Falling For You

The Figure

John staggered home that night, his back aching, his face bleeding, and his heart throbbing.  He also felt as though he could puke at any moment, but he journeyed onward through the dark and twisty streets of London.  He stopped to catch his breath somewhere along the way, just before Baker Street came into view.  He ventured forward, convincing himself that he would be able to make it.  The morning light was seeping over the London rooftops, slowly beginning to lick the sidewalk.  He needed to make it to the flat and get himself cleaned up before Sherlock woke up.  He didn't want him to suspect...

Thinking of Sherlock, John collapsed outside of 221B Baker Street.  He found himself struggling to move and breathing was worse, and he needed rest but the stairs were too far and his bed nothing but a dream.

Of course, Sherlock was up at the crack of dawn as always.  He'd gotten a good night's sleep and then decided to make tea for John.  But when he woke up, John was nowhere to be found.  Sherlock's heart raced and jumped out of bed.  He sprinted around the flat in search of his love, but he couldn't find him anywhere.

Sherlock tried calling his cell, but he didn't pick up.  He found John's phone plugged in by the bedside table.  He decided to look out the window and wait for him there instead.  A few minutes after he took a seat by the window to wait for John to return, he saw a small figure stagger out of the darkness and collapse on the sidewalk.

Sherlock could recognize that face anywhere.

It was John.

His John.

He rushed out of 221B Baker Street, running past a distraught Mrs. Hudson.  He fell to his knees and scooped the unconscious John in his arms.  He looked down at his face.  He looked so peaceful when he was asleep, and Sherlock smiled to himself every so slightly.  But then he noticed the blood on John's face, the blood that he had obviously tried to remove.  His slight smile turned into a frown and he picked up John in his arms, struggling to hold the man without falling over himself.

"Sherlock!  Is that--"

Sherlock cut Mrs. Hudson off at the door, needing her to cooperate.  "Fetch me a first aid kit," Sherlock demanded.  Mrs. Hudson nodded numbly and went off to fetch the kit for Sherlock as he carried John up the stairs of 221B Baker Street.

Sherlock set John down on the bed and quickly examined John for injuries.  He had a very injured back, but it wasn't broken.  Bruised maybe, but not broken.  He had a broken nose and he had a sprained wrist, which would heal soon enough.  Then there was his head.  Sherlock figured a concussion based on the bruising.  He would need proper treatment in order to heal right and quickly.

"Phone an ambulance," Sherlock demanded through gritted teeth as Mrs. Hudson set down the kit. She nodded weakly and headed into the other room to make the call. Sherlock looked down at his love and tried to figure out what to do. He'd read loads of medical books, but he'd deleted most of the information as it became irrelevant. John was the doctor. He was supposed to be able to do this.

When the ambulance came, Sherlock went with them. He followed them outside and into the large automobile. They flew through the streets of London to the hospital, and not a second went by where Sherlock didn't think of John. He looked over at him occasionally to check in on his love wearing the oxygen mask, but it pained him every time.

They put John into surgery. It turned out that his injuries were far more serious than Sherlock had ever imagined. They told Sherlock that he couldn't be in the room while they performed the emergency procedures. He was forced to sit in the waiting room with all of the other heavy hearted people waiting to hear if their loved ones had seen the light.

For the first time in his life, Sherlock sobbed. He sobbed and sobbed and he didn't care who was watching because there was a slight possibility that John wouldn't make it out of surgery. And even that slight possibility was enough to make Sherlock wish he was dying instead.