A Desperate, Painful Kind of Love

6

The man had multiple contusions and lacerations. He had six broken ribs, a leg broken in four different places, a broken collar bone and dislocation of both shoulders. Then he had a fractured skull- severe head trauma, extensive tissue damage, his left wrist was fractured and the entirety of his right hand, which had been uncovered when they found him, was so badly burned and the bones damaged that the doctors weren't sure they could save it.

And for two days the medical staff battled internal bleeding, possible organ failure, a collapsed lung, and his heart had stopped twice.

When the doctor read off every single injury Sherlock had obtained and was being treated for with an attitude so grave that John couldn't get the severity of the damage being ticked-off some list on a clipboard out of his head, it was no surprise when the doctor finished with, "He might not wake up." It wasn't going to be okay.

Sherlock Holmes might not wake up.

There was nothing he could have done. That's what Mrs. Hudson had told him yesterday, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder while John sat next to Sherlock's bedside circled in wires and tubes.

It was a work of genius only Sherlock Holmes could have pulled off. Sherlock had contained the blast because there wasn't enough time to prevent it.

He was a good man, and a good man put his life on the line for millions of people.

Everyone was dealing with it in their own way. Lestrade hardly left the shooting arena; quickly catching up to him in the number of targets rendered useless, and Mary was unusually quiet, sitting by herself. Mycroft buried himself in work, revisiting a project Sherlock had worked on months ago, and John spent all of his time here, thinking too much or not thinking much at all. He knew he couldn't blame himself, but that didn't stop him from doing so.