Organised Chaos - Sherlock x Reader

XCVIII • 98

He opened his eyes a little, shifting ever so slightly in the chair.
You looked up from where you were still applying pressure to his stomach wound.
"Sherlock!" You smiled, hope washing over you.
"I'm..." He stopped, his eyes falling shut again. "sorry." He spoke quietly, and managed a weak smile.
"No!" You almost scolded him. "Don't you dare talk like that."
He managed another smile, and opened his eyes again, although it looked like it took extreme effort.
He took a deep breath, mustering up the energy to talk again.
"I love you (F/N)." He winced a little, but continued. "If I don't make it out of here, I want you to remember that."
"No Sherlock! No. You're going to make it."
He slumped a little, as though those few words had taken everything he had left. His eyes fell shut for the second time and he sighed.
"No, no. Open your eyes, stay awake!" You were almost pleading with him now. You slapped his face gently a few times, trying to get him to wake up, but all it accomplished was to smear his own blood onto his cheek.
You felt hot tears prick at the back of your eyes, and you didn't try to hold them back. He blurred through your tears, but you kept pressure on his wounds.
"Please, Sherlock, please, if you're still in there somewhere, stay with me. Please." You implored him quietly, but got no response. You could still see the slight rise and fall of his chest, and as long as it continued, you held onto a little hope.

John's POV:

I saw the message and a wave of panic washed over me. It was so vague, but I knew you were independent and you wouldn't ask me to come if you could fix it yourself.
I knew you were at Mary's house, despite neither of you telling me. I knew Sherlock well enough to figure out that he would break in without a second thought.
I called Greg first, then a cab, and was on my way within a few minutes.
It wasn't far and we soon arrived at the block of flats that contained 40c.
The door was still unlocked and we entered without hindrance.

Your POV:

You heard several people enter the main room of the flat and you called out, making sure they'd know where you were.
"John!"
The door burst open and your mother spun around, grabbing the knife. You knew immediately that she'd switched personalities again.
"Mum! Stop it, they're just here to help!" You yelled at her, but she didn't seem to notice this time.
Several of the officers who had come with Greg surrounded her, got the knife out of her hands and arrested her.
John rushed over to you and as soon as he'd taken in the situation, he turned back and called, "We need a medic over here. Immediately!"
You saw another officer call for an ambulance while John began working on him the best he could.
Sherlock managed to open his eyes one more time, smiling a little again. "John." He got out, then coughed, pain written all over his face as he did.
"John, thank you. Thank you for saving my life."
"I haven't yet." John responded, but you both knew that he was talking in general. You knew that he had let go of hope of surviving this a long time ago.
He tried to talk again, but John stopped him. "You can't give up yet. Not now." He said, then moved aside as three medics helped him onto a gurney.
You stood and John embraced you, ignoring the blood that covered your hands and clothes.

John's POV:

"He's gonna make it, right?" You asked, looking me in the eyes.
I looked down and bit my lip.
"Honestly, (F/N), I don't know. He's strong, but he's lost a lot of blood. He's survived stuff like this before though. I think all we can do is hope and pray." I responded.
I saw tears fill your eyes and you buried your face in my shoulder again. "But I just got him back." You murmured.
"I know." I rubbed your shoulder. "Me too."
"We won't be able to see him will we?" You asked.
"Probably not yet." I sighed. "But we can go wait if you want to." I added.
You nodded. "Yeah."
"You're gonna have to go home and get cleaned up first, then we can go to the hospital."

Your POV:

You sighed. You didn't want to go home at all, but you knew it wasn't practical to show up at the hospital looking the way you did. Not when you weren't a patient.
"Okay." You concurred.
"Let's go then." John nodded toward the door.

Greg had one of his officers drive you and John back to Baker street, and you immediately entered your flat and got in the shower.
The hot water felt good and calmed your nerves, but you couldn't stop thinking about Sherlock. About the pain he must've been in, about how he'd already given up. That was so unlike him. He was such a fighter, he just wouldn't give up so quickly. You couldn't imagine how much damage she'd done to him in order to make him lose hope of surviving.

When you finished in the shower, you changed into more comfortable clothes and threw out the bloody ones. You knew there would be no hope of getting them entirely clean.

When you returned to the living room, John was waiting for you.
"I'm ready." You said.
"You're hurt." He said, when he saw you.
"It's nothing." You assured him, automatically touching the cut on your temple.
"It's not nothing, (F/N). Sit down."
You rolled your eyes, but complied.
You tried not to wince as he cleaned it with antiseptic, then bandaged it.
"Better." He announced. "Now we can go."

You took a cab to the hospital and joined dozens of people waiting anxiously for news of their loved ones.
You had just sat down next to an older couple and you overheard their conversation.
"Sweetheart, he'll be fine, I'm sure." This was the husband, trying desperately to console his wife, though he didn't look very hopeful himself.
"But this is my boy. Children are supposed to outlive their parents." She was crying.
He sighed. "Hon, he hasn't died. They're still working on him. That's a good sign."

You felt bad for them. You knew exactly how it felt.

"I don't care if he's some sort of hometown celebrity or detective, whatever it is he calls himself. He still my son and I can't lose him. I've lost one child already and I can't lose another."
Your eyes widened at this.
"Hon, he's survived a lot worse. He was shot and he's still fine."
She screwed up her face. "Yeah, and he didn't bother to tell us about that."
The husband sighed again. "You know him. He's very independent."

You couldn't ignore them anymore. You tapped the woman's shoulder.
"Excuse me, but may I ask who it is you're waiting for?"
She looked slightly confused through her tears.
"Our son. He was stabbed."
"Sherlock?" You asked.
Now they both looked surprised.
"Yes. Do you know him?"
"I- uh, yeah. I'm (F/N). We live in the same building." You didn't want to elaborate.
There was an awkward silence, so you continued. "You know John, right?" You asked.
"We haven't met him, but Sherlock's briefly mentioned him before, yes." It was his father who spoke this time.
You smiled. Briefly mentioned.
"Well he's Sherlock's best friend and flatmate and my brother. I moved here from Scotland a couple of years ago."
You nudged your brother.
"These are his parents." You said.
He gave a sad smile and held out his hand. "John Watson. Your son is a very close friend."
His father returned the handshake. "Tim."
"I'm Susana." His mother put in.
"I wish we could meet under better circumstances." John added, sighing.
"So you three are pretty tight?" Tim asked.
You nodded.
"You're lucky. He doesn't make a lot of friends."
"I know. He's guarded."
"There really isn't any other word for it." Tim agreed.