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The first time John Watson’s emergency contact is called is the first time Sherlock Holmes finds out that he has the job.
He's elbow deep in intestines, Molly's ever-present disapproving, yet fascinated gaze on him as he dissects a colon. He’s on day three of a four-day study on bacteria post-mortem when his phone rings for the second time in as many minutes.
He huffs out a breath of annoyance and immediately regrets the inhale he must take a second later. Despite what Donovan says, decomposing flesh is not a scent he enjoys.
"Will you get that?"
"What?" Molly squeaks.
"The mobile," he drawls. "Will you answer it for me? Left jacket pocket. Bit indisposed at the moment."
"Um, yes, sure, 'course," she mumbles, coming around the table and gingerly pulling the phone from his pocket. "It's Bart's,” she says, frowning at the screen. “Hello?"
Sherlock is only half-listening. It's likely the lab calling to tell him the results are ready.
"Um, yes, one moment." She pulls the mobile away from her ear and holds it out. "They want to talk to you."
"Obviously. Why else would they have called? What do they want?"
She looks at a loss for a moment before bringing the mobile to her ear once more. "May I ask what this is in reference to?" She pauses. He waits. But when "Who's John Watson?" leaves her lips, Sherlock is grabbing the phone from her hand with little regard for the gore still staining his gloves.
“What’s happened?” he barks and the voice on the other end of the line stutters.
“Oh, uh, hello? Is this Mr. Holmes?”
"Clearly, idiot. Now what's happened to John?"
“Um, Dr. Watson had stopped to help an accident. He was clipped by a car – ”
And that’s all Sherlock hears before his brilliant brain short circuits to be filled by the roaring of his own blood in his ears.
He must look a fright because Molly places a concerned hand on his arm and he snaps to, registering her wide eyes and the final words of the male nurse on the other end of the line.
“ – mild contusions, bit of road rash, and a concussion.”
“But he’ll be all right?” he finally asks and he hates how desperate he sounds.
“Should be. He’s just getting stitched up in A&E but he needs to be monitored throughout the eve – ”
“I’m on my way,” Sherlock clips before he hangs up, tosses his phone on the table to clean later, and tugs his gloves off.
“Who’s John?” Molly asks, but Sherlock is already out the door and taking the stairs two at a time.
A&E is the first floor, towards the back by the ambulance loading bay. He has the hospital mapped out in his head, letting it guide him as he runs nearly blindly through the halls, sending interns and patients alike scattering to the sides.
He and John have only been living together for a matter of weeks and it frightens him to realize how much the man has made himself indispensible.
It’s these rather confounding thoughts that have him careening through the doors and skidding to a stop in front of the Emergency desk.
“Sherlock Holmes – ” sharp inhale, “to see John Watson,” large exhale. He really must stop smoking. For good, this time.
“Right, wow, that was quick,” the man replies and Sherlock recognizes his voice from the call.
“Which room number?” he snaps.
“Technically, we don’t have rooms here, just curtained off – “
“If you don’t point me in the right direction in the next five seconds,” he begins, voice gradually rising, “I will ensure that you never set foot on hospital premises in the whole of the United Kingdom!”
“Sherlock?” a familiar voice calls and he turns around to find John, beautiful and bruised John, staring at him from behind a pushed-aside curtain. There’s something exasperated and yet fond in his eyes as he asks, “What are you doing?”
“Verbally abusing this man for his incompetence,” he replies though it comes out more petulantly than he’d like.
“Leave him alone, you menace,” John replies with a pained wince.
There’s a piece of gauze at his hairline and his jumper has been pulled off, leaving him in only his vest so the doctor could attend to the gashes and abrasions up and down his right arm. Another patch of gauze surrounds his elbow and there are a few tears in his jeans.
Sherlock edges closer, cataloguing every injury and filing it away in the room labeled John that seems to need more shelf space by the day.
“You all right?”
The doctor shrugs and then groans in pain. “Could’ve been worse.”
“What on earth were you doing at that accident?” he asks, the words sounding more reprimanding than he intends them to.
“My job,” John simply replies and another piece of Sherlock’s icy exterior crumbles.
He vaguely notices a resident eyeing them out of the corner of his eye. He was clearly in the middle of wrapping John’s sprained fingers when Sherlock so rudely (and necessarily) interrupted.
“How’d you know I was here?” John asks, nodding towards the terrified resident and holding his right hand out expectantly. The doctor-in-training continues bandaging the swollen appendages.
“They called me. I was in the basement.”
John nods, but he’s fighting a smile. He’s clearly pleased at Sherlock’s presence. This should not make Sherlock feel as good as it does.
“Whaddya think, doc?” the young resident asks and John admires his handiwork.
“Not bad,” he replies with a smile and claps the man on the shoulder with his good hand.
“Now, for the concussion – ”
“I’ll make sure he wakes me every two hours,” John replies and Sherlock’s stomach flips. That is one duty he is more than happy to take on.
“Slightest sign of nausea or dizziness, come back,” the resident urges and John nods, but Sherlock knows he’ll never obey.
Doctors do make the worst patients.
He heads back towards the desk, giving John a moment to gingerly get himself in order. The male nurse is still here and upon seeing Sherlock approach, he bends further over the file in front of him, trying to look as invisible as possible.
“Apologies for earlier,” Sherlock forces out, stuffing his hands in his pockets and rocking back on his heels.
The nurse freezes for a moment, before lifting his head and smiling wryly. “Happens more often than you think. Worried spouses, family, and the like.”
Sherlock nods, but this feeling, this concern, is new. He’s not sure he likes it. But then a thought occurs. “Why did you call me?”
The nurse frowns. “Standard protocol – ”
“No, why did you call me? John has a sister. Next of kin.”
The man shrugs and tilts the file towards him, the bolded words in block print clearer than any piece of evidence Lestrade has in his lockup.
EMERGENCY CONTACT: Sherlock Holmes
RELATIONSHIP: n/a
“Oh.” The word slips out as his eyes scan the page. “Oh,” he repeats, upon seeing the n/a. Not applicable? What the hell does that mean? Sure, he supposes ‘Flatmate’ sounds a bit odd. ‘Friend,’ perhaps? Only time will tell.
But that’s what friends do, isn’t it? List each other as their emergency contact?
“Ready?” John asks, jarring him to the present as he limps up to him. The walking stick the resident tried to foist on him has been left rather unceremoniously on the floor of A&E.
Sherlock smiles with pride and looks him up and down. He realizes they need biscuits (preferably John’s favorite) and remembers that he must wake him every two hours to check his pupil dilation (a hardship if there ever was one).
Friends. Yes, he could go in for that sort of thing, he supposes.
“Whenever you are.”
xxxxxx
The second time it happens, Sherlock is blowing off steam at barely a level-four crime scene, but it gets him out of the flat and across town, far away from John’s ire. Warranted ire, but ire all the same.
He had calculated the murderer the moment he stepped on the scene, and even Lestrade seems to be glancing at him like he can’t quite believe he’s here, but John is at least level-nine angry and it’s really better for all parties if they have the city of London between them for the time being.
“Didn’t think you’d come, honestly,” Lestrade says, scratching his ear.
“Civic duty and all that,” Sherlock mutters, taking a soil sample from the dead man’s shoes, and Lestrade snorts.
“You wouldn’t know civic duty if it came up and bit you in the bum.”
Sherlock rolls his eyes and stands, joints creaking. “The gardener. Check his fertilizer.”
Lestrade’s eyes narrow. “You knew that already.”
Sherlock shrugs and he knows he must look like a child, but frankly, he doesn’t care. “Had to be sure.”
The DI exhales loudly and though his lectures have tapered off since John came into his life and began providing his own, he knows when he’s about to get one.
“Sherlock, why did you come?”
“Breath of fresh air perhaps?” he snaps and Lestrade barks out a laugh.
“You hate fresh air. What’s happened at home?” he asks and Sherlock’s stomach drops. Damn him.
“What makes you think something’s happened?”
“Because you’re here, you tit.” His gaze goes heavenward and he pinches the bridge of his nose. “Why do I call you?"
“Question of the decade,” Sherlock hotly retorts before yanking his buzzing mobile from his pocket. Unknown number. “Yes?”
“Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”
“Christ, now what?” he snaps.
The woman continues on, undeterred by his rudeness. Professional. “This is Abby from the Royal London Hospital. We have a patient here by the name of John Watson – ”
“Is he bleeding profusely?” he asks, affecting an air of dismissive nonchalance, even as his heartbeat steps up to a gallop.
“Not quite – ”
“Then he’s fine.” He hangs up and bends back down over the body.
“What the hell was that?”
“Nothing. John’s in hospital.”
“What?” Lestrade splutters. “Is he all right?”
“Fine,” Sherlock replies, yet his phone buzzes again and he lets out a frustrated huff, yanking it out once more. “He’s allergic to penicillin and authority. That’s really all you need to know.”
“Yes, we’re aware of the penicillin and we’re learning about the authority,” the woman – Abby – replies.
“So?”
There’s a pause on the other end. “Sir, he’s asking for you.”
Hope flutters in Sherlock’s chest. “He is?”
“Yes, sir.” Abby’s voice is soft. She’s clearly good at her job. There’s a reason she’s the one chosen to call next of kin.
“What happened?” he finally asks, swallowing hard and beginning to feel like the biggest shit in the world.
“Domestic violence situation at his workplace. Dr. Watson got caught in the middle. He subdued the husband but took a slice to the neck from a wayward scalpel.”
Sherlock inhales sharply and watches Lestrade pale at the look on his face. “How bad?”
“Just missed his carotid.”
He curses under his breath and mutters an “I’m on my way” before hanging up and looking helplessly at the DI. The damn man already has his keys out.
“I’ll drive you.”
Sherlock doesn’t remember much of the trip. He glares at the passing scenery as if each black cab, shopping pedestrian, and miniature dog has done him a personal wrong. Lestrade puts on the siren and Sherlock has never been more grateful.
The Royal London looms sooner than he expected and he manages to wait until Lestrade at least has the car in park before he’s throwing open the door and bounding into A&E. Skidding to the desk, he’s hit with a sudden sense of déjà vu.
“John Watson?”
The woman behind the desk gives him a once over. “Are you family?” Not Abby, then. And he’s not family. Bollocks.
Lestrade jogs up next to him, panting harshly as he reaches in his pocket and flashes his badge.
The woman’s eyes widen and she gives her computer screen a quick glance. “Watson. Um, room 307… ”
A room. Christ, it’s bad enough that they’ve moved him to a room. He heads off toward the lifts, listening to Lestrade’s steady footsteps behind him. It’s… comforting, in a way. Having someone there. The doors open and he hits the button for the third floor, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Lestrade is quiet beside him, a silent sentry.
The last thing Sherlock had said to John – it was awful. He knows John will be fine, he knows this, but some part of him which refuses to stay dormant whenever John’s wellbeing is concerned, reminds him that one centimeter to the right and those horrible words could have been the last ones John ever heard from him.
The lift doors slide open and Sherlock follows the signs to 307, inhaling sharply when he actually gets a look into the room.
John is sitting on the bed, eyes closed, brow creased in pain as a doctor examines the angry wound on his neck.
Christ it was close.
“John?” Sherlock whispers and the other man’s eyes open.
“Hi,” he croaks, voice rough from whatever internal examination they did of his throat.
Sherlock takes a small step, but stops just on the threshold of the room. The doctor treating John offers him a kind smile before turning back to the task at hand.
“The famous Mr. Holmes. I’ve heard a lot about you this afternoon,” he says and John’s ears go pink.
“I’m sure it’s only half true,” he replies, trying to chuckle and coughing instead.
John’s steady gaze watches him carefully and Lestrade finally nudges him in the back, forcing him further into the room.
“Detective Inspector,” John drawls and Lestrade smiles in relief.
“Dr. Watson. I didn’t know your clinic was so eventful.”
“Neither did I,” he says and winces again when the doctor cleans the final edge of his wound.
Sherlock remains quiet, watching the doctor’s hands work carefully. Lestrade eventually murmurs that he’ll be just outside and the second he leaves, the tension settles in thick. If the doctor notices, he doesn’t say anything and Sherlock thanks some nonexistent deity for small miracles.
He shuffles a bit closer.
“Thanks for coming,” John murmurs and Sherlock meets his gaze before darting away once more.
“Of course,” he replies, studying the lino, ignoring just how close he came to not doing just that. “I’m sorry,” he finally says. “For what I said, I’m sorry.”
He chances a glance up to find a soft smile on John’s face. This time, he doesn’t look away.
“Me too.”
“I won’t put eyeballs in the microwave anymore. “
The doctor pauses in his ministrations and Lestrade groans from outside the door.
“Ever?” John asks and Sherlock’s nose scrunches up.
“For a month.”
“Two.”
“Deal.”
John chuckles and looks suitably chastened when the doctor tells him to keep still. Sherlock shifts closer – close enough to see the dried blood splatter on John’s collar and the bruises on his knuckles where he got a few good hits in before he was stabbed with a scalpel.
“You were asking for me?” Sherlock asks before he can bite back the words and John smiles.
“Didn’t want to die alone.”
“And you call me a drama queen,” he replies, but his heart stutters in his chest because, yes. That could have been the very real outcome of today. And it would have resulted in a very different phone call.
“Git,” John mutters fondly, as if sensing the morose turn of Sherlock’s thoughts.
“We’re finding you a new surgery,” Sherlock says haughtily, pulling his coat tighter around him.
John snorts and nudges him lightly with his shoe. “You worried about me?”
Sherlock’s eyes narrow, but he knows he can’t quite keep the truth from them. “What would ever give you that impression?”
xxxxxx
The third time it happens, Sherlock doesn’t get it because he’s in the middle of Morocco and the safehouse’s satellite is patchy at best.
He is told after the fact that Mycroft intercepted the call and went on his behalf.
Car accident. Fractured wrist. Another concussion.
He begs until Mycroft sends him John’s x-rays – the break isn’t too bad, but John will see any hindrance to his mobility as a crushing blow.
There’s a note on his file that his blood alcohol level was well above the minimum. He was in a cab though. Not driving, which is a small relief. The high alcohol level, which seems to be becoming more and more commonplace, however, is less so.
He asks Mycroft, yet again, if John is all right.
He never gets an answer.
xxxxxx
The fourth time it happens, he stands holding the phone silently for a full ten seconds before the nurse asks him if he’s still there.
“Yes, yes, I’m here.”
John is married. John has Mary.
There’s no reason for Sherlock to still be his emergency contact.
“Which hospital did you say?”
“London Bridge.”
“I’m on my way.”
He runs the nurse’s words over and over again in his head. “Allergic reaction… possible poisoning… medications intravenously… recovery.”
Recovery. Recovery. Recovery.
The most important word of them all. John would recover.
The doctors aren’t sure if this is just a bad reaction or if something more sinister is afoot, but Sherlock fires off a text to Lestrade (he was helpful the last time) and one to Mycroft (unfortunately, but this is John) and their responses are as expected:
I’ll meet you there. from the DI and Anthea is fast-tracking the lab results. from his brother.
He throws a fifty at the cabbie for getting him there in record time and sprints through the doors of A&E.
“John Watson?” he blurts to the man sitting behind the desk and the nurse (35, recently heartbroken) manages an “um,” before Sherlock catches sight of a gurney being wheeled down a hall that carries a very familiar silhouette. They’re loading John into a lift and Sherlock sets off at a brisk sprint, getting an arm in the doors before they can shut on him.
“Sir, sir, you can’t be in here,” a nurse is saying as she takes his elbow, and Sherlock will have none of that.
“No, I need to be here. I was called.” I need him, he doesn’t say. Finally, he catches sight of John’s wedding ring and he’s blurting out, “He’s my husband,” before his brain can truly catch up and tell him what a colossal moron he is.
“S’lock?” comes John’s weak voice and Sherlock finally gets a good look at the pale man who’s currently sporting a rather dopy grin.
“He’s a little… out of it,” the doctor accompanying him says, giving the nurse a nod and she lets go of Sherlock’s arms.
He steps into the lift and experiences a moment of utter helplessness, before he takes up John’s hand and squeezes it tightly. That’s what husbands do, isn’t it?
“I’m here,” he manages, smiling slightly for John whose head thunks back on the pillow. “What was he dosed with?” he demands and the doctor checks a dial on John’s IV.
“We’re not sure yet. We’re awaiting the toxicology results.”
“But he’s…” he trails off and swallows hard, running his thumb over the ring on John’s finger.
“Whatever he came into contact with seems to have stopped progressing. He experienced some swelling in his throat, but nothing that a basic antihistamine couldn’t take care of before we had to intubate. We’ll know more after the results come back.”
Sherlock nods and grips John’s hand tighter. “This happened at the surgery?”
“No, at a restaurant,” the doctor replies, eying him briefly and Sherlock blanches. Husbands are supposed to know these things.
“Right, right, he… mentioned,” he fumbles, feeling infinitely inferior. After all, he has no idea who John had lunch with or even where the hell he was.
The lift slides open and John is brought through the doors of ICU. Sherlock’s heart seizes at the sight of it.
“Is this really necessary?”
“We need to monitor him closely until we find out what exactly is going on here. He’s in no immediate danger, though,” the doctor assures, smiling at him with the smile that doctors perfect on day one of med school. “You can stay with him. We’ll have a lounge chair brought in.”
“Thank you,” he remembers to say as the doctor clears out and the nurses go to work hooking John up into all of his various monitors.
Sherlock’s phone buzzes in his pocket and he pulls it out to find a text from Mycroft.
Mrs. Watson in Oxford
visiting a friend. Will be tomorrow
before she can get back. – M.H.
Sherlock isn’t exactly heartbroken about it. It’s only when the nurses finally leave, the oldest of whom places a reassuring hand on his arm, warmth radiating from her kind eyes, that he remembers to breathe. He bends over to catalogue John’s still features once more. The man looks waxen against the grey sheets, but his breath is steady and his grip on Sherlock’s hand is firm. His lids flutter and Sherlock leans over further, nose nearly to nose, as he wills those eyes to open once more.
“John?” he whispers and he gets his wish as John blinks and groans, letting out a few curses as he attempts to get his bearings.
“Sherlock?"
“Yes,” he breathes, voice hitching over something too emotional to process.
“What happened?”
“You were drugged. Or had a bad reaction. Or were drugged and had a bad reaction to the drugs. Inconclusive.”
John groans, “You’re s’posed to know stuff like that.”
Sherlock smiles fondly. “I will when I get your tox screens back. In the meantime – ”
John lets out an indignant “oi” as Sherlock lets go of his hand to hold his eyes open and check his pupil dilation. Sluggish, as to be expected. Whatever he was given was certainly not an ‘upper.’
“Any enemies that want you dead that you know of?” he asks and John rolls his eyes, before firmly closing them against the dizziness the movement causes.
“You mean, other than the ones you’ve made me?”
The words shouldn’t sting as much as they do, but his transport gives him away as he goes absolutely still.
“Sorry, that was a joke,” John says a bit sheepishly. “And a bad one at that.” He looks up, sudden clarity coming to him. “We made them together.”
Sherlock nods and swallows, not trusting his voice, which is proof enough that he’s in too deep. Granted, he knew that the moment he asked “Afghanistan or Iraq?” He pauses, questioning himself, but he will have to tell him and probably sooner rather than later – at least before another nurse walks in. Best to bite the bullet: “By the way, we’re married.”
But John, beautiful, blessed John, just raises an eyebrow. “That was fast,” he slurs. “Didn’t even buy me dinner first.”
“Please shut up,” Sherlock huffs, heart hammering an impossible rhythm against his sternum as he takes a seat, picking up the other man’s hand once more. He can feel John watching him quietly, gaze carrying with it the weight of a thousand questions, concerns, and jokes just this side of naughty.
“You told them we were married?” is what he asks instead and it’s quiet. So quiet. John clears his throat, as if realizing just how vulnerable he allowed himself to sound.
“They wouldn’t let me see you,” Sherlock says and if he sounds defensive, then so be it.
“S’fine. Pretty sure half of London assumes it already.”
“True.” They smile at each other. Neither mentions Mary.
“How do we always end up here?” John sighs, rubbing his forehead with his free hand, before tiring out and letting it fall to the bed.
Sherlock shrugs. “Practice.”
John snorts and Sherlock giggles, and they sit there, in the middle of the ICU laughing like schoolboys in the headmaster’s office, before a knock sounds at the door.
They glance up to find a nurse there, folder in hand.
“Sir, we have your lab results – ”
“Give them to my husband,” John replies with a soft smile, closing his eyes once more and bringing Sherlock’s hand closer to his chest, resting it over his heart. “He’s the brains. I’m the brawn.”
xxxxxx
The fifth time it happens doesn’t even require a phone call because Sherlock is there. He witnesses it first hand.
Sherlock sees John’s foot take the slightest step backwards as the bullet punctures his abdomen. He sees him glance down and murmur a soft “oh” before his knees buckle and hit the hard earth.
He almost wishes there had been a phone call because it would mean that Sherlock wasn’t around to watch John Watson struggle to keep breathing. To help him try to keep the blood from seeping out between their overlapping fingers. To witness John Watson dying.
But he is.
“JOHN!” The word tears itself out of his throat and he’s at the man’s side and catching his head before it can hit the pavement. He doesn’t even register moving.
John groans, one hand already blindly groping for the wound as the other winds its way into Sherlock’s scarf, tugging him closer.
“Pressure,” he grits out between heaving gasps. “Keep pressure.”
“I will. I am,” Sherlock babbles.
Mary’s body lies mere meters from them, but he pays it no heed. She’s gone. It’s over. And even if it hadn’t been, John would always be Sherlock Holmes’ priority.
“Breathe, John.”
“I am.”
“Do it better then,” he snaps in panic and John manages a chuckle, which quickly becomes a groan.
“Bossy. More pressure. Don’t be afraid to hurt me.”
And it’s those words that bring a sob to Sherlock’s lips. “Christ, John.” Tears fall on his cheeks as he unwraps his scarf and pushes it against the wound none too gently. John gasps and holds Sherlock’s wrist, bloody fingers leaving a tattoo, which Sherlock will never again unsee.
“I think you’re doing this on purpose,” he chokes and John smiles through a bloody grimace.
“What would give you that impression?” he asks, though it comes out more like a wheeze.
Sherlock can’t tell him that his poor heart can’t take it. Can’t tell him that if he has to watch John get hooked up to various machines that work to keep him alive, Sherlock will follow him right into the next bed, because if they’re going down, they’re going down together.
“Keep your eyes fixed on me,” he murmurs instead and John’s lower lip wobbles at the familiar words, but he does just that. Stares at Sherlock as if his entire life depends on it.
In this moment, it does.
He gets a hand in his pocket and reaches for his phone, slippery in his bloody fingers. “Stay with me, John,” he instructs as he shakily dials Lestrade’s number.
“Not goin’ an’where,” John replies, but his grip on Sherlock’s wrist is getting weaker.
“On my way,” Lestrade answers and before Sherlock can even ask him how he knew, he says, “Mycroft called me. Ambulance is two minutes out.”
“Not fast enough,” Sherlock barks but it’s tinged with hysteria as John’s eyelids droop. “No, no! John!” He drops the phone, ignoring Lestrade’s curse and distant order to drive faster. “Look at me, John. Stay here.” He bends low over the other man’s face, memorizing the lines around his eyes and the flecks of gold in his irises. “Ambulance will be here soon and then you’ll be fine. We’ll be fine.”
John tries to focus on him, but the tug of unconsciousness is proving too tempting. He blinks once, then twice, and each time he’s slower and slower to open his eyes.
Sherlock once said he’s never begged for mercy in his life, but he does now.
“Stay here, John. Please. Please stay with me.”
It’s mercy for John, but mercy for himself as well, because if John goes, Sherlock will have no choice but to follow.
John is struggling to form words, and Sherlock tries to shush him, to tell him it’ll be fine, but John merely lifts his hand and runs a thumb across Sherlock’s cheek.
“I love you, Sherlock Holmes,” he finally says. “Always have.”
“Don’t you dare.” Sherlock shakes his head, tears falling freely on John’s chin. “Don’t even think it.”
“This is where you say,” John grunts and inhales, “I love you too.”
“Of course I do, you idiot,” he sobs, bending down and pressing his lips to John’s as if that act alone could put new breath in his lungs.
He hears sirens in the distance. He knows they aren’t coming soon enough.
“Don’t go, don’t go, don’t go,” he murmurs over and over against John’s still lips. The grip on his wrist has fallen away and Sherlock refuses to open his eyes because he can’t bear to see John no longer staring back at him.
At some point, he’s pulled away. Hands grab at his torso, fingers take his pulse. He thinks he manages to tell someone that the blood staining his clothes doesn’t belong to him, but he honestly can’t be sure.
They’re tugging him away from John, but he hangs onto the sleeve of John’s jumper until Lestrade gets a hand around his palm. “Time to let go, Sherlock,” he murmurs and only then does the full weight of what’s happened actually hit him.
His knees buckle (just like John’s, he thinks) but Lestrade gets his arms around him before he can hit the pavement.
“Whoa, all right, all right. I’ve got you,” he whispers.
Sherlock has a brief recollection of getting hauled out of a drug den in much the same gentle fashion as he lets the DI take the majority of his weight.
“In the car. C’mon,” Lestrade continues. “We’ll follow the ambulance. Sal?”
Another arm, a smaller one, comes around his waist on his left side. It takes him far longer than it should to realize it belongs to Sally Donovan.
“Is he dead?” he finally asks when the last door on the panda car is shut and the engine roars to life.
Lestrade glances at him in the rearview mirror. “No.”
Sherlock drops his head in his hands and inhales a shuddering gasp. Sally’s hand reaches back and squeezes his knee. He stares at it uncomprehendingly and yet finds comfort in the gesture.
The ride to the hospital takes forever and yet no time at all and his entrance through the A&E doors is unlike any he’s made before: desperate, yet hesitant. Confident, yet trepidatious. He needs to see John and yet is terrified of what awaits him.
“John Watson?” Lestrade asks, laying a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, and he has never been more grateful for the DI than he is in this moment.
“They’re just wheeling him into surgery. You can wait in the room just down to the right.”
“Thanks,” Lestrade replies, using his hand to turn Sherlock on his heel. He’s gently manhandled into a chair in the small waiting room and Sally Donovan is pushing a cup of coffee into his hand.
It tastes like ash, but it’s hot and Sherlock is feeling so very, very cold. John was loaded into the ambulance, taking all of the world’s warmth with him.
A doctor gives him an update. Touch and go. He nods numbly and holds the cup tighter.
He vaguely registers Anderson appearing and taking the seat next to Sally, across from Lestrade. Mycroft hovers like a specter, but Sherlock can’t be arsed to yell at him for it. He remains silent, standing vigil, as Anthea flutters in and out, pushing fresh cups of coffee into Sherlock’s shaking hands every hour on the hour, even if he hasn’t touched it.
Truth be told, it’s comforting.
He’s not sure how much time passes. Eventually the doctor comes out and informs them that John has pulled through. He stops listening after that, having already digested the most important information he’ll ever receive in his life.
John is moved to recovery and Sherlock is allowed to stay. They bring him a chair and more tepid coffee, and he studies the way John’s eyelids flicker under the fading influence of anesthesia.
At some point, he realizes that Mycroft and Anthea have gone back to their lair and that Anderson and Sally have returned to the Yard. Only Lestrade remains, hovering in the hallway – a silent sentry once more.
A knock sounds on the door and Sherlock raises his head from where it was resting by John’s hip, fingers still firmly entwined, cleaned of blood.
“Excuse me, sir, are you Sherlock Holmes?” the woman asks, file in hand (John’s file, his brain supplies) and he nods sluggishly.
She gives him a slight smile and closes the folder. “Just checking.”
She leaves and he presses John’s knuckles to his lips, before resting his head down on the bed again.
Sherlock is here.
There’s no one to call.
xxxxxx
The sixth time it happens, Sherlock doesn’t have to pretend to be John’s husband because the ring is on his finger long before his mobile rings.