fossilised | For John Watson

I'm not gonna cry, Molly. [Let's get that out of the way. This is far too public a place for that. He takes another sip from his own coffee.]

It was always lovely with Harry for a bit. Reminded you that it could be lovely with her. [Which is why it was always such an incredible let-down when she'd inevitably start drinking again and ruin everything she'd built up. It was like she was allergic to happiness and stability. Not that John had a lot of room to talk on those fronts as of late.]

I just... we have to find the Alphabet Woman--Caroline Matthews. That's her name. Lestrade came by with a file. We think she has an accomplice, too. Someone who's helping her with the tech side of things.

[It's easier to focus on the case than on his grief, bury it all down deep where he doesn't have to deal with it. Where he doesn't have to think about Clara standing with everyone else around a coffin as it's lowered down and John isn't there.]

Edited 2017-04-26 18:32 (UTC)

No, you won't, will you?

[That's softer, sadder.]

You're going to run around trying to find Caroline Matthews until you can say too much time has passed for you to need to cry and you must have got over it. That's not healthy, John, it's not.

[There she goes again, lecturing someone she has no right to. She tilts her head away in sudden shame, looking down on Sherlock where he could be sleeping if it weren't for the beeping machines and tubes.]

[John's jaw tightens as she sees through him again in a way he only really tolerates from Sherlock. Even then, this isn't a topic he'd pry at. It's too emotionally fraught.]

What d'you want me to do, Molly? Have a breakdown? What's that going to help?

[It's more of a snap than he means it to be. He reels it back in a bit and grits his teeth.]

Sorry. I just don't see it'd do any good for him or anyone else Caroline's after.

[She flinches back a bit, but ultimately stands her ground. People think she's such a pushover, and she is a lot of the time, but she does have a spine in there when it matters.]

It's not meant to do good for Sherlock or anyone else but you.

[It's still soft, gentle, rather than a return snap.]

Of course I don't want you to have a breakdown, but there's a difference between letting your grief out and breaking down. Sorry, I know we're-- I know I'm nobody to say this sort of thing, but I think I might be the only one who will.

[He wants to tell her to leave it, to just focus on Sherlock. She hadn't even really known his name before today. But that's just it. She's done so much for him, given her time, her money, her car. Hardly knowing him, Molly Hooper has done all of this. It's the reason he cant just tell her to piss off. John covers his eyes briefly, thinking about Molly, thinking about Lestrade and his kindness, Jake and his, as well.

John's been working off the kindness of actual and virtual strangers over the past few days. Even Sergeant Donovan had brought the suit. Clara is a friend--was a friend--and he'd dumped everything to do with Harry square in her lap.]

I can't do this here, Molly. Not like this. Please.

[His voice is quieter, pleading. It would be humiliating to do this here and now, and his pride has taken enough of a hit as-is.]

[She can understand not wanting to do it in here, but the thing is that she doesn't trust him to do it elsewhere. She's always been perceptive, not Sherlock levels of it, just... emotions. Useless things, or so Sherlock would say. She can tell he's not going to grieve if she lets him off the hook, he'll just dive back into crimes with Sherlock and the stupid detective will let him.]

There's nobody here to see you, John.

[Sherlock is out cold, it's just the two of them.

She takes a chance, standing up and very carefully winds her arms around him in a loose hug. This could be a stupid move, she has probably just ruined another fledgling friendship, but she can't help it. She just feels for people.]

You're here.

[But he can feel himself cracking, the emotion welling up. A part of him still wants to shove her away, to not give in to the weakness. Soldiers don't cry. They just carry on, deal with what they're faced with and hold up those around them who need it.

The part that wins out is the one that has John setting down his coffee in the chair that Molly's vacated, before wrapping his arms around her waist. The stretch across his shoulders and ribs hurts, but that's fine.

The tears come, unwanted, as John presses his face to Molly's chest and cries silently. His chest hitches and his body shakes. And it hurts, but there is something cathartic about it.]

[She exhales a slow sigh of relief when he clings to her instead of pushes her away, it means she made the right choice. Her heart aches for him, but she doesn't do anything stupid like say it's going to be okay or tell him that Harry is in a better place. She just holds him in silence.

She'll stand there for as long as he needs to cry, her arms wrapped around him just firmly enough to be comforting without pressing on his burns. But her eyes are fixed over his head at the door, watching for any potential intruders to shake her head firmly if they try and approach.]

[It's longer than he wants to cry himself out, a good few minutes of just clinging to Molly and wishing he weren't doing this. His chest unclenches by degrees, metaphorically, and once the worst of the storm has passed, John lets himself rest against her for a little longer, just breathing, pulling himself back together in a way that doesn't feel nearly as fragile as before. Every piece of him just waiting to break and the dam to burst.]

My big sister's dead. [It's said with a sort of finality, John's voice is rough, muffled against Molly. He lets her go and pulls back with a wince. He rubs at his eyes with the back of his hand and sniffs.] I want to go see her grave when Sherlock's out of the danger zone. She liked daisies. I can bring her those.

[That's better. Of course his grief won't be over and done with so easily, he's lost the last of his family and that'll take time to process, but at least it's something. An way to get the poison out before it ate at him from the inside and made everything so much worse.

She gives him a small smile when he pulls back and away, taking a step back herself to give him space now that he's done.]

That sounds nice. [She means that.] I bet she'd like that, and you can talk to her when you go to say your proper goodbye.

[Molly takes another step back and accidentally catches the heel of her shoe on the leg of her chair, spoiling the moment by suddenly crashing over backwards in a flailing tumble of limbs.]

OH--!

Molly!

[John lurches forward to try to catch the woman and just ends up going down on top of her. He rolls off almost immediately, curling in pain and gasping. A nurse is into the room a second later, taking in the scene. She's young with dark eyes and hair. Seeing Molly on the ground, the chairs in disarray, John's coffee spilled on the ground, and John curled up, she draws her conclusions. The nurse's mouth draws to a thin line as she goes to Molly first, helping her up and pulling her away.]

What's happened, love. Did he hurt you?

[Oh no, this is awful, she can practically feel her face setting alight with how red she's gone. Now John is hurt and the nurses have the wrong idea, this is not what she wanted to happen.]

No! I mean... no, not at all. I fell over, John tried to catch me and I pulled him, you should really be fussing over him. Although I do think I bruised myself when I fell, I don't suppose I could have some painkillers?

[She doesn't look convinced.]

Are you sure, love? Do you want to go out to the nurse's station and talk about it?

[God, can the ground just open up and swallow her whole now?]

Um, no. Really, I'm fine.

[Molly gets another quietly concerned and extremely dubious look before the nurse turns her attention to John. He's wheezing just a bit more than he should be between the pain and the tears, but he's struggling to pick himself up now.]

Sorry. Sorry, Molly.

[The apologies probably aren't helping to absolve him. The nurse does move to help him up, though, and she's not terribly gentle about it. John grimaces noticeably, and her stern from turns to something a more confused.]

Are you all right, sir?

[John tries to wave her off.]

Fine. M'fine. Sorry. Coffee. I'll get the... [He grasps momentarily for the word and utterly fails to reach it.] The things. [He shuffles toward the bathroom nearby to grab a few paper towels. The nurse turns her attention back to Molly.]

I can get the painkillers, but him... Is it really just you slipping?

[She's pretty worried, she saw what state his back and ribs were in when she helped dress some of it, and he really could use being in hospital. But she knows he's not going to accept that, so she just nods.]

Yeah, he just-- [She lowers her voice.] --you know what men are like, he makes a mountain out of every molehill.

[The nurse raises an eyebrow, but eventually bustles off. She isn't gone more than twenty seconds before she comes back with a small paper cup of painkillers and a glass of water.]

Thanks, um...

[She puts them down for the moment, very casually and subtly pushing them towards John. She doesn't need them, she got them for him to not arouse suspicion.]

How's Sherlock doing?

[The nurse looks confused.]

You mean Mr. Holmes? [She picks up the chart.] Mr. W. Holmes? Where does Sherlock come from, that's an unusual nickname, isn't it? He's stable enough at the moment, but we're going to be checking on him all night. If he makes it through tonight, the odds are good that he'll pull through.

W. Holmes?

[John drops the paper towels on the ground over the spilled coffee and uses his foot to press down instead of getting down to mop it up properly. He's going to have to bend to pick up the wet towels, but after the nurse leaves. Maybe.]

Sherlock comes from... him.

[It hadn't even occurred to John to check Sherlock's hospital bracelet. But he'll do so after their other visitor leaves. The doctor is still feeling unwell and vulnerable and very, very tired. He'd like the nurse to just go away. Or maybe get him a cot where he can lie down on his side. Just for a bit. It's not good being here with Caroline running loose, but he can't just leave Sherlock, either.

Sherlock's name is secondary, though.]

Has your staff ever dealt with ricin poisoning before?

[Molly is getting increasingly worried about John, he looks like he might collapse any moment now and then he'll definitely be examined and put right back into hospital. And yes, she knows that he likely belongs in hospital, but she also understands why he needs to not be in one right now. If it were her family dead, and her friends being targeted, she knew that she'd not be able to just stay in hospital either.

She needs to get him somewhere to rest properly, some sleep will do him the world of good, but-- oh wait, she has an idea.]

No, ricin poisoning is very rare, but I can assure you that he's in very good hands, sir. We're all trained and know what to look out for.

[The nurse gives both of them a smile and finally retreats to leave them alone.]

Take the painkillers and then come with me, you need to sleep and I can watch Sherlock for a while.

[John doesn't argue on the painkillers. As soon as the nurse is out, he grabs for them like a drowning man might for his rescuer. It's only a moment to wash them down and kneel to pick up the paper towels on the ground so that he can bin them. A part of him does want to stay in the same room, not really trusting that Molly will be able to protect Sherlock if someone comes after him. But John's not going to be able to do much as-is, either.

He does need some rest, and he's wrung out emotionally as much as physically.]

All right. Where are we going?

[Perhaps Molly will be grateful for the new and improved, mildly more obedient John Watson.]

Um... just trust me.

[She doesn't think that telling him they're going to the morgue will go down well initially. It's just that she's such a skilled mortician, especially when it comes to violent deaths, that she's often called to work in other hospitals in the area. She's worked in this one a few times, so she has the codes to the morgue area, and she happens to know there's a rather comfortable couch in one corner.

Up in the elevator to the fourth floor, she shoots John a slightly nervous smile.]

Just go along with what I say, okay?

[And then the doors are pinging open and she's inputting a lock code on the door to swing it open and reveal the morgue. A man, dark skinned and middle aged, is working on one of the corpses. Molly throws her shoulders back and strides in as if she's meant to be there.]

Hi, hello, it's Molly Hooper. Remember me? Yes, uh-- Craig, wasn't it? Okay. This is Dr. Watson, he's from Germany and he's come over on an exchange with one of my lab technicians, but there's been a mix up with his accommodation. I know it's a bit unorthodox, but he can sleep on the couch tonight, right? He doesn't speak much English, and he's kind of tired, so he won't be any trouble. Okay! Well-- bye then.

[She shoots this all off at top speed, babbling too fast for Craig to get a word in edgewise, and then all of a sudden she's gone. Craig passes a hand over his head in slight bemusement.]

I'd ask if she was always like that, but I remember her when she worked here a few months back. Oh wait-- [His voice slows down and gets louder in the 'talking to a foreigner' way that never helps anyone.] --the sofa is there. Sofa? You understand me?

[John raises his brows at Molly running her mouth that fast. Honestly, he'd trip over his own words. It's almost as impressive as one of Sherlock's deductions. At Craig's question, the doctor is put in the position of being the focus of attention. Luckily, he can fake being German for a word or two.]

Ja! Danke.

[That's all he really needs, right? Right. John smiles apologetically and moves over toward the sofa and lies down carefully on his side, trying not to think about Craig watching him and wondering. All things considered, it really doesn't take him long to fall asleep. He's been running near empty all day thanks to everything wiping out his energy. And he is a soldier. He has to be able to fall asleep anywhere, even when he's just had coffee.]

[Molly can't quite believe that worked. She sags against the side of the lift as she rides it back up to Sherlock's room, feeling a little more daunted now that it's just her and him together. He might be unconscious, but she's afraid to just talk to him in case he remembers it when he wakes up and taunts her about it. So she ends up just sitting on the chair beside the bed and watching the monitors.

It might not be a full night's sleep, but John will be granted five and a half hours on the sofa in the morgue when Molly comes back in at a sprint, thankful that Craig has gone home for the day, and touches him on the shoulder both gently and urgently.]

John... John! Wake up, John, he's-- he's dying, you have to wake up.

['He's dying' gets John up immediately. The doctor doesn't even care as he wrenches his body, eyes wide. He's on his feet in seconds.]

Coming.

[John lets Molly lead the way to the lift and is ready to start clawing his way up the stairs when the arrival dings. He's tapping his fingers against one thigh in an impatient, self-soothing gesture as he watches the floors slide by so slowly, he thinks the damn thing might well have been set to crawl along.

Molly will have to be the one to keep pace this time as John all but runs down the hallway, probably undoing what good the sleep has done for him.

Sherlock. Sherlock is going to die because he came to that damn funeral. Because John chose to go to the funeral and Sherlock felt he had to come get him.]

[Molly doesn't even consider telling him to slow down, she keeps pace running alongside him down the hallway to Sherlock's room, her own heart in her throat and tears already pricking traitorously behind her eyes.

There's not a whole lot that's changed since John was there earlier. The most notable difference is that Sherlock has been intubated to assist with breathing, and the readouts from the machines are much worse. His heart is slowed and erratic, and the machines are practically breathing for him.]

The doctor said-- she said it was only a matter of time, maybe an hour.

[Her voice sounds funny to her own ears, too thick and too high.]

Do you think we should call his brother? His parents?

No. No, no, no, no. [John shakes his head. He ignores Molly as he moves in close to Sherlock's bedside. He places a hand on the other man's shoulder.] Sherlock, c'mon. Don't do this. You're not gonna die. We found you in time. We have to find Caroline. I can't do this without you. C'mon. It's just a little ricin. You've worked with worse.

Please don't... please don't do this.

[The tears are prickling in John's eyes, too. This isn't fair. Sherlock shouldn't die because of him. He can't have another person die because of him. He can't have the cleverest man he's ever known gone. The most amazing man.]

Please, I'll do anything. Please don't die. Please, Sherlock.

[His voice breaks on the other man's name.]

[It's too much. It hurts enough to watch this herself, but to see how raw John's grief and desperation are is enough to have tears spilling out down her cheeks with no way to hold them back. Sherlock would probably ask her why she was crying, or make some comment about how it made her eyes look tiny or something, he never did understand that sometimes sentiment was a good thing.

Painful, but good.

She steps forwards tentatively, feeling almost like an intruder, and puts her hand gently on his forearm.]

John. I don't have their numbers, we have to call someone. You can give me your phone, I'll-- I'll do it, but his family should be with him when he--

[John squeezes his eyes tight shut. She's right, of course. She's right, but a part of him doesn't want them here, judging, watching as a member of their family slips away because of him. Because he hadn't been fast enough, clever enough. He's never enough.]

I don't have their numbers, Molly. It's just the phone you bought for me. I don't... nurse's station might have next of kin papers for Mycroft.

[And if she can handle that, John's going to lean down closer, switch so that he's got his hand on Sherlock's wrist, on his pulse. It's so weak.]

Sherlock, you're my best friend. [This is whispered.] You're the last person I have. I need you. I know it's hard, but I need you. Please. Imagine the blog for this case, yeah? 'And then he died' is an awful way to end a story. Even you'd have to admit. No deductions. Nothing dramatic. Sherlock Holmes can't go out that way.

[The machines beep and whir around him, and John feels utterly ridiculous. He hasn't even known Sherlock that long, relatively speaking, but he really is everything John has left right now. The most important person. God, if he has to tell Mrs. Hudson Sherlock died...]

You're Sherlock bloody Holmes. There's a case to solve still. It can't end like this.

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