fossilised | For John Watson

[John is in the same position as Molly, but they can at least get Sherlock on his side in case he vomits. But the EMTs are doing it. Molly's doing it. He's just standing there stupidly, staring at the scene and suddenly feeling incredibly numb from it all. He looks back into the coffin at Harry, to the woman running the ceremony. She's shaking her head as she pulls out a phone to call... someone. Maybe her boss? Maybe security?

He takes a step forward, down toward Sherlock and the pain that pulls through his chest, bringing things into sharp focus again.]

Molly... [He puts a hand on her shoulder as she whirls on Mycroft.

The elder Holmes just looks down at the woman like she's a particularly recalcitrant stain on his coat. His smile is pure, polite venom as Sherlock's seizure abates and the EMTs get him up and moving toward the ambulance.]

You will observe, Ms. Hooper, that Sherlock is being dealt with as he should have been previously, had Dr. Watson not insisted on tending to him, himself, in a former drug den. Good day.

[He turns, and heads toward the door to the church, pulling out his phone as he goes.]

Come along, Dr. Watson.

[John grates at the casual command, at being called like a dog. His hands ball into fists, and then reaches into his pocket to fish out Molly's car keys. He feels sick again, with grief, with pain, with confusion. He just wants to sit in a quiet room by himself for a while and let everything else fade away.]

Lestrade can get you back to your car, Molly. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.

[She's so used to just rolling over and letting other people take advantage of her. No self confidence, that's her problem, but she has a fire in her belly when people hurt the ones she cares about. Not that there are a lot of those, she seems to end up alone more often than not, her closest confidants the corpses in the morgue.

But Sherlock might be dying, and Mycroft is treating it like just another inconvenience. So she stalks after him, darting around the front of him to land a loud and harsh slap to his face.]

Oh--!

[It's like she's slapped herself, coming back to reality with what she's done. Oh God, she just slapped Sherlock's terrifying older brother. She swallows with a mild squeak and then hurries back to John's side, bright red.]

Forget the car, okay? I'll come with you, come on, before they leave us behind.

[The look Mycroft gives her at that slap is shock, followed closely on by absolute incredulity. He watches her as she squeaks and scurries away, gaze nothing short of ice-like. Mycroft doesn't pursue, though. He touches a hand briefly to where the woman has dared to slap him and sends off a few emails. His gaze lands on the man taking a video of the whole scene briefly, and the accomplice Sherlock's looking for is noted. He raises a brow at 'Jim' and carries on, as if nothing has happened.

John, meanwhile, is roundly impressed by Molly's moxie. He's being continually impressed by her today, one time after another. The doctor casts a quick glance back at Clara, then at Lestrade who just shakes his head and waves John off.]

Yeah. Uh... right. All right.

[Away they go to the ambulance, while Mycroft climbs into a black car that Not Anthea is waiting in. The man taking the video follows after John and Molly. His smile is goofy and he's Irish by his accent.]

Need a ride, Molls? Not sure you'll all be fitting in that ambulance.

[There's an almost glee about him that seems to get quickly tamped down to something appropriate as he addresses John.]

Sorry about your sister.

[She might not know John very well, but dressing his wounds in a disabled toilet and then helping him impersonate the police has created a sort of friendship bond. Or, at least, it has in her mind and she's not willing to let him go and shoulder this on her own. Not least because it's Sherlock and she's desperate to make sure that he's alright.

She's halfway into the ambulance by the time Jim addresses her and she turns, flustered.]

Oh, um, I'm sure I'll fit.

[She wants to tell him off for filming, but she used up her backbone for the moment in slapping Mycroft.]

Actually, miss. [That's one of the paramedics.] The less people crowding in, the better.

Um. [She sags a bit, but then puts her hand on John's shoulder carefully, she remembers the burns.] I'll see you there, okay? Yeah, Jim, thanks. Oh, sorry. Jim, this is John Watson, he's a-- someone I know. John, this is Jim, he's my b-- someone else I know.

[Jim smiles, still managing to stay just about the right side of appropriate.]

I'd say nice to meet you, but, y'know, circumstances.

[Molly Hooper has a boyfriend. Well, then. You learn something new about people every day. John gives Jim a closer look now, top-to-toe. He sees a skinny geek with very nice hair who quite possibly still lives in his mum's basement. The suit he's wearing looks like it was put on in a hurry. A part of him thinks, immediately, that this man isn't good enough for Molly Hooper, but the protective flare is set aside. They're friends now, but he doesn't have a right to say who she should be dating. And he doesn't even know the bloke.]

Sure. Thanks, Jim. Good to meet you. We'll meet you at...

[He looks to the EMT who gives the name of the hospital. Jim nods and then offers a mock salute, which John tries not to bristle at. He knows it's probably just one of this man's quirks, not anything intentional.]

See you soon. He'll pull through. I promise, Molly.

[John hauls himself up into the ambulance and finds a place to half-collapse as the EMTs see to their business.]

It's ricin poisoning. Injection. He was on oxygen and an IV drip of saline when I, mm... [The ambulance jolts as they pull away and John grimaces, breathing shallow.] When I left him half an hour ago. [He also gives them the names and dosages of the medications he'd given Sherlock.]

[At least Jim isn't going to do anything to sweet little Molly Hooper just yet. She's useful, and it's so amusing getting in close with the games to watch it all unfold on a front row seat. It's delicious. He does hope that Sherlock doesn't succumb to the poisoning, that would be so boring and he has such hopes for their little relationship.

By the time Molly and Jim get to the hospital, Sherlock has been rushed to a room in the ICU and hooked up to all manner of monitors and drips. There's not a cure for ricin poisoning, and all they can do is wait it out with preventative measures against further seizures or organ failure, but even then the rate of survival for ricin poisoning is low.

Molly comes rushing into the room, stopping dead when she sees him unconscious like that, before turning to John and holding out a cardboard coffee cup shakily.]

I thought you might want-- y'know, to help you keep going. Today's been a bit...

[Crap? Stressful? Nothing really covers it properly.]

[John offers her a brief smile as he takes the cup of coffee. He's slumped over in one of the chairs, but he's doing his best not to look too out of sorts to avoid suspicion from the nurses and doctors passing by. Probably, he should ask for some more painkillers. It seems a risky proposition, though.]

It's certainly been a day. Sorry my, uh... my eulogy went a bit sideways there.

[To say the very least.]

Need to apologize to Clara.

[He's not even going to get to watch his sister be buried, and that thought hits him very suddenly, like a punch to the stomach. John just sips on his coffee and tries very hard to forget about it.]

[She reaches out almost tentatively and lays her hand over the one not holding the cup of coffee, and then withdraws it pretty quickly.]

Grief makes people do funny things, don't torture yourself too much over it. I think it's Sherlock who owes an apology all round, you were doing okay until he came bursting in.

[Despite her words, the twist to her lips is fond as her eyes flick over to Sherlock.]

Why don't you tell me a bit more about her? Sounds like we're going to be here a while and it might help. [Why is she doing this? It didn't help in the car, it just made John prickly and silent.] She sounds like she was a real firecracker.

[The difference now is that they aren't in the middle of something else. That, and John's already made an ass of himself about Harry, as well. He glances over at Molly for a long moment, then down at the coffee in his hands. A shrug makes him suck in a sharp breath and sorely regret having a physical form at all. Why can't he just be a consciousness? Those can't break ribs or bruise or burn.]

Dunno what there is to say, really. She was into art, graphic design stuff. Never much cared about school, otherwise. Fell in with an older crowd when we were kids and picked up bad habits. She liked to tell jokes. Some of them were all right, but I think she liked getting people to groan more. Married Clara just before I shipped out and had me as her 'gentleman-of-honor,' as she called it. Clara had one of her mates from uni as the 'best woman.'

[A nostalgic smile does quirk up his lips for a moment.]

That sounds really nice, I've never actually been to a wedding myself. Getting all dressed up like that, spending the day watching love, I bet it's lovely.

[She smiles herself and takes a sip of her own coffee, finally sinking down into the other chair. She's itching to check Sherlock's chart, but John is the conscious one here and so she needs to focus on him.]

It can be good to remember the happier times, but I sometimes found they made my cry more than remembering the bad ones after my Dad died. It can be helpful to let yourself cry, though, so maybe that's not such a terrible thing. Um, I mean, not that you have to cry. You can if you want to, but you don't have to.

[God. Good job, Molly. She shuts her mouth with a click to stop any more stupid ramblings.]

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?

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