Aboard an ambulance, his eardrums about to burst by reason of the thunderous sirens, John had never been, and probably will never be, this frustrated that the speed of light was unattainable by automobiles.
Sherlock's upper arm was perforated again when a paramedic administered another injection.
Staring at the oxygen mask atop Sherlock's mouth, everything John learnt during his medical studies became an entangled mess, resembling the scribbles he drew with multicolored wax crayons as a child, and it took him thrice the time it should have to figure out the identity of the injected fluid.
Naloxone.
Yes.
Naloxone injections.
Morphine?
No, Sherlock likes cocaine best.
But.
Bluish hue in the fingertips and lips.
Cold, clammy skin.
Constricted pupils.
Before he went into a coma.
Morphine.
Yes.
Naloxone.
Naloxone for morphine overdoses.
John eyeballs appeared to be about to fusion with the cardiac monitor while the helpless therapist agonized at Sherlock's cardiogram with an exceedingly fervent gaze.
Slow. His heartbeat was unbelievably slow, as if Sherlock's heart had transferred all its kinetic energy to John's: his vital organ was pumping blood in and out at a speed which violated all biological principles.
But suddenly it stopped.
It all stopped.
Everything stopped.
The cars outside the widows froze.
The raindrops remained suspended in the air.
The earth stopped turning.
The entire world stopped.
Sherlock's heart stopped.
Then all elements of John's surroundings came back to like at once. All, except Sherlock. All, except everything.
John felt the oxygen leave his lungs. Miraculously, his mental faculties stayed in immaculate order, matching with the library shelves full of complex data entries and analysis at UCL medical school.
John resolvedly pushed past the paramedic and tried to reach for Sherlock's chest, but a pair of arms took hold of him.
John screamed, yelled, shouted, bellowed as he watched the fragile detective's chest crashed by muscular arms, his ribs wrecked by the pressure that grew more desperate with each failed push.
He kicked in every direction, eager to regain his freedom, but when the tight grip suddenly weakened, John understood that it was too late.
"No, no, no! Nooooooooo! SHERLOCK!" John bawled into his pillow. His cry was welcomed by the soft feathers where it found home instead of reverberating against the walls.
John awoke in a physical and mental fiasco.
Hyperventilating while the beads of sweat released by the pores of his skin were imbibed by the mattress, John shielded his face with both hands. He massaged his eye creases with his fingertips, then begun drawing circles where a headache obtruded into his skull.
John wasn't new to this whole nightmare business, but not ever had he ever been so glad to wake up at two in the morning.
Just as the satisfaction of this victory started to settle, John realized that simply because Sherlock wasn't dead didn't mean he wasn't in danger.
It was amazing, how a single thought could torture a man's soul to such an unbearable state, rip it like a flawed sketch, shatter it into a million pieces like the glass of an antiquated window and afterwards pick those fragments up to lacerate what was left of the martyred spirit.
Late but not overly late, at ten o'clock exactly, John crossed the doorstep of his flat, and, at the top of his lungs, declared that he had returned.
His routinely greeting met no reply except for the wind whistling as it slithered into the
staircase through the door gap.
"Sherlock?"
A sickening sense of déjà vu overcame him as the macabre memory crept out of its sanctuary. Side by side, reality and recollections melted into a strange in-between.
Yet this time John didn't find Sherlock lying in the bathtub while life soundlessly escaped his body.
Because John didn't find Sherlock at all.
Impatience drove John crazy faster than the speed of the cab he was in, headed to Montague Street. Indeed, John had once again broken the record of the highest level of frustration directed towards the fact that the speed of light was unachievable by cars.
The doctor was positive of two things: one, Sherlock was isolating himself at his flat at Montague Street; two, alone, he was up to no good.
YOU ARE READING
Chemical Disaster {JOHNLOCK}
Fanfiction"Detective Holmes, does your job ever cause you troubles that might lead to consuming drugs?" "I never have troubles with my job." Sherlock said, holding John's penetrating gaze without flinching. "Neither family issues, nor anything related...
