Waking You Up

Wake You Up IV

Sherlock comes to on something much softer than the ground, though not as soft as a bed. He forces his eyes open, pausing to adjust to the pain and brightness. Blinking a few times clears his vision, and he sits up. He's in the back of an ambulance.

"Welcome back," someone says. "How're you feeling?"

Sherlock stares at the concerned paramedic. "Like someone punched me in the face. Where's John?"

"Not surprising," the paramedic replies. "You've got a concussion, and you'll have a nasty bruise for a bit, but you'll be all right."

"Yes, fine, I don't care," Sherlock says, getting up. "Is John all right?"

The paramedic frowns at him. "All right, fine. I should be keeping you here, but Lestrade told me not to bother. He said to send you to him when you got up. He's over there."

Sherlock leaves the ambulance without responding, making a bee-line for Lestrade. Lestrade is talking to another officer, but he doesn't care. "Where is he?" Sherlock demands.

Lestrade looks at him, then nods at the other officer, who leaves. Without the officer blocking his view, Sherlock can see behind Lestrade. Can see the vague form of a body on the ground. Sherlock shoves past Lestrade, ignoring his name being called, and stumbles towards the body.

No. No, it can't be him, it can't, but there's the knife hilt, and - Sherlock gets close enough to see the body's face, and stops. It's the thief. He lets out an unsteady breath.

"Sherlock," Lestrade says, putting a hand on Sherlock's shoulder and turning him around.

"What happened?" Sherlock asks.

"John said he jumped you while you were trying to help him. Knocked you out cold, John had to pull him off you." Lestrade nods towards the body. "He got the bastard with his own knife."

Sherlock frowns. "The last time I saw that knife, it was in John's chest."

Lestrade smiles, a bit, and it's one of admiration. "Son-of-a-bitch pulled the damn knife out of his own chest to save you."

"John," Sherlock murmurs, because there's a tight, confusing affection muddling his thoughts, and he doesn't understand. Why did he have to use the knife? "Where is he?"

Lestrade's eyes flick to the left, very briefly, but Sherlock catches it. He turns that way, and sees an ambulance, not the one he was in. Sherlock starts for it, once again ignoring Lestrade calling for him.

John must not have been hurt too bad, if he'd been able to take out their attacker, but the knife wound had been deep. Sherlock needs to see if -

"Sherlock." Lestrade grabs his arm, stopping him forcibly. "Will you listen to me for one second?"

"What?" Sherlock snaps impatiently, trying to pulls his arm from Lestrade's grasp.

"John-" Lestrade starts, then falters.

Sherlock goes still. No.

Lestrade releases his arm and straightens, shoulders squared. His jaw is set tight, mouth soft and sympathetic, eyes trying to hide grief but not succeeding. Sherlock knows this version of Lestrade. He's seen him talking to the husbands, wives, siblings, parents of a fallen fellow officer. Sherlock'd never thought he'd meet him. No.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," Lestrade says, voice soft, gravelly with suppressed grief. "They tried everything, but we just didn't get here in time. John didn't make it."

For the first time in Sherlock's life, without the aid of any form of substance, his world completely stops. It doesn't black out, or white out, or even go gray, it just stops. He doesn't see, can't hear, doesn't feel, can't smell. He can't feel his heartbeat, or hear his breath, and he doesn't think - doesn't think anything. Doesn't even think no, not John. There's just nothing.

Then it starts back up again, everything at once. A hundred conversations, a thousand smells, the wind tugging his hair, Lestrade standing in front of him, the ambulance beyond that. And thoughts, thoughts, dozens of thoughts running through his head like normal, except instead of observations, cataloguing little details, all of the thoughts are screaming, muttering, crying, cursing. John.