With what little here on Earth that could help Sherlock nearly exhausted, maybe his chances lay beyond the stars John had spent so much of his childhood gazing up at, diligently waiting for one to streak past so he could make a wish on it.
John was a little too old for wishes now, and hope was a fickle thing to hold on to, but there wasn't anything else he could do. He needed a miracle.
So he'd sit here, in a chair next to Sherlock's bedside, minutes bleeding into hours, and he would hope. He'd look at the cuts, bandages, and bruises swelling Sherlock's face and wish. He'd wring his hands, not for the first time noting there wasn't a scratch on them, and cringe in guilt. He'd wait, restless with the guilt, drowning in the sounds of machines and the blinding white of the room and the irritating smell of sterility, and hope that Sherlock would survive this. A miracle.
If Sherlock was conscious, he would have told John to go do something patriotically productive from day one. But he wasn't conscious, and John just couldn't. He couldn't just leave, not now. Not ever.
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A Desperate, Painful Kind of Love
FanfictionJohn watches Sherlock in the hospital room as his heart gives out again and again, and mourns the loss of his best friend. He knows it's asking too much but - one more miracle, Sherlock. Just one more. Please.
