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Title: Awry
Fandom: Sherlock
Author: MusicalLuna
Rating: T
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock, John
Genre: Drama, Hurt/Comfort
Warnings: None
Complete: Yes
Summary: Sherlock arrives home early one morning and finds a nightmare.
A/N: For tunes84 and patster223, the whores who demand all of this fic and nonsense.
Disclaimer: I'm nowhere near British enough to own these guys. *tragic sigh*
The early morning sun glinted red-orange shards of light off of the windows at the top of 221B Baker Street and Sherlock hurried cross the street to its black-painted door.
His hair was dishevelled, poofier than Sherlock ordinarily allowed it to get because he'd been grabbing at it, yanking it in fistfuls whilst talking to himself, all night long. He'd gotten more than a few frightened looks from passers-by, which was completely ridiculous—it wasn't as though he were unstable. Everything would have gone far smoother if John didn't require so much sleep.
He pushed his key into the lock and the door swung wide, darkness gaping before him. He knew exactly how many steps to the stairs and he took them blind, then began his ascension two at a time, calling, “John! John, wake up! I let you sleep all night, now come on! We've got things to do!”
On the second-floor landing, he paused, breathing heavily, waiting for an annoyed groan, or perhaps an insult.
Instead it was dark and silent.
The silence lit a fuse in his brain and he realized with a growing sense of foreboding that he hadn't turned his key in the lock. The door had simply opened beneath his hand. “John...” he called, gaze moving more purposefully around the flat. “You know it's not particularly safe to leave the front door unlocked.”
It was possible it had been his own fault. He had been in a bit of a rush.
Then his roving eyes landed upon something that stalled his thoughts completely.
Blood spatter on the wall.
Abruptly he found himself choking on what felt like his heart, lodged at the base of his throat, which was an anatomical impossibility, but the sensation was there nevertheless, making it extremely difficult to breathe. “John!” he barked, demanding an answer this time. He would not be ignored.
John didn't seem to care.
Sherlock nearly smashed his face into the wall in his haste to cross the room and inspect the anomaly. It took just a moment for him to determine that the owner of the blood had been in motion when it had been drawn, headed toward—the toilet.
And if he followed the directionality, he found—blood on the door handle.
He leapt over the armchair, pressing down on an unbloodied spot on the handle, and found it locked. “John!”he called, “have you cut yourself? Answer me!”
Straining to hear a response, he leaned toward the door. He bruised his cheek jamming his face against the wood as his ears picked up a small sound. “John?”
The quiet rasp of metal against metal answered him and his eyes flicked to the doorknob.
Sherlock felt an inexplicable flash of cold wash through him and he hesitated reaching for the knob. Then his sensible, rational side kicked in and he grasped the handle, turning it decisively.
The metal was cool against his palm; the door stuck against the frame briefly and he exerted a touch more pressure until it burst free, creaking open.
The floor tiles were white and Sherlock immediately saw more crimson spots of blood. Those had fallen straight down. They were large and round with spines like children's suns and that told him they'd fallen from a distance. The door continued creeping open via momentum and revealed more blood, but this was smeared across the tiles. More of it, even a smudged fingerprint. “John,” he said firmly and that sensation of prickling cold was rippling through his limbs again.
And then finally, a murmur, a whisper: “Sh...lock.”
Sherlock scrambled into the bathroom on his hands and knees, feeling tacky blood on his palms and not caring. His breaths were coming so fast they tripped on one another on the way; it felt...alarming. The door bumped something and started swinging slowly back toward him and that was when he saw John.
His feet were poking out from behind the ajar door, pyjamas hiked up a little on his legs. He'd been in bed. Or getting ready? Getting out of? Doesn't matter.
He grabbed the door, slammed it shut. The walls rattle, but the picture on the wall that usually falls when he does that is already on the ground, face down. Door was slammed before. By John. Focus, focus, focus, he told himself and his eyes darted from the picture to John's face. He's slumped against the wall. He blinked lethargically, opened his eyes to slivers. There's a bursting sensation in Sherlock's chest that slithered into his stomach and that tingled through his nerves like a light electric shock. “You're hurt,” he said.
John's chest moved with a tiny burst of air, his mouth twitching upward at the corner, eyes crinkling. He's laughing. This wasn't a laughing situation, at least Sherlock didn't think it was. He frowned.
The blood was from what he believed was a stab-wound between John's ribs. It's difficult to tell; John's arms are wrapped awkwardly around his torso, and his figure is obscured by the pyjama top. There seemed to be a considerable amount of blood. “You've lost at least a pint,” he pointed out. “I really don't see how this is amusing.”
John's smile is gone, however. Another wave of sensation went through his chest, this time a strange pressure that made it difficult to catch his breath. “I'm not particularly well-versed in medicine, but based on the entry, it's likely you've got a punctured lung plus muscle and tissue damage and—”
John's blood-crusted fingers curled around the hem of his coat sleeve.
Something lodged in his throat, blocking saliva, air. He reached into his pocket, drew out his phone; he realized his hands were shaking when he tried to dial the number and the phone slipped out of his grasp like a wet bar of soap, clattering to the floor and landing in a smear of John's blood.
Sherlock froze.
Blood had soaked completely through John's pyjama shirt leaving a dark red oval. It dripped steadily from the sagging fabric into a too-large puddle of glistening red. John's face was white, like porcelain, his lips tinged faintly blue. A pint was an underestimation, clearly it's more than that, clearly he's lost so much more than that and he's still losing it, which means that if something isn't done and done immediately, John will soon be at the two-point-two-four limit and then—then—
“Sherlock?” John mumbled; his eyelids have grown heavy. “Wha's happened?”
Another of those nasty chills zinged up the inside of Sherlock's spine, spiking his heart rate. He grabbed for the phone, feeling the stickiness of John's blood on his fingers. His hands shook as he dialed 999. It took just a moment for an operator to pick up, but it's not nearly quick enough. “I need an ambulance at 221b Baker Street immediately. A man has been stabbed. No. I don't see how that's relevant. Stop talking to me, dammit, and send the ambulance!” He hung up on the woman and texted Lestrade.
JOHN HAS BEEN STABBED. CALLED 999, IMBICILES. BRING AMBULANCE.
John's eyes hadn't opened in exactly fifteen seconds. Sherlock slapped him. John gasped, eyes shooting open and Sherlock grabbed his flailing arm. “Stay awake, John,” he ordered.
“What,” John murmured, eyes already slipping closed again. “Whssappend...”
“John!”
Lestrade texted.
WHERE ARE YOU?
221
Sherlock wrote and he can't be bothered to add the YOU COMPLETE AND UTTER DRIVELING MORON that's in his head. “Stay awake!” he barked at John and pressed his palms over the wound on his side. John choked, his back arching, agony contorting his features. Sherlock felt his stomach writhe and toss and felt as though he might be sick. That made no sense made no sense at all he's seen much worse, blood all over the walls, entrails—
Very far off he heard the sound of the sirens.
Blood soaked into his trousers, the puddle enormous and dark and John's moans have gone soft. Sherlock clenched his teeth and bore down on the wound harder and harder still until John's screams rung in his ears.
~ * ~
Lestrade arrived at 221B Baker with very little information and a lot of men. He prayed to God that there was something actually happening and that this wasn't just one of Sherlock's experiments. He didn't think that Sherlock could bring himself to use John in such a...drastic manner.
But the black door to 221B swung open in a cold breeze as he moved toward it and Lestrade felt in his bones that something was wrong. “Sherlock?” he called through the open door.
He's momentarily distracted by the arrival of an ambulance, but then Sherlock was shouting, “Lestrade! What the hell took you so long?”
His voice sounded raw. Lestrade took two stairs at a time to the top. It only took a moment for him to find Sherlock—his coat was hanging out of the door to the toilet.
“Hurry up, dammit!” Sherlock barked, so Lestrade did.
Holmes was on all fours inside, blood-soaked hands pressed down on John's chest. John was prone, lying in a mess of blood and Sherlock looked positively feral hunched over his body. He bared his teeth and snarled, “Help him, you idiot!”
Lestrade nodded and backed out into the lounge, hurrying to the top of the stairs. “Up here! Come on then! Bring the medics!”
Behind him in the flat Sherlock yelled, “NO! John! Don't even think about it! Wake up, damn you!” A flutter of panic started inside Lestrade. John can't die. He can't leave them to try and pick up Sherlock's pieces. It won't be possible. Then Sherlock howled, strangled: “LESTRADE!”
The first of the medics was coming up the stairs and Lestrade grabbed him, dragging him the rest of the way up and shoving him in the right direction. “Go!” he yelled. “In the loo!”
“What took you so long?!” he heard Sherlock demand. “He needs fluids, a transfusion, what are you waiting for?” He's losing it, panicking.
Lestrade went back to the toilet, grasped Sherlock by the shoulder as he glared at the medic, who was trying to edge close enough to do as Sherlock demanded.
“Come on then,” Lestrade said softly. “You're in the way, Sherlock.”
His eyes, sharp as glass shards, turned and stripped him bare and Lestrade just squeezed his arm. “Come on. Let him work.”
The second and third medics asked him to kindly move as they came up from the back. He needed to get Sherlock out of the way. He nodded encouragingly, pulling. “Come on.”
Sherlock tensed. “I can't leave him to these idiots, what if they make a mistake? What if they're not quick enough? The human body is so fragile, all it would take is one miscalculation, one slip-up—”
“If you don't get out of the way, then it will be your fault if they can't get it done.” Lestrade wanted to retract it as soon as he'd said it, but Sherlock's face slowly drained of what little colour it contained and he became unresisting, allowing Lestrade to pull him to his feet and out of the way.
The medic's voices were sharp inside the small room and followed them as they moved out into the open lounge. Lestrade couldn't stop himself from glancing back, afraid that this might be the last time he saw John alive. If that happened, Sherlock—
Sherlock sniffed, blinking and straightening his shoulders. He tugged down his coat, looked out the window. Straightening his mask. “John will be fine,” he said and his voice quivered only just so. “They'll replace the blood, stitch him up; he'll be fine.”
“Yes,” Lestrade agreed warily, his eyes drifting back toward the toilet as the medic's voices rose in volume. “He'll be fine.” Please let him be fine.
Sherlock pressed his palms together over his lips, the lines on his cheeks drawn straight and severe.
“His blood pressure's still dropping!” someone yelled and Sherlock swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing. Then, abruptly, he took off, disappearing down the stairs before Lestrade could say anything.
Lestrade wiped a hand over his face, letting his palm come to rest over his mouth as he watched them hustle John out of the bathroom on a stretcher.
Please, God, don't let this be the end of John Watson.
~ * ~
John still felt like sleep.
His mouth was cotton dry and unpleasant, but he thought he could ignore it and go back to sleep. But something was wrong. Did he fall asleep in the clinic again?
That thought spiked his blood with adrenaline and he opened his eyes, his muscles protesting as he tried to sit.
A hand pressed down on his chest and a familiar scathing voice said, “Are you mad?”
John hasn't got the energy to fight the hand and he sank back into the pillows, feeling his heart thrumming against his sternum. His ribs throbbed in time with it. “Sherlock,” he said and sounded exhausted even to himself.
He finally saw Sherlock to his left, sitting in a chair with his feet drawn up on the seat. Sherlock stared at John, eyes cutting right through him. Finally, he drew his hand back and his eyes moved to his fingers, inspecting them as though they're the most fascinating thing he's ever seen. “You're an idiot,” he said blandly.
John didn't really care what he was saying. Sleep was beckoning and it could be very persuasive. All that mattered was Sherlock found him, was here now. “Mkay, yes,” he murmured and closed his eyes.
“Don't do that,” Sherlock said sharply.
John frowned, opening his eyes again. “Don't do what?”
“Close your eyes.”
“I'm exhausted, Sherlock. I can barely keep them open,” he said. His point was punctuated when they slid closed again.
The chair scraped along the floor, Sherlock's clothes rustling as he moved and when John pried them open once more, Sherlock was mere inches away. “Just keep them open for a few moments more,” he said in a low voice.
So John humoured him, as always, and fought to stay awake, blinking heavily as he watched Sherlock watch him and then move on to watching his chest rising and falling.
“Say something,” he ordered.
John sort of rolled his eyes, but he was too tired to put his heart into it. “You're very annoying.”
The grave expression on Sherlock's face cracked into a smile and he said, “Good. That's good.” The smile faded, but Sherlock's face remained softened by it. “Sleep, John.”
He did.
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no subject
Date: 2011-04-23 12:11 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-19 12:02 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-19 12:03 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-23 12:52 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-19 12:02 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-23 12:54 am (UTC)GAH the tension in this fic, though, WOW
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Date: 2011-06-19 12:02 am (UTC)This reaction pleases me to no ends, thank you so much.
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Date: 2011-04-23 12:55 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-19 12:01 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-23 05:13 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-19 12:01 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-23 05:28 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-19 12:00 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-23 11:20 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-18 11:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-23 04:15 pm (UTC)*hugs*
*hugs for this story of unapologetic Watson-Whumping*
*huggles*
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Date: 2011-06-18 11:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-26 06:25 am (UTC)dementiaobsession.no subject
Date: 2011-06-18 11:52 pm (UTC)Re: Awry
Date: 2012-02-19 11:24 am (UTC)It's well thought of, that Sherlock would read the blood spatter patterns automatically.
CALLED 999, IMBICILES.
Should be 'IMBECILES'. Sherlock really should've had more sense than to hang up on 999, but the boy really does not have the sense God gave a grasshopper sometimes. It's certainly in character for him to hassle Lestrade instead.
Typical, that he'd nag John into speaking to him to settle his own nerves rather than letting the person he's concerned about actually *sleep*. :) This is even more true when one reflects on his 'sleep is for those who aren't trying hard enough' attitude throughout....