»»──────　JW　──────««

"What? Why won't you let me go with him?" John glared at the paramedic who was standing in his way, blocking his view of the ambulance. "I was with him the whole time, keeping him alive, reviving him! Isn't that enough?"

God, no!

He could lose his best friend-no, the very essence of his otherwise miserable existence, the reason his life had any meaning at all-at any moment, and they wouldn't allow him to spend five bloody minutes in the ambulance by his side?

"I'm sorry, Mr Watson, but you're not a family member. I really can't let you in the ambulance, I'm afraid," the medic replied with a sympathetic look on his face. Then he got in, checked the seatbelts on the detective's limp body one last time, and closed the back door.

And John could only watch as the ambulance started up and pulled out into the traffic with a heart-rending sound of an emergency horn and blue signal lights. He could still hear it for a long time afterwards, though he couldn't tell the sound of the echo from the ringing in his ears. But he knew one thing for sure-and that was that a part of his heart had just left with Sherlock.

"I've been saying that all along, haven't I? The butterball shouldn't have bothered! Look where it got him!"

John's head shot up. He was kidding. right? Because if he was serious, he had to be an even bigger jerk than he'd thought. Did that thick guy dare to provoke a hot-tempered ex-soldier who had just witnessed a serious injury to his companion just a few minutes ago? Did he lack the instinct of self-preservation?

Well, he should get some, and fast, because John's blood was starting to boil. He leapt at Anderson at nearly superhuman speed, dug his fingers into his shoulders, and slammed him against the wall several times.

"Listen, you poor substitute of a cop! As far as I know, it was Sherlock who solved the case! Stop compensating for your stupidity with your idiotic insults that nobody gives a damn about!" he hissed in his face, shaking him wildly until Anderson's limbs flailed around like the limbs of a rag doll.

John found with great satisfaction that Anderson's knees were shaking, and he would indeed have tumbled to the ground if not for the concrete wall of the block of flats against which John was pushing him.

Not that John would've cared if he fell or not, but he wasn't done with him just yet.

He jabbed his index finger into his chest. "You're blaming Sherlock for being insensitive, but what are you doing? You're mocking the man who saved my life and who's now fighting for his own!"

Anderson stared at him, wide-eyed. His mouth kept opening and closing involuntarily as he tried to think of something clever to defend himself with. Of something that could protect him from a man he hadn't known yet but had the misfortune to meet now, at one of the worst times possible.

Standing before him was no longer the good "sidekick" John. This time, he had enraged Captain John Hamish Watson, who had no mercy. Not when it came to the people he loved.

He was about to give Anderson another wild shake to beat some sense into his thick head when a pair of hands wrapped around his waist. They pulled him away from the policeman, who was leaning against the wall, visibly shaken by John's furious tirade. Only John's strong nerves prevented his military reflexes from kicking in.

"John..."

But John couldn't be consoled. He couldn't see anyone or anything, his brain frozen on a single thought: proving to the bearded idiot and his foul mouth that John Watson didn't tolerate anyone insulting the people he cared about. Everyone knew that by now, given his former incident with the Chief Superintendent. Well, it seems Sherlock wasn't exaggerating-Anderson was thick as a brick.

"You better stay away from him, or, so help me, I'll let you have it!" he snarled as he continued to gesture his arms as if waving off mosquitoes, and tried to slip out of the tight grip.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, John! Calm down, mate, 'kay? You're no help to Sherlock in this state..."

John turned around, coming face-to-face with Detective Inspector Lestrade.

"How about we get in the car now? You tell me what happened, and then I'll give you a lift to the hospital. How about that? Don't worry, I'll deal with Anderson myself. I promise..."

John nodded slowly. Greg was right; with another assault charge hanging over his neck for punching a police officer in the face, he would be of no help to Sherlock.

Greg released his grip cautiously, still ready to intervene in case John changed his mind and did something stupid. Thank God, there was no need for intervention. John followed him to the police car and got into it without further protest.

"Could we... well... not here?" he asked into the uncomfortable silence, fidgeting nervously in the passenger seat. He didn't like the idea of discussing the incident in a place where his best friend had been injured. Greg didn't ask why, and John was immensely grateful for it. Without objection, Greg started the car, shifted into gear, and drove a few blocks away. He stopped in a side alley, perfect for an undisturbed conversation, and the purr of the engine died down.

And John explained it from start to finish. The sooner he tells Greg, the sooner they'll go to St. Mary's Hospital to find out how Sherlock was doing.

He began by mentioning the stolen page from Bennett's notes and the threat Hughes had received during his "session" with Williams' therapist. He told him in detail about Hughes' tale, especially about the car accident-the motive of the entire case. Eventually, he finished the complete story with today's kidnapping and Sherlock's elegant way of getting John out of trouble.

"It looked so promising, Greg! We almost had her, and then... It's my fault, Greg! Had I been paying more attention, I could have prevented this! She had two knives. How come I hadn't noticed?! I was the one to examine Williams' body. I should have known it wasn't the same knife! Perhaps if I hadn't provoked her..." his throat tightened, and he had to pause. He rested his forehead against the cold window and sighed. "Sherlock might have escaped without injury..."

Greg grunted in disapproval. "You don't know that, John... She could have stabbed him at any time. It wasn't your fault. And I'm sure Sherlock doesn't think so either," he assured him and turned the key in the ignition. "Well, that's enough for now. We'll deal with the rest when you both feel better. Shall we go?'

"Yeah, just... Do you think we could stop by at 221B, please?" John asked Greg. He suspected that once he crossed the threshold of the hospital, he wouldn't be able to leave it, not without Sherlock at least.

Sherlock would spend a few days in a hospital bed, and he might welcome his casual clothes when they allowed him to change out of his hospital gown. John recalled that Sherlock had never been particularly shy about his body before (after all, the idiot had walked into Buckingham Palace in nothing but a sheet). However, many things had changed in the past few months, and the detective had gained a certain modesty. Maybe far too much...

On the other hand, modesty or not, no one wants to parade around the hospital with a bare bum...

Greg pulled to the kerb, and John looked around the familiar street with the even more familiar door, taking a deep sigh.

John unbuckled himself with a sincere "thank you," got out of the car and fumbled in his pocket for his keys.

It was a good thing that Mrs Hudson had gone to see her sister; he thought as he unlocked the door, as cruel as it might sound. John wasn't sure he had the power to tell her what had happened. Not now-at least, not with the incident so fresh. He could call her from the hospital. There will be plenty of time, after all.

Darting upstairs like a rocket, John burst into their flat. Although Greg had repeatedly told him to take his time so he could carefully pack everything Sherlock might need during his hospital stay, John didn't want to keep him waiting-he was no taxi driver...

Therefore, he tore the bag off the peg and burst into Sherlock's room without the slightest delay or remorse. He pulled out a couple of t-shirts from his spacious closet, as well as a sweatshirt, his favourite blue robe, sweatpants, jeans, and underwear, and stuffed them all into the bag. God, Sherlock will undoubtedly throw a fit when he finds out that John has jumbled his meticulously folded and sorted socks again... When Sherlock awakens from anaesthesia, his sock index will be the last thing on his mind.

He packed Sherlock's hygiene supplies, a mobile phone charger, a wallet with documents, and also a book lying on the bedside table.

And maybe it wouldn't hurt to take off his bloody clothing and pack a few things as well. Not only would they have him banished from the hospital in this state; John loathed wearing clothes he could see and smell Sherlock's blood on, a hideous reminder of what happened tonight and why he was going where he was going.

John rushed to his bedroom, where he unceremoniously stripped off his clothes, changed into a clean outfit, and added several clean pairs of his socks and shorts to Sherlock's belongings.

Once he checked that he had packed everything essential, he ran out into the street with his bag slung over his shoulder.

His friend waved at him from the police car.

John practically flung himself into the front seat, closed the door behind him, and hastily buckled his seat belt.

"Shall we?" Lestrade asked. John nodded, and the car set off in the hospital's direction.

The urban landscape passed around them as they gravelled down the miraculously empty road, but John couldn't decide if it was a good thing or not. His chest tightened painfully with each metre ridden closer to St. Mary's Hospital in Paddington, his trachea constricting tightly. He feared that by the time they arrived, his lungs wouldn't receive a single gulp of air.

It wasn't long before Greg passed a gate marked "ST MARY'S HOSPITAL" and entered a car park near the institution. It took a while to find a free parking spot, but he pulled into one eventually.

They got out of the car and headed towards the main entrance.

A friendly-looking, bespectacled man greeted them from behind the reception desk.

John decided it would be better to let Greg speak; even though the young receptionist appeared to be pleasant, John couldn't help but recall the receptionist who had gotten Sherlock into this place. Only the thought of her made his blood boil once more.

Lestrade clarified the reason for their visit and asked where Sherlock was. The receptionist turned to the computer. John fought back the urge to grit his teeth as he watched him click through the records, his hand itching to yank the mouse out of his hand so he could do it himself.

The man looked up from the monitor after what felt like an eternity. "He was brought in about half an hour ago. He's in surgery: operating theatre number six."

And that was exactly where John and Greg headed. John paid no attention to the surroundings or the people sitting around. He just put one foot in front of the other in an automatic walk and followed the detective inspector. There were so many questions in his head that neither he nor Greg, not even the doctors, could answer. Not accurately, at least.

Will Sherlock be okay? How long will the surgery take? And will he escape without lasting consequences?

Well, there was one thing John could be practically sure of-he definitely wasn't taking Sherlock home today.

»»──────　☆　──────««

The hands on the dial of John's watch were moving excruciatingly slowly. But, no matter how many times John rotated them, Sherlock's procedure would not be sped up.

He was sitting next to Greg, with the restlessness of a cat on a hot tin roof, pondering the things he could (and should) have done differently.

More than once today, John scolded himself for not kissing Sherlock while he still had the chance.

If only he had gathered a little more courage and kissed him! He could have finally touched those perfect, plump lips to taste them and discover whether they would submit or dominate.

This wish of his came true for him a few hours later. More or less... However, had he had the slightest idea it would happen under the circumstances of resuscitation, he'd better drop his fantasies without the slightest hint of hesitation.

There was no way he could ever forget today's horrible incident.

Even now, hours later, the hairs on his arms stood up in terror when he remembered Sherlock's unresponsive purple mouth and still chest.

With every blink, he saw the glint of the giant blade just before it had driven into Sherlock's stomach with almost as much ease as cutting through butter.

He recalled the expression of pure surprise on Sherlock's face when he had noticed a foot-long knife sticking out of his torso and blood spreading on his shirt in a red stain.

The memory of a confused, breathless Sherlock in his arms, as well as his unsuccessful attempts to suppress the pain, would surely haunt John for the rest of his life.

The dread knotted John's stomach at the hindsight of the heavy silence that had fallen as Sherlock's breathing stopped and the coldness of his snow-white skin.

He still tasted Sherlock's blood when he remembered pressing his lips against Sherlock's, breathing his air into them in a desperate effort to keep him alive.

And yet, Sherlock could still lose his life at any moment.

God, if he doesn't survive...

Did Sherlock even realise how many people would be affected by his death?

His parents, his brother, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson... All those people would miss Sherlock dearly, although each of them had their own way of showing it.

But John...

If Sherlock doesn't survive, John will lose the person he cares about most in the world. Joy and happiness will evaporate from the world. Life will lose all meaning. His days will once again be shrouded in a dark cloud of depressive loneliness, chronic pain, and psychosomatic limping.

If Sherlock Holmes dies, a part of John will die with him, leaving him trapped in his living shell...

As if sensing the direction John's thoughts were heading, Greg put a hand on his shoulder. "Don't lose your head, mate..."

John chuckled darkly. He sank deeper into the plastic chair and covered his eyes with his hand. Don't lose your head? Don't lose your head?! "And how should I do that, Greg? He stopped breathing! I had to resuscitate him and give him artificial respiration! What if his lungs fail? Or his heart?! Or..."

He couldn't even finish the sentence.

Irreversible brain damage occurs after four minutes without oxygen. John had given him some of his own, but there isn't as much oxygen in the human breath as there is in the air.

What if his resuscitation wasn't enough?

John would never bear it if Sherlock lost the thing he valued most in the world. Sherlock's life practically revolved around investigating crimes and puzzles. What would he do without his most powerful tool?

No, Sherlock was going to be okay. And even if by chance, God forbid, there had been some damage, his brilliant brain had so many cells that it wouldn't affect him in any significant way. He would still be far smarter than everyone else.

They could only pray the worst wouldn't come to the worst.

"Mr Watson?"

These two words triggered John's reaction faster than a military order, and his legs were already carrying him up before he had even decided to stand up.

A bearded man about their age with salt-and-pepper hair and a friendly face was approaching them down the corridor. He's been working here for years. His eyes showed that he had performed dozens of surgeries in his career, and his attitude exuded a healthy dose of confidence. This gentleman knew very well what he was doing.

Great, he was already thinking like...

His heart stopped for a moment, the saliva in his mouth turning to glue, and sticking his tongue to the roof of his mouth.

...Sherlock...

Finally! After several hours of endless, frustrating waiting, he was about to find out about Sherlock's well-being. The burdensome uncertainty was killing him, feeding his mind with horrible scenarios that were far worse and more severe than they could ever be in reality.

"Yes? How is Sherlock? Will he be alright?" John asked with bated breath, waiting for the doctor's verdict.

He hung on the surgeon's every blink. Noting every movement of the facial muscles, eyes, and mouth, he felt as if he was awaiting his execution. A single gesture could knock down the imaginary chair under the noose and end the life John had led until today.

The man smiled, and though he hadn't said a single word yet, his eyes said, "he's out of critical danger to his life, everything will be fine."

John's relief was almost tangible.

"Hello, I'm Dr Young. I came to inform you about Mr Holmes' state. He had suffered a severe penetrating injury to the liver, which caused a lot of blood loss, both external and internal. The surgery was quite difficult, considering his disproportionate weight. We sewed up all the punctures to stop the bleeding. Your friend is stable, yet his condition may worsen...."

"Can we see him?" John blurted out as soon as the doctor finished.

Young's smile faltered at the corners, and John stiffened. "I'm afraid you'll have to wait a little longer. We are reducing the anaesthetic supply to wake him up. Then we'll keep him for observation in the post-anaesthesia care unit for some time. But don't worry, it's a normal procedure after any surgery," he assured him, and although John knew how it went in surgical procedures, he didn't have that much experience with it in his personal life. And he didn't even want to, to be honest.

"We're just replenishing his blood fluids, and we'll see how his body reacts. Unfortunately, we can't rule out the possibility of complications yet... Once we exclude some of them, we'll move him to a room and let you know...." Dr Young promised and left to attend to his duties.

»»──────　☆　──────««

'This stuff is undrinkable,' John thought. Still, he took another hearty gulp of disgusting, cheap coffee from the machine, losing count of how many cups he had finished by tonight. Never mind, the taste didn't matter. He drank it only to distract himself from fatigue and haunting worries.

Not that it would help in any way...

"John, calm down. And put that coffee aside, Christ, or your blood vessel will burst," Greg scolded him good-naturedly and snatched another half-finished cup from his hand.

John felt like he was about to jump out of his skin, and not from the excess caffeine consumption. Does the instant coffee from the machine have any?

It was Sherlock who was bothering him. More precisely, the uncertainty of how his best friend was doing.

Yes, the surgery passed off successfully, but there were still a dozen other things that could have gone wrong! He was convincing himself that everything would turn out well, but they received no further update since the surgeon had briefed them on Sherlock's condition.

"He's been there for so long, Greg!" John argued, furrowing his eyebrows in concern.

Most patients do not stay in the Post-Anaesthetic Care Unit for over two hours. Sherlock has been there for three hours. Three hours, six minutes, and twenty-seven seconds, to be exact.

His rational thinking and medical training told him that this was to be expected. Although John had tried to avoid this sensitive topic in recent weeks, he couldn't ignore it this time.

Sherlock's excess weight could have caused extensive complications, starting with the dosage of drugs and ending with cardiovascular problems. Heavier patients usually took longer to recover from anaesthesia because their bodies required a larger dose of the anaesthetics, so they wouldn't come to their senses in the middle of the surgery.

He knew it. But the waiting was killing him!

"Yes, but his condition was quite serious. It will probably take a while to fix him. It's gonna be okay. Sherlock is a strong guy. Trust him... He'll pull through," Greg assured him.

Just then, his cell phone rang, so he pulled it out of his pocket and looked at the display. "It's Scotland Yard. But I can tell them I can't come if you'd like..." he offered, shrugging his shoulders as if he didn't care in the slightest that it might be about a murder, burglary, or break-in.

John shook his head. He had already delayed Greg longer than necessary. Damn it, he's a grown man who doesn't need to be led by the hand.

"No, that's okay, Greg. I can handle it. Thanks for being here. I'd probably go crazy otherwise."

"Anytime mate..." Lestrade said without batting an eye. "Will you let me know how he is?" he asked with genuine concern. Then he reached for his jacket, thrown across the backrest of the chair he'd been sitting on, and draped it over his arm. Hastily saying goodbye to John, he finally answered the impatiently ringing call and headed for the exit.

John was left alone in the corridor, and the doubts that Greg's presence had appeased crept back in, stronger than before.

Fortunately, he didn't have to worry for long. The thuds of medical sandals, echoing through the hall, had notified him that a nurse was coming even before she appeared from around the corner.

"Mr Watson? We have transferred Mr Holmes to a room. Come with me if you want to see him."

The nurse led him to the elevator. They got on, and she pressed the required button. The metal doors closed behind them, and John felt the elevator lift off the ground beneath their feet.

As they stood in the small cubicle, he couldn't shake off the impression that the woman didn't like him. She deliberately evaded eye contact, frowning at him when she thought he couldn't see her. John couldn't quite pin down the emotion, but he would say that her face projected something between disdain and disbelief.

But maybe he was going insane from the waiting...

They stopped on the fourth floor and made their way down the hall. Then the nurse stopped in front of the second door from the right, knocked softly to announce her presence so as not to surprise Sherlock if he happened to be awake, and entered. John followed her into a plain hospital room.

John took only a cursory look at the austere, sterile place. He noticed the hospital bed, a monitor closely checking the detective's vitals, and a presumably uncomfortable chair (which he would end up sitting on anyway). But none of that mattered.

Only Sherlock did.

A gasp found its way from his mouth when he saw him for the first time after the horrible event. The sight left him frozen to the spot, and he could do nothing but gawk at him in silence for a few seconds, unable to speak or move.

He found it hard to believe how much a person could change in a few hours.

Sherlock was lying on the reclining bed, fast asleep. Despite his bulk, he appeared small, vulnerable, and simply exhausted.

His skin was paler than the white post-op gown they got him into. The deep bags under his eyes and his bruised, swollen nose looked terrifying against the bluish hue of his face. John was glad the killer hadn't put enough force into the punch. The broken bone might not knit straight, and it would be a shame if Sherlock's unusually handsome face suffered any deformity, even a small one.

John looked a little lower.

Under the thin hospital gown, he could see the contours of individual electrodes on Sherlock's chest that monitored his heart and displayed its activity on the monitor.

The right arm of his long-sleeved nightshirt was bulging with a cuff for measuring his blood pressure. The sleeve's hem partially hid an identification bracelet that twined around Sherlock's wrist, stating his name, the patient's code, the performed procedure, and administered drugs. A cannula, held in place by several plasters, ran into the back of his other hand, and an oximeter squeezed his index finger.

A wave of immense relief that washed over him almost made him stagger. Yes, Sherlock looked exhausted, but that was a small price to pay for saving a life. After all, he had just undergone a difficult surgery. His heart was working. He was breathing. And most importantly, he was alive!

And that was quite enough for him for now.

"Thank God! Can I stay with him?"

He didn't want Sherlock to wake up alone, disoriented, confused, sore...

"Yes, but I'm afraid I can't leave you here alone with him. I'll keep an eye on both of you," the nurse said in an important tone as if she were doing him a generous favour.

John tore his attention away from Sherlock's sleeping figure and turned to the nurse with a baffled frown. "I beg your pardon? I'm afraid I don't understand...."

Why wouldn't she believe him? What does she think he would have done to Sherlock? That he would neglect him? Deny him help when he wakes up? Disconnect him from the devices? Or kidnap him?!

He had absolutely no reason to do that! Hadn't he waited long enough, crouched in the corridor, terrified beside himself, hoping that everything would go well and Sherlock would make it alive and well?

Did she find out how the injury came about? That Sherlock ended up with a knife in his stomach because of John's senseless provocation?

"Mr Watson..." the blonde began nervously, and John steeled himself with a considerable amount of patience. Judging by the tone of her voice, the conversation wouldn't be very friendly.

"I couldn't help but notice all the scars and burns your companion has on his back, arms, and even his abdomen... From what I've heard of Mr Holmes, he might not be easy to live with. Yes, you're a soldier, and I understand you like to put up with a certain... discipline. But don't you think you could cut back a little?"

Her voice, timid and quiet at first, increased in volume during the impassioned monologue, growing more determined to defend her patient's interests and protect him from potential danger.

John blinked silently a few times. Was she talking to him in a foreign language? Was that why he didn't understand a word she said? "W-what scars?! I don't know what -"

His eyebrows shot up in a startled grimace as something terrible occurred to him.

No... She wouldn't have dared... would she?

"My God, are you implying that I'm the one who... You think I'm beating him?!" John choked out, and his stomach juices crept up his throat.

"I didn't know about any scars. I really didn't! If he has any, he was hiding them from me! How dare you accuse me of such a thing? I would never even think of laying a hand on him! I'm trying to help him, for God's sake, not to hurt him!" he snapped at her, doing his best not to raise his voice; after all, Sherlock was sleeping a few metres away from them and needed peace and rest.

The woman paled as she realised her unprofessional mistake and rushed to correct it, but it was too late for that. The words have been said. "I'm sorry, Mr Watson. I thought-" she stammered, writhing like an earthworm under the doctor's sharp gaze. If it were possible, she would rather dissolve into a cloud of a mist than face the furious doctor.

"Well then, don't jump to conclusions next time... And it's Doctor Watson," he growled in exasperation.

Her completely misguided and untrue assumption offended John deeply. He would do anything for Sherlock. Christ, he would have gone through hell and back for him if he had to! How could she ever think he would turn Sherlock into a punching bag? A lightning rod for his rage?

"Of course. Excuse me, Dr Watson," the nurse said, nodding all the way to the door, before leaving the room so quickly that she nearly ran.

The room fell silent, and the doctor and the resting detective were finally alone.

AN:

Hello! This time again with a longer chapter. I hope you don't mind that the fanfic is so lengthy, but I got so engrossed in the story that I couldn't just brush it off.

Please excuse any discrepancies in the diagnoses and the hospital routine. I don't have a medical degree, so I looked for most things on the Internet (I'm glad you can't see my search history🤣...).
Thank you for your votes and comments; I appreciate every star!
Have a nice day!

Yours,
PaulineHolmes02🖤