To the Ends of this Earth

Chapter Twelve

Okay so hey, I know it's literally been FOREVER since I updated, and I don't really have an excuse... but I am back!  btw this chapter is bouta to (kick ass). So strap in boys.
Thanks for waiting for me lol (at least I hope you waited)

ps- the italics aren't working so fee diddly de dee

pps- please tell me what you think of this in the comments! Your support is important to us blahblah just pls vomment and cote cus I would love that yeah thx ❤️❤️❤️

xx
-Johnlox

___________________________

    When Sherlock woke up he expected the pain to hit him again but instead he was engulfed in numbness. It surprised him, he had thought that he was going to be reduced to a weeping mess again. He winced at the memory of last night, so much for his pride. He thought of John, but in a way where he was just looking through a lens, it was his natural defence system and it had finally kicked in. Sherlock took a breath, every nerve still on high alert, and his mind, however numbed, still screamed out for John. Sherlock pressed the call-nurse button with a delicate pale finger. In moments the same nurse from last night appeared at the end of his bed.
    "Are you alright this morning?" She asked, looking concerned.
    "Quite fine, yes thank you for asking," his voice came with no emotion, and the flatness surprised himself and the nurse. She regarded him for a moment before taking a breath as if she'd forgot that humans actually had to breathe.
    "You can see him, but he's still not awake," she said, obviously still thrown by his sudden carelessness.
    Something stirred inside Sherlock then, something that made his heart rise. He was going to see John.
    "What room?" He asked, voice now carrying his hopefulness.
    The nurse smiled, "I'll take you to him."
Sherlock swung his long legs out of the hospital bed awkwardly, suddenly feeling his muscles ache from everything last night. His torso felt tight and sore from all the crying and his stomach grumbled uncomfortably. Sherlock could tell he was still behind on his food and water intake. He and the nurse left the cool pale-walled room and stepped out into the quiet halls. It was still very early and there was hardly anyone about. Sounds of wheels on linoleum, soft beeps, and hushed feminine voices carried through the hospital. Once again Sherlock felt anxiety stirring inside of him, he tried to brush it off but his collected-ness was slipping. His heartbeat and his footsteps began to fade into one pattern. John, John, John, they said as he tried to clear his head.
At the same time that his anxiety was rising, a calm was also settling over him. His John was returned, he was safe now and out of Moriarty's reach. He took a deep breath, everything was going to be okay now.
    "Here we are," said the nurse in a hesitant voice, as if testing the air.
    Sherlock nodded, not really looking at her, and pushed open the door to John's room. What he saw sucked all the breath out of his lungs, it felt like his chest was being crushed like a used up soda-can. "Oh God, I did this to you."
    John was only sleeping, but he looked like a cadaver. His face had practically changed colour from the number of bruises that were painted over it in irregular patterns and colours. One of his eyes was swollen shut and and a deep dark cut crowned his forehead. Sherlock felt his empty stomach lurch, how could he do this? It was like he put the bruises there himself. He failed John, he did this, he did this.
    "He has a bruised windpipe," the nurse piped up, causing Sherlock to jump  violently - he forgot she was there. "A mild concussion, four cracked ribs, all but two are bruised and he had a dislocated shoulder when he came in. Also a broken wrist, twisted ankle, too many bruises to count, minor internal bleeding and he was inches away from an overdose. Sherlock, we almost lost him. You're lucky he is still here, please don't blame yourself."
    Sherlock felt like every injury she named was punctuating the throbs of his pain. He felt like falling to his knees again. He swayed where he stood, how could this not be his fault? If he had just brought John with him when he went to scout out the building- if he had just made John stay home- or if he had just fucking went out for supper with John- everything would have been okay. Everything. After a pause Sherlock cleared his throat thickly. "Can you please give me a moment?"
He heard her leave.
Hesitantly, Sherlock stepped towards the hospital bed that looked vaguely like an examination table. Every footstep felt like a step closer to loosing himself completely, like he couldn't go back after this. Sherlock had half a mind to turn away and never come back, but he could never do that to John Watson. He felt incredibly selfish for thinking about his pain when John was laying in front of him in such a state, but all he could think was that he would have gone through what John had just gone through one thousand times as long as it meant that it would have never happened to John. Finally he made it to John's beside, and he kneeled there it felt like crouching next to a headstone.
    The crystal slipped hot and thick from his long eyelashes, sliding down the curves of his face quietly. He had tried to hold the tears back, but in the end he just couldn't. He delicately picked up one of John's small hands and stroked the bruised knuckles. "I'm so sorry John," was all he could manage to say through his silent sobs. He almost laughed then, laughed at himself for being what he was then, a broken shell of his former self. He was supposed to be a fucking sociopath for god sakes, but here he was, heart beating out of his chest, ripping through him with every beat over someone who he loved.
    As more regret and guilt washed over him he pushed his face down into the bed, trying to stop himself for screaming that he was sorry. He cried now. It wasn't like before, those were tears of a desperate man, now they were real tears. They were the tears he had never cried, the tears he had refused to shed after redbeard, and his loneliness, they were everything he had ever kept locked away, but most of all they were for John, and even though there was so much pain in them. They were beautiful.
    "Sh-h-erlock?" came a weak voice, that he barely heard with his head face-down in bed sheets. It didn't sink in, it was like someone calling to him in a dream. It didn't register until Sherlock felt the warm hand under his cool one move slightly, his head shot up and the breath was knocked out of him for the millionth time. Staring down at him were John's brilliant blue eyes, those amazing infinite ocean eyes, that Sherlock thought he would never see again.

    At first, he said nothing. Sherlock stared at his eyes, looking into them was like coming home. It was like being in your own bed after a long trip. Suddenly he was aware that his tears had stopped, and that the hand on the bed was holding his in return.
    "Sherlock." John said, a bit clearer this time but still hoarse. Sherlock continued to stare for a few more seconds before slowly moving his head and eyes to gaze at the hand entertained with his. "Sher-"
    "-John." He said, voice carrying so much love and relief that John's eyes dipped embarrassedly.
"I thought you were-" This time there was no way that Sherlock could stop his voice from breaking, he dropped it to a whisper. "I'm so sorry..."
    John let go of Sherlock's hand. "It wasn't your fault. You saved my life." he rasped, still managing to cradle forgiveness in his voice even when it sounded like Velcro.
    "It was my-" Sherlock felt the pain ripping through his chest again, like someone shot a canon ball through it. He took a breath and was about to continue when he saw how intently John was looking at him. He read all of the melancholy in his eyes, and all the forgiveness and all the- wait what was that? John shakily raised his hand and placed it gently on Sherlock's face.
    "It's not your fault," he hushed.
    Suddenly Sherlock couldn't do it anymore. He couldn't loose John a second time.
    "I love you,"
He shut his eyes for a second, eyelashes brushing his face, revelling in the moments that he had before everything fell apart. He slowly lifted his gaze up to John and their eyes met.
    It was an atom bomb and the touch of a feather all at once. John's eyes were so clear and so blue, so perfect, like the sky before a storm. Sherlock had always loved that colour. It seemed like everything he had ever loved was condensed into one person, no matter what it was, he found bits of it in John. His heart rose, and in that moment, nothing mattered, it was as if the entire world suddenly had become John, and he needed to look no further than his eyes to see every wonder that he had ever imagined.
    "Oh, Sherlock," John's voice was like the wind through an aspen grove and the tension increased tenfold. "Of course, of course I love you too."