Sherlocked (BBC Fanfiction)

Chapter 7 - Blood and Consciousness

I wish I could say that after I had been shot I drifted into an unconscious state of mind and blissfully woke up in the hospital.  But I sadly cannot.  I stayed conscious, a sort of unspeakable pain flooding my chest.

Falling backwards onto the ground, the back of my head slammed onto the wood.  Almost immediately I could feel a warm liquid drenching my clothing.  Next thing I knew my vision was sideways.  My survival instincts that kicked in and I shoved my hands over the bullet wound to stop the bleeding.  Sherlock’s voice echoed in my ears but I blocked it out, trying to focus on keeping myself alive.  “Breathe.”  I choked out.

Hearing another gunshot, I feared for Sherlock’s life.  But a couple seconds after, I felt hands on my shoulder.  “Jordyn, can you hear me?”

“Perfectly,” I mumbled and twisted my head around to face Sherlock.  In all honestly, I could barely hear him.  My head was pounding and my heart reverberated within my ears, the organ struggling to produce enough blood as to not kill me of blood loss.

            I pushed down harder on the hole in my chest, the pain almost unbearable.  I’d been shot before, loads of times, but never in the chest.  “Alright, alright, look at me, okay?  Jordyn, look at me,” his voice was sharp, demanding.  I was somehow able to flip myself over onto my back, harsh paroxysms of pain assaulting me in the chest.

I started to feel my throat swelling, the lining of my windpipe closing up.  I began violently coughing, the need to breathe prevailing over all others.  While choking, I felt blood come out of my mouth.  Panic had begun set it. 

My eye contact with Sherlock faded, my head dropping to the side, a severe exhaustion taking over my body.  I felt my eyes close.  “Jordyn!”  Sherlock’s voice was merely a distant whisper.  I was plunged into a darkness that was almost palpable.

Several Hours Later (3rd Person Point of View)

Sherlock sat hunched over in the chair.  Rain still pounded the hospital waiting room windows and the only sound was the drumming of his fingers on the arm rest.  Six hours ago Jordyn had been rushed into surgery, the surgeon saying “The odds are not in her favor.”  Sherlock had even contemplated calling Mycroft.

For six hours straight, anxiety and a nauseating angst had been hanging over him.  He was not used to this.  At all.  He had grown habituated to the apathy he showed toward others.  These disquieting feelings worried him.

(P.O.V. Joycelyn)

I found myself standing in the park I used to visit as a child.  Sky scraping oak trees surrounded me, their leaves almost creating a canopy over my head.  The sun shone through the breaks in the leaves, spotlights of sunlight on the thick grass beneath my bare feet.  I felt at a loss with life, unsure what to do.  Hadn’t I just been shot?  Am I dead?  I’m dead, aren’t I?  Shit.  I survived a war for fuck’s sake! 

“Hello?”  I called out, reality too unreal.  A breeze blew through the small clearing, the chains on the swing set rattling gently. 

“Jordyn!”  I spun around and found Brendon immerging from the trees.  He was clean, alive.  He was also bare foot.

“Brendon!”  I screamed out, an unintentional desire ripping from my mouth.  I began running toward him and he darted to me.  I jumped up and flung myself at him, my arms entwining around his neck, my legs wrapping around his midsection.  He squeezed me to him, a familiar feeling of his embrace comforting.  I pressed my face into his cardigan, his smell bringing tears to my eyes. 

“Jordyn,” he whispered, kissing my forehead.  I unwrapped my legs and he held me tighter.

“Am I dead?”  I asked, my voice quiet.

Brendon slowly let me go and shaped his hand around my jaw, holding my face.  I looked up into his eyes, tears beginning to form.  “I’ve missed you so much,” he murmured to me, the tears spilling over the frontlines of his eyes.  I stood up on my tippy-toes and pressed my mouth against his.  As we kissed, I could feel the sobs racking him from the inside.  After we pulled away, he sat me down on the grass and parked himself infront of me, sitting Native American style. 

“Why did you leave?”  I blurted it out, hating this vulnerability and sadness.

He looked up into my eyes, the tears standing still.  “I’m sorry.  I’m so, so sorry,” he told me, the breeze blowing his short brown hair into his eyes. 

“It wasn’t your fault,” I said.

“If I would have just taken the shot,” he whispered, his eyes now on the grass.

“Don’t beat yourself up for it,” I said to him and reached out for his hand.  I laced my fingers with his.

“I got myself killed,” he said, his voice beginning to break again.  “What the hell did I put you through?”  I felt stuck between a rock and a hard place.  If I told him how badly his death affected me, it would kill him inside.  But if I lied and said it barely shook me, it would make it seem as if I didn’t care that he died.  When truly, half of me died.

“Brendon…am I dead?”  I asked, avoiding his question.  He sighed and cleared his throat, rubbing all traces of tears from his eyes. 

“Not yet,” he told me.  “You have a choice.”

“A choice?”  I repeated.

“A choice whether you want to continue on in life or stay up here.”

“I have a choice?  I thought you just died and that was it, no if, ands, or buts about it.”  Brendon shook his head and a sudden thought rang in my ears.  “If we have a choice then…why did you…,’ I let my voice trail off into the trees.

“I didn’t have a choice.  That was my time…to go,” he told me.

“Oh,” I mumbled.  “Then…can I stay up here?  With you?” 

“Hun, you’ve barely lived,” Brendon said.

“I’ve…lived,” I said half-heartedly.  Brendon only smiled.  “I thought I had a choice here.”

Brendon chuckled quietly and said, “You do.  I just…want you to do what would be best for you.” 

“I know,” I sighed as Brendon grabbed my other hand.

“Besides,” he said, his thumb stroking my hand absentmindedly.  “Sherlock’s terrified of losing you.”

I felt a pang of confusion.  “What?”

Brendon laughed, his eyes crinkling at the sides.  “He’s petrified, Jordyn.  Don’t do that to him.  Don’t do what I did to you.”

“He’s…worried?”  I couldn’t get passed that.  Brendon nodded, his glasses falling off the end of his nose.  “I need to go, don’t I?”  He nodded once again and stood up then reached out a hand.  I grasped it and he helped me up.

“Be careful, Jordyn,” he told me and placed a hand on my waist.

“I don’t want to go,” I murmured.  He smiled a small smile and leaned in to kiss me. 

“You’ll be alright, I promise,” he whispered in my ear.  I wrapped my arms around his neck, burying my face in the contours of his shoulder.  “I love you Jordyn.” 

I pulled away from him and he pecked me on the lips.  He took his hand off my waist and turned around.  He began walking toward the trees, taking a fleeting look back at me before disappearing into the shadows.  The pain I felt then was almost equivalent to the pain of when he died.  I sat down in the grass and lied down on my side, resting my head on my arm and curling my other arm up against my chest.  Pulling my legs in, I closed my eyes and felt the stinging of tears once again.