fossilised | For John Watson

[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.

[Molly doesn't want to leave, she's scared to miss it and Sherlock is too important to her to want to be gone when he-- But she knows that his family needs to be here, so she slips out and dashes along to the nurse's station. They won't give her Mycroft's details, but they assure her that they will contact him and let him know to come immediately.

Surely Mycroft will appreciate that phone call interrupting whatever he's doing, a sympathetic nurse informing him that he should come now if he wants to say his goodbyes before Sherlock is gone.

At least nothing much has changed by the time Molly makes it back into the room.

Sherlock is deep inside his head, wandering the corridors of his mind palace. He's lost, which is impossible because this is his mind palace and he should know every inch of it perfectly. But he can't seem to remember which way leads up and out, and each staircase he comes to only leads further down, deeper into himself. He passes corridors of paintings on the wall that bear likenesses to John, Molly, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, and even his parents, but all of their faces are smudged and indistinct.

He's so tired.

How long he's been walking for is a mystery to him, but it genuinely feels like months. His limbs are leaden, his eyes feel as though they may close any moment against his express wishes, and his thoughts have turned to treacle. Even the simplest thread of thought evades him, and he wonders idly if this is what it feels like to be John when he watches Sherlock deduce the clues at a crime scene. So slow, so vacant, so unable to comprehend.

You're my best friend. It's a whisper he barely hears, and suddenly he's in a graveyard. It's one he only sort of remembers, from their old family home, but there are no names on the stones any more. He hears a barking, his best friend, Redbeard. Good. Redbeard will guard him while he sleeps, if he can just find his dog, a long-unsolved mystery locked in the darkest recesses of his mind. He stumbles a step and ends up down on one knee.

Out in the real world, Sherlock begins to seize and the monitors go wild.

He can't seem to muster the energy to stand up again, and he falls forwards. It's oddly comfortable here, maybe if he slept then he would have the energy to solve the case. Solve-- there's a case. There's a case he needs to solve before anyone else dies and he will not be known as a failure, it's fire enough to get him to push back up to his feet, tottering but still going. The gravestones are all inscribed now but not with names, the inscriptions are clues from his various cases. Pink suitcase. Ancient teapots. Alphabet woman. Moriarty. Moriarty. Moriarty. Who is Moriarty, he can't sleep before he knows that, it's a mystery that's been burning at him forever.

Doctors and nurses manage to get him stabilised, the seizure has passed and somehow he's still hanging on. It's past the hour they gave him, but his vitals are still weak.

The gravestones spin and suddenly they're all people sitting in rows, it's the congregation from Harry's funeral. Someone is out of place here. Someone doesn't belong. He begins to erase the ones he can be sure belong, the ones who share a jawline or sandy coloured hair with the Watsons. Molly and her date-- No. Not her date. Smiling, the man had been smiling and filming on his phone.

Found it.

He doesn't know who that is, but he knows it's the accomplice. It's a surge of adrenaline at getting it right that gives him a new burst of energy, it takes him back into the corridors of his mind palace and this time Redbeard is right there alongside him, guiding him to the staircases that lead upwards, guiding him to the exit.

Sherlock has no idea that it's been nearly three hours since he was given a death sentence, or that his vitals have been improving against all the odds for the last fifteen minutes, or that it's nearly four in the morning. But he does know that he's grateful to be awake when his eyes snap open and he immediately starts coughing against the intubation tube.]

Edited (typo) 2017-04-29 23:17 (UTC)

[In the intervening and tense house, Mycroft appears, and there's a glare he has for John that's about like being sandblasted. But he sits in a corner and plays with his phone silently after that, eyes occasionally flicking up to the monitors. Another pair of people also arrive that John doesn't recognize, but whom Mycroft refers to as Mummy and Father. They're nothing like what John expected, but he's too focused on Sherlock to think too hard about it.

The hour passes with John checking Sherlock's vitals periodically, along with the nurses that come in and out. Sometimes, he holds Molly's hand, sometimes there's an attempt at polite conversation by Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, but everything seems to fall flat after basic introductions are made. When the seizure happens, John's almost certain that's it. Mycroft looks away, and so does his mother, but John notes that Mr. Holmes looks on, tears welling in his eyes. John clings to Molly, uncertain what else to do.

But Sherlock hangs on, and another hours passes, and another. John calls the Met and tells Lestrade what's happening. It's just as he's hanging up on that, that Sherlock starts to come out of it. John is up beside him in half a second, adrenaline powering through the pain of the movements. The Holmeses are on the other side of the bed. Molly stands close to John. They're pushed aside when the nurse steps in to remove the tube.

Sherlock's mother is the first to reach for him, her hand trying to brush through his curls. Mycroft falls back, standing at the foot of the bed.]

Sherlock!

The nurse speaks next. She's flashing her light in Sherlock's eyes, checking his skin.]

Mr. Holmes? Mr. Holmes, can you speak?

[The feeling of the tube being removed from his throat is disgusting, he has not felt anything like it before and he hopes never to feel anything like it again in the future. If he were not so excited by the prospect of finding the accomplice then he might well have vomited from the sensation of the tube being removed. But when it was finally gone and he had coughed through a raw throat, he could focus finally on the people gathered around his bed. He almost groaned aloud, but contented himself with lifting a leaden-feeling hand to bat his mother's fingers away from his hair.]

I don't have time for this right now.

Young man, you nearly died, you can save your attitude. [Mrs. Holmes said firmly, spoiling the chiding almost at once by kissing him firmly on the forehead, something he tried his best to ignore as his eyes zeroed in on John. He was still exhausted, his body not about to bounce back so quickly, and he'd like to get something useful done before he fell asleep again.]

John, I figured it out, the accomplice is Molly's boyfriend. Poor choice, by the way, he's clearly gay.

[Molly let out a small squeak, half of disappointment and half guilt. It couldn't be Jim, he was just someone from IT, nothing criminal. Sherlock is just mistaken because he nearly died, and that's what makes her mind up. She practically throws herself onto him in a tight hug.]

Shut up, okay? Shut up and don't say anything else mean. We all... we're all just so glad you're not dead.

Edited 2017-04-30 00:16 (UTC)

[Mycroft flicks his gaze over at Molly and raises his brows when Sherlock says the word 'boyfriend,' but he doesn't react to the news otherwise.]

What... Jim?

[John isn't quite as quick to dismiss the notion. And dear god does Sherlock ever have timing to tell Molly her boyfriend is gay. And also, apparently, an evil mastermind. He's too relieved to have Sherlock alive to chide him, though. He'd like to lean in and hug the other man, but that's probably not going to be welcome... and there's Molly in the way.]

Are you sure?

[Because Sherlock hadn't exactly been right about the coffin.]

We can talk to him.

[John places a hand on Molly's back to draw her attention. He doesn't really know what Sherlock is on about either with this, but he'll need Molly's help to actually find and talk with Jim. He'll save telling Sherlock he's glad he's alive for another time when there aren't so many people here and the consulting detective isn't obviously bursting to get more out.]

[Sherlock's eyes widen in surprise as Molly is suddenly there hugging him. He nearly snaps at her to move back, but he can feel her trembling and somehow, against his better judgement, he ends up winding an arm around her in return. He'll blame it on being exhausted if anyone calls him on it later.]

No!

[That's important enough for him to chivvy Molly away from him.]

You mustn't tip him off that we know it's him, he can lead us to Mrs. Matthews, and I don't know anything else about him. I don't know why he has such an interest in helping, but it's certainly not a loyalty to Danny or Caroline Matthews.

Stop it. [That's Mummy Holmes again, kind but firm.] No more talk of crime, Sherlock. You nearly died, you're still recovering, you need to get some sleep. I'm sure that your friends understand. And as for you, Mycroft, what have you been letting your little brother get himself involved in? You're supposed to be the responsible one.

[Sherlock looks a little chastened, even he isn't immune to a mother's disappointment, though it passes relatively quickly.]

I'm fine, Mummy, and this is important. John, I need you to see about my release, I'm still alive and so the danger has passed, staying here is pointless.

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