fossilised | For John Watson

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.

Uh...

[The looks Sherlock's mother and Mycroft cast at him are absolutely withering, and John's suddenly very aware where the men get most of their bite from. Sherlock's father just looks quietly commanding. It's the small shake of his head that John finds himself responding to more. He feels like he ought to be straightening up, saluting, even, which is a ridiculous notion.]

I'll see when the doctors wanted to release you...

[John is hedging to avoid bringing the collective ire of the Holmeses and Molly down on his head.]

[Sherlock knows exactly what that means and he sighs irritably, turning his attention to Molly instead. He softens his voice, knowing she'll respond the best to that.]

Perhaps I am tired; Molly, why don't you take my parents and Mycroft to get some coffee? I'm sure John will join you after he's spoken to the doctor.

[Molly flushes a bit, still reeling from what Sherlock had said about Jim (he had to be wrong) but touched that he would trust her to look after his family. She can't quite look at Mycroft, a bit worried since the last time they met she did slap him.]

Right, um-- Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, do you want to? And, um-- all of you?

[Mycroft speaks up, even as Sherlock's parents are eyeing Molly a little uncertainly. His apparent focus is on the phone in his hands.]

I'll remain with Dr. Watson. I wouldn't want him to miss any details at such a trying time.

[His mother sighs, exasperated.]

Oh, Mike, do get off your phone sometimes. Your brother's just come back to life!

[Mycroft bristles at the name, but puts his phone away.]

If you'd like to join Ms. Hooper? We won't be a moment, I suspect.

[The elder Holmeses shuffle out with Molly to lead them, leaving John, Sherlock, and Mycroft.]

Another daring escape from hospital, brother mine? You're becoming repetitive. I've indulged your disregard for your health and well-being long enough. Dr. Watson, you're free to go about your business as my brother's assistant. He will not be leaving this bed until one of the medical staff in this facility that I deem competent has said he is welcome to do so.

[John is silent, looking from Sherlock to Mycroft and back again. He'll do what Sherlock wants him to, but it would seem the brothers are going to have it out for a moment.]

[Sherlock waits for about thirty seconds after his parents leave the room, just to make sure they're really gone, before he starts pulling off the various pads and wires that connect him to the machines, ignoring Mycroft's instructions completely.]

What are you still doing here, Mycroft? Make yourself useful for once and find me some clothes, you know as well as I do that there's nothing that can be done for me here now. The ricin will no longer kill me, I've survived the dangerous period, and the only long term effects are a fifteen percent chance of repeated seizures throughout life. Well, we won't know if that's to happen until one does or does not happen.

[He swings his legs from the side of the bed, fixing Mycroft with a serious expression.]

I am not running into self-destruction, Mycroft, this is nothing like last time. [Drugs and no direction in life, before Lestrade, before cases.] I have a case to solve, so either find me some clothes or go and have coffee with Mummy and Father, because I'm leaving.

I fetched Mummy and Father down in a helicopter, Sherlock. You will spend time with your family after almost dying. Or I will call the nurse and have Dr. Watson admitted to hospital. And have them strap the both of you to your beds.

[There's no playful or even sarcastic tone, just cold fury as Mycroft meets Sherlock's eye.]

I allowed you to do this, Sherlock. I will not make that mistake a second time.

[John pipes up, more than a little annoyed that he's being used as a bargaining chip.]

I don't need to be in hospital. And I'm a fully trained physician, if you could be bothered to remember, Mycroft. Anything Sherlock could get here for care, I can give to him. We can go and have a coffee with your parents, but there's work to do. The Alphabet Woman's next... phase is up... [He has to check his watch.] Today. It's up today.

[Mycroft doesn't even look over at John as he speaks, his eyes are fixed on Sherlock.]

I'm waiting for you to get back in your bed, Sherlock. Or I will make you.

[It's not that Sherlock doesn't care about his family, or even that he wants to cause them pain, it's just that other things take precedence. When he gets a case between his teeth then nothing else matters, he needs to pursue it, and Mycroft should understand that.]

Very well, Mycroft, I shall remain here in hospital growing ever more bored with a ready supply of narcotics. Is that what you wish?

[His voice is still mildly sarcastic, and he shows no sign of getting into bed.]

As John has already assured you, he is a more than competent doctor who is capable of taking care of any future issues. Now, as you are clearly not going to be of any use, step aside. Don't embarrass yourself by trying to make me get into bed, we both know that you're not the physically active type.

[Mycroft continues to stare Sherlock down, and then turns to grasp the door. He opens it and calls out politely, but firmly.]

Nurse, we require some assistance.

[John bristles.]

Mycroft, this is-

[Mycroft just speaks over John.]

Time is ticking, little brother. I will have you sedated. You will remain here for at least one hour for observation and to sit with our parents. Then you may run off as you please with Dr. Watson. Or you and Dr. Watson may remain here indefinitely.

[It's acquiescing a lot on Mycroft's side. John glances to Sherlock.]

One hour is better than days, Sherlock.

[He hates conceding to Mycroft even a little bit, but he knows that his brother is capable of having orderlies pin them both down to sedate them. So he sits back on the bed with bad grace.]

Why are you doing this, Mycroft?

[Surely he knows that the case is everything. Is it just to be annoying and frustrate Sherlock? It doesn't really occur to him that Mycroft is actually worried.]

If Caroline Matthews strikes while we're playing house, I shall be certain to hold you responsible for your poor decision making.

Perhaps you'll understand when you're older, little brother.

[Mycroft relaxes as the nurse steps in.]

What's problem?

[Mycroft:]

We require discharge papers for my brother to be drawn up and delivered precisely one hour from now. Additionally, if you could please locate out parents in the cafeteria, that would be most appreciated. Thank you.

[She sputters a bit.]

He'll need to be under observation for at least-

[Mycroft cuts her off, much as he'd to John, although he's directing a smile at her, something cool, but polite.]

Thank you. I believe your hospitals will be receiving a sizable donations from my parents after the good care you've taken of their youngest son. One hour, now. Good morning.

[The nurse moves away, and admittedly, John thinks Mycroft would make and excellent Bond villain. John turn his attention to Sherlock and goes to check if he's pulled out his IV, yet. It really would be best to keep that in and the fluid running for as long at possible.]

Do you want me to do anything while you're laid up here for the hour? [He glances back to Mycroft before dropping his voice lower.] I'm glad you pulled through. I don't know... [He clears his throat.] Thanks for coming back.

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