Rivers

Chapter Twelve

Seeing Watson unresponsive in a hospital bed with wires connected to his chest triggers something in me. It just makes me think... Sherlock has only one friend and that's John Watson. I mean, I think he would consider me a friend, but Watson and him have an undeniable friendship.

Now I can't help but think, what if this is it for John? What if he doesn't make it passed this hospital room? Sherlock would be crushed, torn to pieces and not to mention, but his previous addiction will most likely take place once again.

"Are you and John friends?" the nurse questions, doing something with the wires connected to Watson's chest. I look at Sherlock. His state is fixated on Watson's barely breathing body. I squeeze his hand with mine and rest my head on his shoulder.

"They're friends," I answer for him. The nurse looks up at us and smiles.

"Well, we're doing our best for your friend. I think he's going to be alright," she says and leaves us with Watson.

Sherlock's eyes are worn and beaten as he looks at Watson, unable to predict whether he'll live or not. Sherlock can do many things, but he can't predict whether his best friend is on his death bed or not.

"Sherlock, you don't have to look at him like this," I whisper to him, gripping his hand tighter. He looks down at me and cups my chin.

"It's okay. He watched what he thought was my own death, so I should be able to watch him."

I remove my hand and stand in front him. "He's not dying," I project. "And even if he was, you don't have to put yourself-" my voice cracks, blocking out tears and memories of my last three weeks. Sherlock shouldn't put himself through this. It was beyond hard, in fact it was brutal to go to through my brother's death I can't imagine what it would be like to watch it. "You wouldn't have to see this... you wouldn't have to experience any of this. Watson is a good man. He's your best friend. Sherlock, he's not going to die!"

Just as those last words slip from my tounge and a single tear falls from my eye, the heart moniter stops changing sound. There's no more difference in the beeping, but instead it makes a straight noise with no corrupting beats.

My veins run cold and my legs begin to shake, feeling numb. All the memories of John flood my brain. From the moment we met in Sherlock's flat, to the moment I last heard his voice on the phone.

Sherlock's lips are pushed together, his fists are tightened and he stares at the ground, not making a single noise.

"Oh my God," I mumble as nurses and his doctor come rushing in with equipment.

I back up to Sherlock, not able to stand anymore. "Oh my God," I whimper, tears rushing like a river out of my eyes.

The nurse that once told us John Watson was going to be alright looks at Sherlock and I with pain and grieve in her eyes and whispers, "Time of death: nine sixteen on March Twelvth."