except his eyelids fluttered and two fingers lifted feebly off the mattress. His lips parted on a soft breath, a thin sound that John recognized as his own name.
His whole body went numb and his legs turned to jelly. Next he knew he was half in bed with Sherlock, murmuring his name over and over against the papery skin of his cheek, both hands clasped around Sherlock's.
The nurse - John hadn't registered her presence until she pulled at him gently to lift him off an IV line, quietly rearranging things to keep Sherlock as comfortable as possible - slipped out after a minute.
Slight pressure on his hand made John lift his head to look down at Sherlock. His eyes were still closed but his lips moved, his voice nearly inaudible.
"Being...silly..."
"You make me silly," John giggled, relief and residual fear turning him loopy.
"Cal...?"
"He's here. He's with Greg."
"Greg?" Sherlock struggled to open his eyes, the ghost of a frown on his face. "Case?"
John groaned. "I told him you wouldn't like it."
Sherlock sighed and melted deeper into his pillows. "Should listen..."
"Shh," John stroked his face, watching his eyes flicker behind closed lids. "Take it easy, love."
"Worried."
John's eyes burned and he squeezed Sherlock's hand, not replying.
"Almost died?"
John swallowed past the lump in his throat. His voice came out a scratchy whisper. "Nearly."
"M'sorry."
"You'd better be." He ducked his head to kiss Sherlock's forehead. Against his skin he murmured, "God I love you."
"I know." Sherlock's lips were set in the faintest of smiles as he drifted into a peaceful sleep.
----
Part Two
----
Authors: canonisrelative and impishtubist
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John; Lestrade; OC (Calvin Jack); Mrs Hudson; Mycroft Holmes
Rating: R
Disclaimer: We own nothing.
Word Count: c. 3,400 (this part); c. 6300 (total)
Warnings: Angst; Language; Descriptions of injuries
Spoilers: None
Summary: Sherlock lands himself in the hospital, again, but something about this time is different.
Notes: Operates in the "Winter's Child" 'verse when Calvin is two years old, but can be read as a stand-alone.
“I don't care about whose DNA has recombined with whose. When everything goes to hell, the people who stand by you without flinching--they are your family.”
-Jim Butcher
John looked around the living room one last time and nodded - everything closed up tight. He left Calvin playing happily by himself, his trains and trucks spread out around him as he narrated a tale of adventure and intrigue, and walked up the stairs, humming softly. Enjoying the relative quiet. It was the calm before the storm, he knew; angry clouds were churning the skies above London, and a heavy downpour was inevitable. And Sherlock, his own personal storm cloud, was due home within the hour.
John shut and latched the windows in their bedroom, wondering if Sherlock's mood will have improved at all after a day with Molly in the morgue. Cautiously hopeful that this might be the case, he decided not to let it affect the remainder of his quiet day with Calvin. The boy seemed, as always, to be growing before his eyes. But more than that, the mental leaps and bounds they'd witnessed in their son were nothing short of astounding. His skill and enjoyment in imaginative play was delightful. He didn't know when he'd laughed so hard as when Calvin marched his toast across his plate, making stomping, roaring noises, then reached up and smacked Sherlock's nose with it. Dino got daddy! Calvin had crowed, scattering crumbs as he waved around his breakfast-turned-T-Rex in delight. Dino got daddy!
John privately thought that the two-year-old was possibly the only thing, person, or force of nature that had ever or could ever hold Sherlock's interest, and keep him on his toes and unbalanced.
John closed the last of the windows against the oncoming storm, and turned to go back downstairs.
John regained the living room to discover that he’d missed two calls - both of them from Lestrade. The man hadn’t left a voicemail message, but he’d texted three times, and John’s heart seized at the words - all of them the same.
Call me immediately.
“What’s he done?” John demanded the moment Lestrade picked up his phone. “What’s the bastard gone and gotten himself into this time?”
“John -” Lestrade stopped, and in that beat of silence John’s world started to fray.
“He’s dead,” John said dully, and there was a hiss of breath on the other end.
“No, no, he’s not, but John - there was an accident. He’s in surgery right now; I can give you a lift to the hospital. Are you at Baker Street?”
John must have said yes, though he couldn’t recall it, because suddenly Lestrade was saying, “I’ll be there in ten minutes,” and then the line went dead.
He was able to, in five minutes, throw together a bag for Sherlock and pass Calvin onto Mrs. Hudson, who was blessedly free for the afternoon. Tears welled in her eyes the moment she opened the door to her flat and saw John’s face, but fought them back as she balanced Calvin on her hip and made John promise that he would call her the moment he knew anything. Calvin had noticed the change in John’s demeanor, but remained silent until he was in Mrs. Hudson’s arms.
“Daddy?” he queried, and John went white. He tried his best to smile.
“Daddy’s...busy,” he said. “And I’m going to go see him. I’ll be back soon, all right? But you - you stay here and play with Mrs. Hudson. And we can go see daddy together later.”
He desperately hoped, as he bounded up the stairs to the flat, that he hadn’t just lied to his son.
---
“What type of accident?” John asked the moment he was in Lestrade’s car and they were peeling away from Baker Street.
“Auto. Cab he was riding in got right smashed up, just outside Bart's. Teenaged idiot wasn't paying attention to the lights." Lestrade looked blankly at him. "Was shocked they called me first 'til I asked - were you aware that I'm still his emergency contact, not you?"
“Wanted you to be the one to break the news,” John said tightly. God, the row that had caused, when John found out that Sherlock hadn't switched that over after the wedding. It had taken him an age to figure out it was Sherlock's version of a romantic gesture. "He never wanted me to find out something had happened to him from someone else."
His head was throbbing. God, of all things, how could it have been a car accident? That was just...wrong. Right smashed up. Just outside Bart's. A vision of Sherlock on th pavement outside Bart's, his head haloed in a pool of blood, swam behind John's eyes and for a moment he felt about ready to pass out. A car wreck. Just a car wreck, that's all. He swallowed down bile and forced himself to speak, words to wrench his mind away from his memories. “Do you know anything else?”
Lestrade shook his head. “Haven’t heard a word, and if you haven’t either, I’d say that’s probably a good thing at this point. Means they’re still working on him. There’s still hope.”
John, even through his cloud of terror, found Lestrade’s words astounding and not the least bit comforting. How was it, he wondered as they sped towards the hospital, that a man who had lost so much could be so optimistic at a time like this?
---
John came to sometime in the middle of the night, his body one massive knot of pain. He'd been sleeping in the plastic chair - and really, in the 21st century, why were hospitals still putting the same moulded plastic torture devices in patients' rooms - with his head pillowed on his arms by Sherlock's shoulder.
He hadn't left Sherlock's side since he'd come out of surgery. He'd sent Lestrade home around midnight - the DI was in the middle of a harrowing case and he looked completely ravaged, though how much of that was the do with the sight of Sherlock lying comatose in a hospital bed John couldn't say. Calvin was staying with Mrs Hudson for the night.
John rubbed his neck and looked down at his husband, lying so still that John almost couldn't recognize him. He blinked and as sleep fell away he felt the icy grip of fear return, squeezing at his heart.
He took Sherlock's long, limp hand and pressed it to his lips, then to his heart, feeling his heart knocking against Sherlock's palm and trying to convince himself that Sherlock could feel it too, wherever he was. He brushed Sherlock's hair back from his forehead.
"How're you doing in there, love?” His voice wavered and he closed his eyes, breathing through his nose. "You'd better come back to me soon."
He realized he was squeezing his hand hard and slowly loosened his grip, stroking the inside of Sherlock's wrist with his thumb. Sherlock's pulse fluttered weakly. The terror that John had kept at bay 'til now could no longer be held back and he felt himself start to tremble, great waves of fear wracking his entire body as he stroked Sherlock's face with shaking fingers. The world around them blurred 'til there was only Sherlock.
"Do you hear me, sweetheart? Sherlock, you've got to...you can't...you can't leave me, you stupid... Not this time, you can't. You can't, you've got to come back to me and Calvin."
His voice broke around their son's name and he sagged against the bed, pressing his forehead to Sherlock's, shoulders heaving.
"I-I c-can't do this with-without you, Sherlock. I need you. I c-couldn't--and Calvin--you're everything to us. You're b-bloody everything, do you hear me?"
Sherlock's breath stayed steady against his cheek and John squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them again, it was morning.
---
"How was he?"
"A little terror," Mrs Hudson said softly. They stood in the door to the bedroom, watching Calvin sleep, his thumb in his mouth, a death grip on his teddy. "He's scared."
John blinked and bit the inside of his cheek.
Mrs Hudson touched his arm. "How is he?"
"Not awake yet."
She squeezed him. "He's a fighter, that one. He'll come through."
John leaned his head on Mrs Hudson's shoulder and she tutted and hugged him, stoking his hair.
"Daddy?"
John let out a sharp breath and steeled himself, turning to cross the room and kneel beside the bed, reaching out to stroke the boy's cheek. "It's just me, sunshine. Daddy's still busy."
Calvin blinked sleepily at him, hair standing up in clumps, his face red from the pillow. John leaned in and kissed his forehead, hugging him close. Calvin started to fidget. From the doorway he heard Mrs Hudson murmur, "You're scaring him, love."
John pulled back and tried to smile at his son. Calvin watched him warily, his thumb migrating back to his mouth.
"You want to go to the park today, buddy?"
"With daddy?"
"No, not today, buddy, daddy can't take you. It'll be just you and me, Cal, how's that sound?"
Calvin lay back down and pulled the covers over his head. John looked helplessly at Mrs Hudson, who looked about to cry but turned to bustle away, clucking promises of breakfast.
---
"Greg, hi, I'm so sorry, I know how busy you are--"
"Don't apologize. How is he, any news?"
"The same. Hasn't woke up."
"You with him now?"
"No I'm at the park with Cal."
"And how's he doing?"
"He's scared, Mrs Hudson says, he knows something's wrong."
"Yeah. Kids...they're too smart for their own good."
"Christ, Greg, what do I do? He won't stop asking for him."
"Are you going to take Cal to see him?"
"Oh, God, I don't...how would he...God, I don't want to. He wouldn't understand. Seeing his dad just laying there, not talking to him? He'd be so scared. But what if---"
"He's going to be fine, John."
"What if he's not? What if Calvin doesn't get to say goodbye? Oh, God, what if--"
"John, listen to me. You can't do that, you can't think like that, you've got to stay strong for Cal, do you hear me?"
"Yeah. Yeah. I hear you. I hear you. I just...I can't..."
"You can. Look, give me a bit but I can get away for an hour. Where will you be, I'll come meet you two."
"No, no, you can't do that, you're in the middle of a case. Sherlock wouldn't like it."
"Sherlock can yell at me later. You need me."
John brought his hand to his mouth, holding in the cry of anguish that wanted so desperately to get out. The world went blurry. His beautiful little boy playing on the merry-go-round was the only thing in focus. He nodded, gulped down his sob, and rasped, "God help me."
---
Calvin was down for his nap when Lestrade's steps sounded on the stairs. John opened the door and stepped aside to let him in, but Lestrade pulled him back, enveloping him in a fierce embrace.
John blinked and looked down when Lestrade let him go. "Do I look that miserable?"
"Yeah," Greg shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it onto a chair. "You do. Have you eaten today?"
"No," he admitted, picking up a plastic plate from the table that held the crusts of Cal's sandwich, carrying it to the sink. "Calvin did, though. And he's got an appetite like Sherlock after a case. It's frankly kind of alarming."
Lestrade flashed a smile over his shoulder before pulling open the fridge. "Anything in here I should be afraid of?"
"Not at the moment, far as I know. There's some leftover takeout on the bottom shelf, are you hungry?"
"Starving."
Lestrade pulled out the containers and dished out two servings, putting the plates in the microwave.
"What do the doctors say?"
John shrugged.
Lestrade handed him a plate and herded him to the table, putting a fork in his hand. “No change?”
“None,” John confirmed, voice raspy. He took a tentative bite of food, and then another. And then he blinked and half the plate had gone while Lestrade’s was hardly touched. Lestrade gave a sad smile.
“Nearly as bad as he is, you are,” he said.
“Rubs off on you,” John muttered. He eyed his plate, but as quickly as it had become appetizing, the food abruptly lost its appeal. He pushed the plate away and said, “If he wakes up today, if they think he's strong enough, they’re taking him in for another surgery in the morning. For the leg. Completely wrecked from the knee on down. He’ll need physical therapy when this is all over with. Be laid up for a long while. Can you imagine?”
“No,” Lestrade said earnestly.
“It’ll be like having two children on my hands.”
Lestrade snorted and said, “And how is that different from any other day?”
John smiled weakly, beginning once again to pick at the now nearly raw spot on his thumb that he hadn't been able to leave alone. He felt Greg's eyes on him, and in a rush the words left his lips, thoughts he hadn't been able to dismiss, thoughts he would rather he'd never had to face. "Because Sherlock's not supposed to be the child, anymore. He's..."
John trailed off, throat feeling thick, and Lestrade finished his thought, voice low. "He's dad, now. I know, John."
John lifted burning eyes to meet Lestrade's gaze, his eyes as red as John's felt. Through the haze of his own self-pity, the absolute terror that gripped his heart - fear for Sherlock, for himself, for Calvin - John felt fear for Lestrade begin to penetrate the fog. Lestrade was a survivor. He'd outlived his son, his marriage. What would it do to him to add Sherlock to that ugly list?
“Daddy?”
John closed his eyes and Lestrade twisted in his chair at the new voice.
“Hey, sport,” Lestrade said cheerfully, holding out an arm. Calvin’s face melted from confusion to delight, and he hurried into his godfather’s waiting arms. Lestrade lifted him easily and set him on his lap. “You’re supposed to be napping, I think, young man.”
“Not tired. Where’s daddy?”
“He’s not here right now,” John said, weary.
“No,” Calvin burst out, and fought his way out of Lestrade’s arms.
“All right - all right, easy, buddy,” Lestrade said gently, helping Calvin down off his lap, and when Calvin’s feet hit the floor he bolted for the living room, on the verge of tears. John sighed and rubbed his temple. He barely had the energy to lift his fork to his mouth; how he was supposed to comfort Calvin in the way that he needed, John didn’t have a clue. Lestrade, obviously reading John’s pain in his face, gave his shoulder a bracing squeeze.
It was only seconds before Calvin’s tortured mutterings became flat-out cries, and he worked his frustrations out on the mess in the living room, his toys and articles of clothing quickly falling victim to his grief and confusion.
"Where is daddy? Where is daddy?!"
A lamp was subjected to a violent push and an untimely death before John was halfway out of his chair.
"Calvin! Stop it--Calvin!"
A shoe crashed into the framed photograph on the mantelpiece and the sound of breaking glass and Calvin's wails filled the whole of the flat. John wrapped his arms around Calvin, lifting him bodily and carrying him with difficulty--thirty pounds of writhing, flailing limbs and a voice to split his ear drums--to the couch where he held him tight, letting Calvin sob himself out.
Lestrade set about cleaning up from their impromptu lunch, obviously not wanting to interfere but at the same time unwilling to leave. John was grateful for this, Lestrade’s presence being his only rock at a time when the rest of his world felt like it was fraying and slipping away.
When Calvin had subsided and John could make himself heard above his cries, he turned Calvin to look up at him. The boy's face was red and shining with tears and snot and John used his sleeve to wipe around his eyes.
"Daddy's had to go to the doctor. He got hurt."
"Why?" Calvin screwed up his face, trying again to escape his papa's arms.
"Sometimes people get hurt and they have to go away for a little while to get better."
"I want daddy!"
"I know, sunshine," John kissed his forehead, trying to will his son to stop moving, stop crying, stay calm. "I do too."
Calvin's little shoulders shaking, he chanted breathlessly around his thumb, "I want daddy...I want daddy..."
"When daddy's feeling a little better, he'll come home."
Calvin pulled his hand away from his face and beat it against John's leg. "No, now!"
John caught his hand and kissed each tiny finger. "He can't come home now, buddy. He has to stay with the doctors so they can look after him."
His eyes filled with tears and he asked plaintively, "Why?"
John closed his eyes and held in a pained sigh. He murmured softly into Calvin's hair, "I wish I was two, I'd be screaming and throwing things right along with you."
Cal quieted a bit, sticking his thumb in his mouth, hiccuping the end of his tantrum.
John continued to mumble into his hair, holding on to Cal as tight as he'd let him. "Daddy will be home soon, love. I know he will. You know he can't stand being away from us. He's bloody useless without us and he knows it. He'll be back and be as annoying as ever."
Lestrade, overhearing this, snorted a laugh, giving John an apoloetic look when he looked up at him. But John shook his head, giving a faint shadow of a smile himself.
Calvin, looking between the adults, asked softly, "Daddy...come home, come home now?"
"Soon, buddy."
"No. Now."
John took a deep breath, preparing for the tantrum to start up all over again, and his mobile started to ring.
---
Calvin's outraged screams echoed down the corridor but John hardly heard him as he slipped into the room.
Sherlock lay in bed, as immobile as before, except...
...except his eyelids fluttered and two fingers lifted feebly off the mattress. His lips parted on a soft breath, a thin sound that John recognized as his own name.
His whole body went numb and his legs turned to jelly. Next he knew he was half in bed with Sherlock, murmuring his name over and over against the papery skin of his cheek, both hands clasped around Sherlock's.
The nurse - John hadn't registered her presence until she pulled at him gently to lift him off an IV line, quietly rearranging things to keep Sherlock as comfortable as possible - slipped out after a minute.
Slight pressure on his hand made John lift his head to look down at Sherlock. His eyes were still closed but his lips moved, his voice nearly inaudible.
"Being...silly..."
"You make me silly," John giggled, relief and residual fear turning him loopy.
"Cal...?"
"He's here. He's with Greg."
"Greg?" Sherlock struggled to open his eyes, the ghost of a frown on his face. "Case?"
John groaned. "I told him you wouldn't like it."
Sherlock sighed and melted deeper into his pillows. "Should listen..."
"Shh," John stroked his face, watching his eyes flicker behind closed lids. "Take it easy, love."
"Worried."
John's eyes burned and he squeezed Sherlock's hand, not replying.
"Almost died?"
John swallowed past the lump in his throat. His voice came out a scratchy whisper. "Nearly."
"M'sorry."
"You'd better be." He ducked his head to kiss Sherlock's forehead. Against his skin he murmured, "God I love you."
"I know." Sherlock's lips were set in the faintest of smiles as he drifted into a peaceful sleep.
----
Part Two
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