literature

SH - Waiting Room

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    This was wrong. So wrong.
    It should be me on the operating table.
    It should be me that surgeons laboured over.
    It should be me with the bullet in my stomach.
    Not him.
    I was annoying everyone else in the waiting room, I knew, but I couldn't stop pacing. And I didn't care. What were they waiting for, a person with a hip replacement, having their appendix out? Hardly a life/death situation.
    Like Sherlock's.
    Oh, god, Sherlock . . .
    I collapsed onto the nearest chair, energy draining from me, to be replaced by a guilt that I'd been trying so, so desperately to ignore for the last three hours. It was my fault, all my fault . . .
    I should have known that night would come back to haunt me. To ruin my days, as well every night I dreamed. But it should just have been my life.

    "Watson! Captain Watson get over here now! We've got a severe GSW that needs immediate attention!"

    And the memories were coming back . . . no, no, I didn't want to remember – it was over now, having ended in a worse way than I ever could have dreamed.
    I looked up to the clock.
    One minute? Not even a minute since I'd last looked . . .
    But that made it three hours and twenty two minutes since they'd started to save Sherlock. Every second that went by felt like ten seconds too long. I wanted to know what was going on. I wanted to be in there, watching the surgeons, making sure they were doing it right. Opening the wound carefully, avoiding the

    Arteries and veins – if I cut one of them my patient would die. I knew this. But I also knew that if I didn't act fast, this soldier would be arriving home under the Union Jack, to a mourning mother, wife, daughter . . .
    No, Watson, don't think of them, think of body in front of you. You need to focus –
    "No, shit . . ."
    Michael. What was Michael doing in here?
    "No, George . . . GEORGE!"
    My best friend rushed up beside me, staring down at the body before me, aghast.
    "You know him?" I asked, not taking my eyes from my scalpel as it carefully, swiftly parted flesh.
    "Yeah . . . yeah, he's my . . . oh, gods, how can I help?"
    "Sorry, Michael, you know the rules – for one, it's your day off, and for seconds, you're not allowed near the operation if


    you know the person being operated on. Which was why they weren't letting me in to help Sherlock, even with all my credentials. Mind, that was probably a good thing, going by how badly my hands were shaking, how blurred my eyes were getting. But I should be there, I knew what to do, I should be able to

    help somehow! Come on, John, you know how experienced I am-"
    "No, Michael, please, leave. I really need to focus-"
    And that's when it happened. The equipment started to beep. The wound started to bleed. "Shit," I swore loudly. "Someone get this blood out of the way! I need to see-"
    And behind me, Michael started yelling, cursing, panicking, crying the man's name.
    "Get him out of here!" I ordered to a nearby assistant. He nodded, and moved to grab Michael. But the fool dodged, running around to the other side of the table.
    The entire time, blood fell over my hands, as I tried so hard to find the problem.  
    He was dying on my watch. He'd been put in my care, and he was fucking dying –
    His heart cut out.  
    "Sod this," I said, throwing down the tools. "Pressure, now," I ordered a random surgeon. Then I started CPR desperately, pushing at his chest, begging whatever god might exist in this godforsaken world that I could get the heart started again.
    Someone at my shoulder offered the paddles. I took them, and yelled "Charging 150 – clear!"
    The body jumped as the volts shot through it.
    The heart was still flatlining.
    Come on, come on . . . "Charging 300 – clear!"
    I didn't know why I was expecting a result. He was long gone.
    I didn't wait to call it. I looked across to the clock on the wall, and said "Time of death, 18:54." Then, with a fury, I ripped off my gloves, and strode out of the room, the doors swinging


    shut with a bang.
    I jumped, stunned out of the reverie. A Doctor had entered the room, pulling down his facemask and smiling.
    He walked straight past me to the old lady in the corner.
    No. Not for me.
    Thoughts began to creep through my mind. Doubts. What if he doesn't survive . . .
    A wound to the stomach. I'd had first hand experience at how difficult that was to save.
    I just had to hope that other surgeons would be able to do what I hadn't.
    That evening, after I'd lost my first man on that table, Michael came to find me.
    My best friend had yelled such venom at me that, by the time he'd left, I'd been shaking. With fear.
    I'd gained my first enemy. But I'd never let myself admit it. I wanted to believe that he somehow realised it hadn't been my fault. That he could understand that I couldn't have stopped it. I could never have seen that damage to the artery. The slightest movement to the table could have caused it to tear.
    There's no such thing as enemies?
    But what else do you call someone who says that they'll

    find you, and then, by god's justice, you'll be entirely in my mercy. And I will make you suffer every pain that you put George through. A bullet through your stomach. Ripping your arteries, one by one. D'you hear me? 'Doctor' John Watson? You will die at my hands, like he died at yours."

    And he'd lived up to his word.
    It was precisely a year after George's death. I'd remembered as soon as I'd woken up. I didn't think I'd ever forget that day – the first man I lost, the hatred in my friend's eyes – and now I'd have another reason to remember this date.
    I wished I'd taken the bullet – the bullet that had been aimed at me – rather than have this date carved onto the gravestone of the best, most brilliant detective the world would ever know.
    The most brilliant man that would ever exist.
    A tear fell down my face.
    How could I survive without him? How could I go back to baker Street without him there, getting high on patches, shooting at the walls, and filling the fridge with all kinds of crap?
    Would I have to go to his funeral? How many others would be there? Mycroft? Lestrade? Donovan and Anderson? By gods, if they went to his funeral to mock him, I swear I'd kill them.
    But I wouldn't have to go to his funeral, would I? He'd live, wouldn't he?
    He can't leave me . . .
    Oh gods, I love him.
    I actually love him.
    The realisation made me cry, and a nearby woman glared, but I didn't even notice. I loved him. I loved Sherlock Holmes.
    Why couldn't I have realised before? We could have had so much time together.
    The door swung open again, the sound echoing through the room like

    A gun shot. Women and children in the street screamed. After months of experience, I ducked, and looked around.
    A bullet was heading down the road, straight towards where I stood.
    "No!"
    And suddenly it wasn't going towards me.
    No, it was going for the man who'd shoved me to the side, that brilliant man called Sherlock Holmes.
    And it slammed into his stomach.
    I heard myself scream. I felt my hands grabbing him, as he collapsed forwards, bending over his wound. Blood trickled from between our hands, as they pressed onto the wound. I lowered him to the floor. I heard others call ambulances, children crying, men swearing.
    I rose to my feet, cold.
    And down the street was Michael.
    I didn't think. I didn't wait. I strode down the road, my heart thumping, red mists covering every image I saw.
    Just like Sherlock's blood covered my hands.
    It took seconds to reach him. Michael looked terrified. He'd seen the murder that was about to come. He tried to raise the gun and aim it at me again, but I wrenched it from his hands with ease.
    For a second I held it against his head, my finger trembling on the trigger, watching as the coward shook and wept in front of me.
    How can a man shoot someone then weep? Was it this mouse that could kill Sherlock Holmes?
    Kill Sherlock Holmes . . .
    Tears began to fall.
    I couldn't kill him.
    I turned the gun around and knocked Michael out with the butt.
    Then I turned, and ran back down the street to where Sherlock lay, as the sirens of the ambulances echoed throughout the world.


    I raised my head, tears flowing freely once more, and I watched the Doctor who'd just come through the door head straight for me.
    News.
    I rose to hear the fate of the only man I'd ever love.
sorry! you, like watson, are going to have to wait to hear what's happened to Sherlock Holmes . . .

okay, this has been a long time coming. a while back, someone said something about how it's always john hurt, and sherlock's grief. i promised to do something the other way around, and got the idea of john waiting in the waiting room whilst sherlock underwent surgery . . . and tada! this was born . . .

and yes, sorry, i had to fit some slash in there somewhere :D

please comment! commentators WORSHIPPED :worship:
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Bloody--Roses's avatar
oh-oh my gawd... I seriously CRIED