A Study In Him (Teenlock)

Dead and Buried

"Sherlock!"

As John was in the ambulance with Sherlock, the awful images flashed in his mind on constant replay. This was Sherlock Holmes, the one man who'd ever truly caught his interest, and he was lying in a stretcher, being worked on at this very moment, and probably going to die.

No, don't think about that. He's going to be fine.

Isn't he?

This has to be fake. Some cruel prank or game. This can't be real, it just can't. It cannot be happening.

John blinked back the tears that stung his eyes as he pinched his forearm painfully. 'Just wake up,' he thought, 'Wake up from this terrible nightmare.'

But when he opened his eyes, he was still in the ambulance with Sherlock losing life rapidly. The last blips of his being were slowly fading away, becoming smaller and smaller as he drifted closer to the light.

"Don't go into the light," John whispered, even though he knew Sherlock would never hear him.

"Sherlock please," he pleaded, so low of a whisper even he could hardly hear it himself, "I need you. In my life, I need you here. With me, Sherlock...Because..."

He trailed off, not sure what he'd say next;

"Because you're not human," he concluded, "I'm tired of 'human'. You're...Extraordinary. You're not human, Sherlock...You're better."

He let out a long sigh, but it was choked. He couldn't breathe. The noise in the room was suffocating, like he wasn't on Earth, but in outer space.

When they finally rolled up to St. Bart's, John felt it was too late. Too late to save Sherlock.

His friend.

His best friend.

He sat in the waiting room for almost an hour before a solemn-looking nurse shuffled up to John, a terribly sympathetic and sad look on his face.

John sighed and stood up. He'd spent the hour preparing for the inevitable, and he was almost ready.

Almost.

"Give it to me straight doctor," John stood up tall and fought away tears. He has to be strong.

The nurse paused a long moment before a "prankster" smile melted onto his face. What?

"He's fine! Your friend is going to be okay and is expected to make a full recovery. His worst injury is a broken leg."

John shook his head and pinched himself again. He knew it-- He'd fallen asleep in the waiting room. He was dreaming this, of course.

"Mr. Watson...Are you...Okay?"

"Ah, yes...Tell me the news...?"

"I...Did, sir. Sherlock is okay, just a badly broken leg."

So it wasn't a dream then.

"R-Really? He's really okay? After falling off a two-story building?"

"Yes. You can go see him, if you'd like. He should be waking up soon."

John smiled. That magical man.

He warily entered the room. Sherlock lay on the bed in a hospital gown, fast asleep. He looked so peaceful, like nothing had ever happened.

But something was...Different.

John fought to pinpoint it, until it hit him: This was the first time he'd ever seen Sherlock with short sleeves.

He looked at the nearest exposed arm, yet again holding back tears. He sat on the chair next to the bed, getting a closer look. All along his forearm were scattered scratches, like cat's claw marks, some old, some new.

"Oh, Sherlock..." John had known something was up, and that Jim's bullying bothered him, but he never would have guessed it had gotten this far. But it all made sense now: The uneasy disappearances to the washroom, not wanting to eat, holding down his sleeves...

Sherlock is suicidal.

And Jim knows it.

He very gently brushed his fingertips over the uneven curves of the cuts. He felt choked again. This is why Sherlock jumped.

He was finished.

John had failed to protect him.

Sherlock flinched slightly, squeezing his eyes tighter shut before they flung open. John was always caught off-guard by their stupendous colour. Sherlock was a dark figure, you'd expect him to have a very chestnut-brown paint, not this clear green that reflected all of the light within them.

Whoa-- Since when had John ever noticed so much about someone's eyes? Must be because they're so unnaturally brilliant.

Yeah, that's all.

"J...John?" He whispered, laying eyes on the blonde boy.

"Hi. How are you feeling?"

"Am I dead?" Sherlock whimsically murmured, "I'm in Heaven, right? The afterlife?"

"No, Sherlock. You landed in the shrubbery. You're alive."

"No, I'm definitely dead. You look so...Angelic."

John smiled, chuckling at Sherlock's drugged state, "Sherlock, you're on painkillers. That's all. But you are definitely--"

John was cut off by warm, perfectly-shaped lips curved into his. The medical chords attached to Sherlock were being stretched straight as the drugged maniac reached up to kiss John.

He pulled away with a smile, "Ah, I've always wanted to do that. Now that I'm dead, I can do anything!"

John just sat, completely bewildered. He knew the excessive painkillers would make him somewhat out of it, but this was a whole new level of surprising.

"Mr. Holmes?" The nurse returned. Thankfully, he hadn't appeared to have seen the embarrassing event.

"He's awake, but maaaaajorly high," John tightened his lips, "How long will it last?"

"Let him rest an hour and they should wear off."

"Okay," John laughed, "Because this is just weird on so many--"

A deep snore sounded from beside John. He turned to see Sherlock asleep. So peaceful, nothing like the knowledge-filled genius he knew, or the high-off-his-arse maniac who'd just kissed him.

"I'll let him sleep, but I'll return in a couple hours. Okay?"

"Of course, Mr. Watson. Not a problem."

And just as he'd promised, John returned exactly two hours later. When he entered the room, Sherlock was just waking up.

For a second, Sherlock looked simply happy to see John standing in the doorway, but he quickly remembered his exposed arms, which he slid under the sheet. But something told him that his roommate already knew.

But John didn't pry. He'd try to bring it up later, but not now.

"Hi," John began, striding over to sit on the chair again, "How are you?"

"How am I alive, John? I fell off a two-story building I...I can't...Be alive...I just..."

"You landed in the shrubbery."

Tears welled in the future detective's eyes, staining his face red and letting them run thick down his cheeks.

"I can't be alive, John. I just can't."

"Well, you are. And just let me say..." John took a long breath, "You need to stay that way."

And, in that suffocatingly long moment, Sherlock realized the feelings don't wash away with blood. They never have.

They've always washed away with tears.