Gone

Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Sherlock turned uneasily in his sleep. He twitched as images assaulted his mind.

 

Sherlock was running. He had to get away, away from Moriarty. He had to get to John. He dashed down one corridor and into darkness. Laughter, Moriarty’s laughter ringing in his ears, he scrambled round in the choking blackness. Suddenly, a bright light spiked his eyes, momentarily blinding him but when his sight came back, Sherlock almost threw up. There was a pile of bodies in front him. Everyone he had ever known was there; his brother, his mother, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson and his father. But worst of all, was the small prone body at the top of the pile. John lay, eyes wide open and unseeing, a bullet through his heart.

“No… no.” Sherlock’s voice trembled slightly. Then John sat up. Sherlock’s heart leapt but John regarded him with cold, dead eyes. He indicated the bullet hole over his heart.

“You did this.”

“No, John. It was Moriarty…”

“No.” John’s voice was brittle. “You may not have pulled the trigger but it’s your fault I’m dead, Sherlock. It’s all your fault.” The image faded but John’s words grew louder and louder.

“It’s your fault I’m dead.  It’s your fault I’m dead! It’s your fault I’m dead! It’s your fault I’m dead! IT’S YOUR FAULT I’M DEAD. IT’S YOUR FAULT I’M DEAD! IT’S YOUR FAULT I’M DEAD!”

 

Sherlock woke up screaming.

……

The nurse, Katherine Grace, who had been attending to the two unusual men, was confused. Her patients were a short blonde haired man with several gunshots, some recent, some years old and a tall dark haired man also sporting several fresh gunshots. She hadn’t asked them what had happened and she didn’t know how long they had been out for. She didn’t even know their names. But when she heard a scream from the room, her maternal instinct kicked in. Katherine ran in; saw the dark-haired man sat up rigidly and rushed over. He was not screaming anymore but his pale grey eyes showed fear, unconditional terror. It was the terror of man who was not scared very often. She began to soothe her patient.

 “It’s okay, sir. You’re safe, in a hospital and my name’s Katherine. I’m your nurse.” The man turned his relentless gaze upon her and began to take deep breaths. The pain had obviously just hit.

“John? Where’s John? I need John!” The man was manic.

“Who’s John, dear?”

“John Watson. Army doctor, served in Afghanistan, was sent home with a shoulder injury five years ago. Short, blue-brown eyes, blonde hair, recently became my companion,” the man said rapidly, his gaze never leaving Katherine, nor losing his ferocity.

“John’s here.” She waved to the bed next to her. His gaze flicked to the shorter man and he visibly relaxed.

“He’s alive?”

“Yes,” She said simply. The man smiled, slightly crookedly.

“Katherine, am I right? Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes.” He held out a long-fingered hand and she shook it.

“Nice to meet you, Mr Holmes. Are you okay, now?”

“Hmm? Oh, yes, the dream…” Sherlock looked nervous. “I’m fine now, thank you.”

“A thank you? Oh, he likes you.” A cracked unused voice came from the other side of Katherine and Sherlock’s eyes lit up.

“John,” he breathed. Katherine turned to see her second patient sit up, John Watson.

“Ah ah ah, lay back down, the both of you. You’ll only aggravate your injuries.” As per requested, the men lay back and the blonde haired one looked up at her.

“So what have you done then?”

“What do you mean?” She asked, flustered and confused.

“Sherlock thanked you. He never thanks anyone. What did you do?” Sherlock smirked at John’s deduction.

“She helped me wake up from a bad dream. I’m sure you understand that better than anyone, doctor.”

The look that crossed John’s face was one of fear, loss, pain and knowledge. He nodded slightly. Katherine was intrigued by the relationship between the two men. One seemed mainly cold whereas the other was understanding and kind. They seemed nothing less than in love.

……

After the nurse left, Mycroft entered. His brother rolled his eyes but John looked pleased to see him.

“Mycroft,” he said with a small smile.

“I have a present for my brother.” Mycroft gave a smile in return and handed Sherlock a box. Brow furrowed, Sherlock opened it and then a little smile of gratitude slid on to his face before vanishing again. He lifted out of the box, a carbon-fibre leg blade. John grinned. His eyes lighting up, Sherlock pulled back the covers and, after treating John to a spectacular view of him in his boxers, he attached the replacement to his left leg. As he tried to get up, Mycroft gave Sherlock a hand and the brothers hobbled around the room; one dressed in a tidy, sharp grey suit, the other in a pair of boxers which incidentally brought John’s attention to the bandages over the man’s shoulder and across his stomach. Mycroft noticed John’s distress and guided his wayward brother back to the bed.

“Now Sherlock, I think you may want to console the good doctor here that you are okay.” Sherlock’s gaze switched to John and he read his friend’s distress like a book. With a sigh, Sherlock said,

“I’m okay John.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.” And as Mycroft left, he looked back to see a pale, unmarked hand reach out and grasp a tanned scarred one, never to let go. Finally, he thought. They’ve found what they’ve lost. Neither of them is gone.