dani_meows (dani_meows) wrote in bipolardanicats, @ 2013-02-07 03:25:00 |
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Current mood: | creative |
Entry tags: | fanfiction: sherlock |
Fanfiction: Caring Is Not An Advantage (Sherlock BBC)
Title: Caring Is Not An Advantage
Author: dani_meows
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Pairing: John/Sherlock pre-slash
Rating: PG
Challenge: Written for 10prompts's prompt table: prompt: caring
Word Count: 1,400
There was blood everywhere, red and wed, dark and congealing. It stained the floors, it stained the walls. There was more than a human body could lose and likely survive without prompt medical attention.
Sherlock's heart was racing, his brain was numb with fear. It had been three long and terrible days since John had been kidnapped from the other side of a crime scene after Sherlock had run off in the other direction after a lead. A lead that didn't matter at all now that John had been taken from him.
This was the place he'd tracked the kidnappers to but there was no one here. Just blood and then he saw it and he couldn't breathe, couldn't focus on the details of his surroundings, couldn't think. He'd know that jumper anywhere, it was his favorite of John's jumpers, the black and white one that John wore on the lazy days they'd spend after they'd solved a case. It was coated in blood and Sherlock felt like crying when he realized that there was no way that John was uninjured. The way the blood was splattered it suggest abdominal wounds.
What if John was dead? What if they'd killed him? They hadn't called Sherlock to taunt him or ask for a ransom. He'd heard nothing and he'd had to rely on camera footage. What if John had died wondering why Sherlock hadn't found him? Why Sherlock hadn't rescued him yet?
He heard Anderson shout that the blood was from different types. John was O positive and so was one of the blood types.
He wanted to scream. Why hadn't they taken him? Why did people always go after his John? He'd rather people kidnap, torture, and kill him rather than for them to take his beloved friend and harm him. John was good. He was Sherlock's conductor of light. Sherlock was not always so good but he tried to be.
He only had one friend, was it his fault that they always went after John, after all he wasn't known for tolerating most people, but he was known to do more than tolerate his friend and flat mate. Since he'd returned from his suicide most people even knew that he'd faked death for John's safety.
Jumping off a building for someones safety, truly shows that you care and that they can be used agains you.
Sherlock's brain, crashed and rebooted, John had survived Afghanistan, being shot, Jim Moriarty, his death, kidnappings and bullet wounds. John was a survivor.
John was injured and needed him. Sherlock needed to...
There was a blood trail leading out the back door, Sherlock followed it. Not knowing what he wanted to find.
There he was lying on the concrete below. Bloody, bruised, naked and left for dead in the near freezing temperatures. His breath was shallow. There was a deep wound on his abdomen that was bleeding sluggishly even now. Dying even as Sherlock's brain burned like fire and froze like ice.
He heard screaming (a raw and painful sound that hurt) even as others ran to where he was. He distantly realized the screaming was his own when he felt the press of the needle into his neck and the cool rush of fluid.
Even then he kept hearing, John is dying, John is dying. People are dying, that's what people DO. All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock. John was. John was Sherlock's advantage, Sherlock's heart and soul.
John, of the fuzzy jumpers, guns, medical kits, skepticism and wonder, was dying. John who cared about total strangers, protected the innocents, but would do anything the Sherlock asked without question.
John was going to leave him and Sherlock would be alone, and unlike the time he'd faked his death, his loneliness wouldn't end because there would be no John to return to at Baker Street. There would be no homey flat to return to, no tea and lectures about why body parts do not go next to the milk, no blankets laid on him after he fell asleep on the couch. No watching telly with John and making fun of his favorite shows. No mocking his blog, even as he enjoyed the fact that John cared enough about hm and what he did to write up his cases and be fascinated by Sherlock's work. He didn't even mind being mocked about not knowing the solar system any longer.
He just wanted his home. His John....
“Don't leave me, “ he whispered as he fell unconscious only to be caught by Anderson and Donavan who were standing closest to the detective.
Sally Donavan was openly crying and didn't care what that did to her reputation (it was tough being one of the only females on the team, so she had to keep from being seen as overly emotional.) but John was dying. John who was always so kind to her, as long she kept her insulting of Sherlock to a minimum, was dying. He was probably going to die and already Sherlock Holmes had fallen apart.
What would the yard do without John Watson? He was an integral member of their team, even if like Sherlock he was just a consulting medical doctor, he did so much for the team. John remembered birthday's, took care of smoothing over things when Sherlock went to far, and he made Sherlock Holmes less likely to be cruel to others. Even calling people idiots had been dropped down to when they truly deserved it.
They arrived at the hospital. Sally dropped Sherlock into the steady and stable arms of Mycroft Holmes and walked to the waiting room, to join others in waiting for news.
Dimmocks team had already taken over analyzing the forensics data that Micah had gathered and now her team needed to be there.
Memories played in her mind, of John's face when Sherlock was dead before Sherlock's glorious return. Of the pain in his face, the slowness of movement, the way everything screamed of a broken man, lost and alone. Of her birthday party last year, where she'd been at the pub with everyone, and getting hit on by a stranger who began to get to aggressive and how John has stood protectively in front of Sally, ready to defend her honor, as Sherlock walked up and began to verbally eviscerate the man until the embarrassed aggressive drunk had walked away and out of the bar. She remembered how they'd both stayed near her all night after that, even making sure she got home safely.
She remembered the way John would treat the teams minor injuries so that they didn't have to go to A&E. The way his hands were gentle, his voice was soothing, and no matter how badly you were injured, you knew it would be okay because you were in his hands.
There were so many memories and it felt like there was so much time. Sherlock was sedated in psychiatric because every time he woke up, he just started screaming, John's name over and over. There was still no news about John and they'd been sitting in these uncomfortable chairs for nearly 24 hours.
Part of her wondered where John's family was. The closest people that fit that state besides her team, were Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock's Mummy, and Mycroft who were sitting in the waiting room chairs closest to the door. They were joined with people who's life Sherlock and John had touched, the owner of the restaurant they frequented, Mike Stamford who'd introduced them, Molly, who was practically sitting on Mycroft's personal assistant who was going by the name Althea today.
There was no actual blood related family to John Watson and she knew that they were still alive, so why weren't they here? Mycroft had contacted them, he wouldn't have left out such a detail crucial to his brothers safety. Everyone knew that Mycroft had began to view John as an additional brother.
It seemed so bitter to her, that the best and kindest person that she knew, seemed to have a family that didn't care if he was dead. At least everyone in this room did.
Now if only the doctors would walk in with news...
There was a squeak as the doors opened, and a surgeon with a serious face was in the room, ready to speak to the family of John Hamish Watson.