Chapter Text
It’s not until I stumble out of the elevator at the hospital that I realize I am still clutching the stolen Palace property in my hands. I try to stifle a giggle. Well, I am here to see the Queen! In fact, he just called me himself! I trip over a cord that’s stretched across the hallway and fling my hands out to catch myself on a nearby counter. A nurse looks up sharply when the ashtray clanks against the counter, eyeing me suspiciously.
“Sir? Are you alright?” She narrows her eyes slightly when I nod. At least I think I nod. “Are you drunk? Do you know where you are? You were just talking about the Queen...”
She walks around the counter, hands out to steady me, with a practiced look on her face. She’s used to dealing with drunks and hysterics. Right now, I might be both.
Out of the corner of my eye as I struggle to right myself, I see a hand clap down on her shoulder. Mycroft’s voice purrs in her ear and she slinks away, turning her chair pointedly away from us as she sits down. Mycroft grasps me by the elbow and steers me towards Sherlock’s room. His door is shut. Mycroft’s steady hand deposits me rather unceremoniously into a chair outside of the door, before he disappears briefly, returning with a large styrofoam cup of coffee. I shake my head, the smell of the strong brew making me nauseous. My eyes water and I take a deep breath to steady myself. I need to know why he called me. As if reading my mind, he settles his hand on my shoulder and leans down.
“John…” He takes a deep breath and I see, despite the bravado, that his eyes are shimmering.
Just then, the door to Sherlock’s room opens and his parents shuffle out. They glance at us briefly before turning towards the family waiting room. I glare at the door to the waiting room hatefully, the memory of the hours I spent pacing that room, sick with worry over Sherlock’s surgery still too fresh in my mind. Mr. Holmes’ arm is around his wife and their heads are bent together, shoulders hitching with quiet sobs. I turn to Mycroft with wild questioning eyes, struggling to stand up from my chair. He pushes me back down easily.
“John, the decision was made to remove life support. Sherlock wouldn’t have wanted to be kept alive with machines and, as you heard in the meeting, his prognosis isn’t good.”
The irony of this statement hits me and I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I might be doing both, I feel so little control over my body. I can still see the ugly words as they hung in the air over the lab bench in Bart’s before I stormed out, turning my back on the most human being I’d ever known.
“You machine.”
I jump to my feet and run at the door, practically breaking it down in my sudden need to see him. I need to touch him, to know that he’s still here for at least a little longer. I need to say goodbye. I need to tell him all the things I always wanted to say, but couldn’t. I couldn’t ever find the words and now it’s too late.
I crash into the familiar room and lurch forward to clutch at his thin shoulders. I try to tell him then, years worth of words catching in my throat. I hear a terrible sound from somewhere, guttural and deeply painful. My head whips around, searching for the source of such a heartbreaking sound before I realize that it is coming from my own mouth. My fists clench and I shake them up at the ceiling before letting them fall onto Sherlock’s chest. My movements feel stuttered, like I’m in slow motion, but time is speeding by.
“Sherlock. Sherlock! Wake up! Please … don’t do this. This isn’t a game … it was never a game. Don’t you see? The game is off- it’s off now Sherlock! Wake up! WAKE UP, DAMNIT!”
I feel myself flinging backwards, realizing belatedly that someone has grabbed me around the waist and is dragging me off of Sherlock’s bed where I have somehow climbed up to straddle his chest. My last words die in my throat and I spin around to see a short, balding man with glasses and terrible teeth. He backs away from me, breathing hard and holding his hands up in a protective gesture. I realize he’s speaking but I can’t hear any of his words. All I hear is a loud roar, filling my ears and traveling down to fill up my entire body with its buzzing and humming. I’m like a balloon , I think, filled with bees . Once I’m full of them, maybe I’ll just fly away . I stare at the vile, disgusting coagulation of evil before me as he methodically starts unhooking and switching off machines. I have to stop him- he’s going to kill Sherlock.
I take a deep breath and clench my fists, realizing my right one is still wrapped around that bloody ashtray. For the second time, I want to fling it against the wall, watch as it shatters into thousands of shards. It glints dangerously in the fluorescent lights when I hold it up to my face. I grin and feel a hand on my back. A nurse is trying to push me somewhere, make me leave. She must be a threat too. I flail around in a panic.
“No! I can’t leave. I can’t leave him- he’ll die! That...that murderer is going to kill him. I can’t let him do that. I swore--I swore I’d protect him.” I’m sobbing now, tears and snot dripping down my face, arms dangling limply at my sides. The ashtray slides out of my grasp and bounces off the tile floor, then rolls under Sherlock’s bed.
The nurse presses her lips together and glances to Dr. Smith who is standing by the bed watching us. He shakes his head.
She plants herself right in front of me, staring at my face until I lift my eyes to meet her gaze. She hands me a tissue from Sherlock’s side table. I grip it tightly, watching with detached fascination as my knuckles turn white. I can feel my fingernails cutting into my palm. She speaks firmly, but with a gentleness that I know must come from years of practice. I remember vaguely that I too used to have a special voice I used with patients when I needed to convey calm. That life seems like a million years ago.
“Doctor Watson, I know this is difficult, but I really need you to compose yourself. If you continue to threaten the staff in the room, you will be removed and possibly even arrested. We’d like to give you a chance to say goodbye. Why don’t you step outside the room for a minute? We can wait to continue until you return, if you’d like.”
Beyond ashamed, I lower my head and walk out of the room. I don’t look around for Mycroft or the other family members, but find the cup of coffee from Mycroft and take several large gulps, leaning my cheek against the cold metal door frame. I’m a soldier. I’ve looked death in the eyes many times before. I can do this, I can say goodbye and then I can go home and forget that I ever existed. A world without Sherlock Holmes in it is no place for me. If I am no longer his blogger, flatmate, friend...what even am I? Nothing but a lost and wounded ex-soldier, pathetic and small, a little scrap of ordinariness. I drag my hands down my face and gulp the rest of the cold coffee. With a final deep breath, I turn on my heel and walk back into the room, feeling calm and collected for the first time in a long time.
Crawling on my hands and knees, I find the ashtray under the bed and set it gently on the bed next to Sherlock’s hand. I settle his fingers over it and reach up to stroke his cheek one last time. His stubble is coarse against my palm and his cheeks are sunken and pale. I trace my thumb over his nearly translucent eyelids and once down his nose. My breath hitches. I need to make this quick. There is just one thing, one very important thing, that I desperately need him to know.
I lean down to whisper in his ear.
“I’m so sorry I was too late, Sherlock. I...I love you. I’m an idiot.”
I straighten up, brushing my hand quickly over my eyes and nod to Dr. Smith, who has tucked himself into a corner, eyes politely averted. He answers my nod and walks back to the monitors, flipping a few switches before quietly stepping to the door.
“Take all the time you need.”
I stop him, holding up my hand.
“The vent. Could we remove it? I need to see his whole face once more, just...as I remember it.”
He hesitates.
“Once we remove it, understand, it’ll be quick.”
I nod again. I understand. Sherlock hasn’t taken a breath on his own in days. Dr. Smith makes quick work of it then, sliding out the tube in one practiced movement and turning to discard it. I watch him until he’s at the door. A sudden sound makes us both turn our heads towards the bed. I look back at the doctor to see if he heard it too. He nods.
“That’s common, just before...it’s the body’s natural reaction.” He trails off then, still looking uncertainly at the bed.
I squeeze my eyes shut and rest my lips against Sherlock’s forehead. I can’t sit here and listen to him die. I have to go. I straighten my shoulders, glancing down for one more look, wanting to sear the memory of his face into my brain, my heart breaking open in my chest. Painful as it is, I want my last thoughts to be of ridiculously high cheekbones and long eyelashes, pale skin and dark ringlets, perfectly straight nose and Cupid’s bow lips. I memorize it all, down to the last speck of auburn in his sparse facial hair.
I slide my eyes up his face once more and blink, not comprehending. A stormy sea greets me. Blue, green, grey. I shake my head. Simply biology, the body’s final moments as it switches off all systems. I lean forward to close his lids, the idea of those beautiful eyes staying open as he slips away… I shudder at the thought, my hand hovering in midair.
These are not the eyes of a man in his final moments. He’s blinking quickly, moisture trickling out of the corners. Eyes that have haunted me in my sleep, that have teased me so many times into believing he’s coming back to us are currently fixed on mine. As I stare, motionless, not daring to even breathe, I feel his fingers tighten where they are weaved between my own. I close my eyes, disbelieving. This can’t be real. Maybe I’m already dead. Maybe I passed out. Maybe…
But then I hear a crackle of sound, like air rushing through rusty pipes. I hear it again, a sharp intake, a gasping wheeze of breath and I look up to see Sherlock’s lips moving. I lean in as he whispers a single word.
“John.”
I don’t dare to believe that this is what it looks like. I’ve heard stories of one last moment of clarity before people slip away. I simply can’t bear to watch. I lay my head down on my arms, clutching his hand in mine, and the bed shakes with my sobs. It’s too cruel, this last teasing glimpse of what is being taken too soon, too fast. I hear the door open and shut behind me. It’s silent in the room, except for my sniffles.
After a few moments, I lift my head and wipe tears from my eyes as I stare at Sherlock’s face. His lips move once more and I hear his voice, the most beautiful sound, creaky from disuse and swollen from the tubes, but absolutely, one hundred percent his voice.
“Idiot” His mouth quirks up on one side and he blinks, tears spilling over his cheeks. I feel faint and stare at him, open-mouthed. I feel like I’ve seen a ghost. I feel like it’s Christmas morning. I look around wildly for Dr. Smith or perhaps a camera crew, waiting to yell that I’ve been pranked, that the real Sherlock died hours ago and this is simply a body double. Maybe he has a twin I didn’t know about… I think maniacally.
The maybe-Sherlock-twin lying on the bed sucks in another breath. He points at the oxygen mask hanging above him. I command my limbs to move and grasp at it with shaking fingers, arms...hell, my whole body is shaking with shock. It takes three tries before I can grab it and settle it on his face. He breathes deeply, the moisture from his breath fogging up the mask. My knees give out and I sink down onto the edge of his mattress.
“Oh...my...god” I choke out, covering my face with my hands. I dig my knuckles into my eye sockets and then look up again quickly. He’s still there, breathing quietly into the mask and studying me with red-rimmed eyes. “Oh my god. You’re...you’re okay??”
He shakes his head, making a noise that sounds almost like a chuckle before coughing drily. I rush to grab the cup of water off the table and slide the mask up, holding the cup to his lips, still vibrating so hard I nearly spill it down his front. He takes a cautious sip, then another longer one, humming in his throat.
“Not okay” He croaks, “But alive. And up here” He raises a finger and points weakly in the direction of his head. “I’ve still got it.”
I continue to stare at him in shock until he squeezes my fingers again. He slides his eyes shut and I let out a whimper. Despite what he said, this must be it. I wonder if I should remove his oxygen mask. Surely that will only prolong the agony. His eyes spring back open.
“No, no. I’m okay!” He rasps out under the mask, eyelids heavy with exhaustion but beneath them, his gaze is piercing and intense. He forces his eyes wide open. “See? Oh, come here.”
I let out a strangled sob and inch closer, still watching him carefully as though he’ll slip away if I so much as blink. Suddenly, it’s too much. I cover the rest of the distance and rest my forehead against his, breathing him in, even though his skin smells like antiseptic and I can’t shake the feeling that I’m stealing seconds from death. I’m shaking profusely now, shock and relief warring inside of me, making me weak. I bring our joined hands between us and kiss the back of his hand around his port, then each of his knuckles, greedy for him, soaking up every precious minute that he’s here, blinking and speaking and aliveohmygodhe’salive.
“Oh my god, Sherlock. I thought- I thought I’d lost you. Christ . Do you have any idea- any idea at all how...? It’s been...weeks.” My voice catches and a new wave of tears washes over me, splashing onto his cheeks too as they fall. He pulls our hands down and tips his chin up, grunting in annoyance when my nose bumps into the oxygen mask. I pull back and slide the offending mask down and let it dangle off his chin. And then I’m kissing him, lips covered in tears, slippery and salty.
At a sound from the doorway, we startle and pull apart. His head drops back weakly onto his pillow as I turn around to see his parents, Mycroft, and what seems like half the hospital staff crowding around the door. Every last one of them is crying, hands over gaping mouths as they stare in shock. Someone breaks the silence with a whoop ! and then they’re all hovering around the bed, hugging and kissing Sherlock, patting his cheek, and asking a thousand questions. The nurses trail off with smiles still on their faces after hooking him back up to a few necessary monitors.
I step back to allow his family their space, but Sherlock reaches for my hand through the throng. He winks at me and mouths “stay”. I nod, wiping my face with my free hand, unable to stop the ridiculous grin from spreading, or the tears from streaming. Of course I’ll stay. We’ve been miraculously given a second chance and I don’t intend to waste a single second of it anywhere but at his side. I squeeze his hand again, still amazed when he squeezes back. I cannot even comprehend the depth of my love for this man, and I know that our very souls are connected in a way that simply can’t be understood. I also know with certainty that somehow this madman fought back to life in order to save mine. If it takes the rest of my life, I vow to repay that debt to him.
Sherlock Holmes lives means John Watson lives.