Now and Forever

28

Sherlock had been alive for sixty-two years, one hundred and thirty three days, six hours and twenty-four minutes when he was called by London's St. Bart's hospital for the second time.

Sherlock worked this out later. He knew it was 3:06 when he got the call, because his iPhone lit up when he tried to cease the ringing. He had no idea what number it was, due to being half-asleep, and only managed to mumble, 'ullo?' because John kicked him at that very moment, shifting in his sleep.

The voice on the other end was not at all sleepy. 'Is this William Scott?'

Sherlock frowned and draped one large arm across his eyes. Not many people knew his true first and third names; whoever this was must know him well. 'Yes, it is. Look, I don't mean to be rude, but it's-' he pulled the phone away from his face and squinted at the time, 'three-oh-seven at night. What do you want?'

The voice coughed slightly. 'I am aware of the time, Mr Scott. I'm sorry, but this is St. Bart's hospital and we have a very sick patient here who was asking for you-'

Sherlock sat bolt upright. 'What?' His mind was suddenly racing, all systems go inside his mind palace. What had happened? Had Jacob managed to sneak out again, tried to jump off another bridge? Had Benjamin had an accident? Was it Isaac? Oh god, Victor-

'He came in about half an hour ago. He's been shot, Mr Scott, in the pelvic region. I'm not going to lie to you; he'll be dead by sunrise.'

The nurse's cool tone made Sherlock's heart race. 'Who is it?'

Sherlock could almost hear the nurse's shrug. 'He refuses to give us a name. He's Caucasian, dark hair, probably in his fifties.'

Sherlock's heart stopped racing. He could rule out his sons; they were all younger than forty. Slightly calmer, he asked, 'is it Benedict Cumberbatch or Victor Trevor?'

The nurse laughed. 'Are you trying to be funny?'

'No, I'm asking.' Sherlock said shortly.

The nurse didn't laugh again. 'No. Wait- sorry, Mr Scott. The doctor just gave me a message. The patient has given us a name? He says his name is Richard. Richard Brook?'

Sherlock's blood ran cold.

He sat up again, blinking hard as he processed the information. 'Richard Brook?'

'Yes.' The nurse said, sounding bored. 'Listen, Mr Scott. Mr Brook is not going to survive the night and he is asking for you. I have no idea what relation he is to you, but you really need to make a decision. He's asking for you, Mr Scott, and he's dying.'
The woman hung up.

A billion thoughts were rushing through Sherlock's head. Was it a trick? Who would be able to shoot James Moriarty? Should he go?

Should he go?

Sherlock closed his eyes and then opened them again.

Honestly, it boiled down to one thing. Could he forgive himself if it really was Jim and he didn't go and see him?

The answer, Sherlock knew, was no.

He rose quietly, pulling on his trousers and black shirt (James had always loved his black shirt, Sherlock remembered) and crept towards the door. His husband was snoring gently in the bed, arm draped over the space Sherlock had occupied until a few minutes previously.

Sherlock took one last look at John and left the room.

He pulled on his coat before jogging up the stairs, opening Jacob's door to see if his son was in there; Jacob lay in the bed, frowning in his sleep, mouth open. He was dribbling, Sherlock noticed numbly; he hadn't realised that Jacob dribbled.