ShErLoCk oNeSiEs

An Evening Of Addictions (Part 3)

Mrs. Hudson, Molly, even Mycroft. 

The sight warmed his paralyzed heart, but John had expected to see all of them seated in the waiting room when he and Greg arrived at St. Bart's. 

The only person present whom he hadn't expected to see was the sixteen year old brunette he'd seen at the crime scene the previous night. She sat apart from everyone else, white wires racing downwards from her ears into a phone in her lap. Her head was tilted back against the wall, eyes closed, breathing steady. The only thing that suggested any tension in her seemingly relaxed appearance was her long, pale fingers, twisted and tangled into a tense knot on her stomach.

The harsh pale LED lights in the hospital ceiling bathed the room in a deathly filter. Dark circles hung darker, frown lines became grooves in the faces of people who had hearts beating fiercely for the detective in the operation theatre. John found solace in their company and sat down to wait.

~

A cold breeze kissed the nape of his neck. He felt the hot sun beat down on him from right above.

Sherlock whirled around to face familiar surroundings. The grass, the markings on the cement. The only thing missing was the plane.

And John. 

This was where they had said goodbye for what had felt like forever at the time. Sherlock had teetered dangerously close to the edge, nearly giving away what his heart wanted to say. Thank God his mind kept him in check in times of emotional malfunction.

Sherlock is actually a girl's name. Pathetic save, but it had been entirely worth it to see John smiling that smile. The smile that could power a satellite more efficiently than the sun.

This time was different, however. This time, it was not John, but the young girl Sherlock had saved that evening. Right before the blinding lights hit him and sent him tumbling into inky darkness.

Darkness. 

He had been hit by a car. 

A familiar sensation flooded Sherlock as the information pieced itself together in Sherlock's mind. 

Mind. Mind!

Sherlock had been so unbearably slow, Mycroft would never shut up about it when he snapped out of his mind palace. Which was a priority at the moment.

But something wasn't letting him leave. He felt a sharp tugging at the end of his consciousness, probably the surgeons doing their bit to feel valued in human society. He ignored it.

Two cobalt-grey irises held Sherlock tethered to the spot. His feet simply refused to move, all logic and presence of mind draining out through his shoes, his fingertips; every exhale took a bit of Sherlock Holmes and bestowed it to the wind.

He stared straight back at the human puzzle that was this mysterious teenager. "Why do you matter?" he mused. "What do you have? What are you?"

The girl smiled. "He needs you."

~

John stood by Sherlock's side, glancing down at his monitors every once in a while. Mycroft stood in the corner of the room by the doorway, leaning on his umbrella. 

John looked up at the older Holmes with tired, worried eyes. It was past two in the morning and neither of them could catch a wink of sleep, unlike Greg, who snored away in the waiting room, drooling onto Molly's shoulder. John huffed out an exhausted exhale.

"I need him to pull through," said John. "I will not let that happen again. He's not going to die."

"Doctor Watson, you need him, period," Mycroft smoothly intoned. "But more importantly..." he strolled over to the other side of the cot, examining his little brother with something that almost resembled pain. He looked back up at John with a nearly frightening intensity.