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.

"He needs you."

~

Sherlock's admittedly feeble train of thought was thrown off its tracks. "I know that," he spat, confused at this girl, confused about John, confused at the fact that Sherlock Holmes actually was confused-

"Jesus, Sherlock," the girl tutted lightly, staring at the sky. A jet hurtled past them, slamming into the ground near them. She looked back at him patronizingly. "Stop thinking so much. Isn't it exhausting? Aren't you ever tired of it? It's so destructive, don't you see? Why don't you just stop? When you know I need you?"

"You? Why would you need me?" Sherlock needed to understand, he needed to understand!

The girl's cobalt-grey eyes melted into a deep shade of hazel-cerulean, fraught with concern. "He's awake," said John's voice, sounding very materialistic. "Sherlock, can you hear me?"

Sherlock tried to shift his hand, but the action sent prickly tendrils scrambling up his arm. He was in hospital, obviously, and John was here.

John was here?

"She wasn't the one?" croaked Sherlock, wincing at how weak he felt.

John almost looked like he would combust from relief. "No," he exhaled, nearly laughing. "No, it was going pretty well, actually, but then you went and got hit by a bloody car."

Sherlock hummed approvingly. "A noble cause."

John's expression sank back into a worried mould. "How are you? And no-" he held up a finger to an already arguing Sherlock, "-don't say you're okay, 'cause I know you're not."

Sherlock locked eyes with him, smiling a dry, pained smile. No words were shared. The smile was soon reciprocated.

"If I spent my spare time watching sappy romance movies, I would have been sobbing right now," interjected Mycroft, having witnessed the whole exchange as a silent spectator. "I see you're awake, brother mine. How was little Sherly's nap?"

"Splendid," Sherlock retorted. "Happy to see me?"

"I haven't checked."

John cast his eyes to the ceiling. "And they're back."

~

Sherlock had nearly reached his limit. He had permitted Mrs. Hudson to fuss over him, Molly to get him a drink insisting that he needed his "black, two sugars", and he had already had to bear a phone call with his parents.

In summary, Sherlock Holmes was in agony.

This agony fell away when a new face appeared in the doorway. Auburn hair, pale skin. And the pale blue eyes that haunted the ruins of the utterly wrecked airport in his mind.

"Hello," she murmured hesitantly. "I know who you are, you probably remember me."

"You're right," said Sherlock, not knowing what else to say as John and the others left him in the room with this girl.

This girl.

"What is your name?" 

She looked away, almost embarrassed. "I don't like it much."

"I didn't like mine much either."

"I'd say 'Sherlock' is a cool name," she said, confused.

"Exactly."

Her face contorted into a sarcastic but somehow appreciative smirk. It shriveled as her face darkened and her gaze returned to her fingernails, and the IV, and the bedspread, and essentially anything but Sherlock's face, as if she were afraid that one look would turn her transparent. That she'd be as plain as any story Sherlock had deduced. She tugged her sleeve a little higher towards her wrist.

"Do you care about anyone?"

Her head tilted to the side. "Sometimes I think I don't."

"But there is at least one person, there must be."

She brought her eyes to his, as last. They were unbelievably rueful, beholding some unrecognizable emotion beyond her years. "I guess so."

"Then try to stop that," he said with a meaningful look. The fingers pulling at her sleeve stilled and she stared at him.

"He's very important, isn't he?" she said, then shrugged, proceeding to answer her own question. "Must be, he and the brother didn't get any sleep."

"As much as I am enjoying our joyous time together," Sherlock said, not sounding apologetic in the slightest, "Won't your parents notice your absence?"

The girl shrugged again. "I doubt it."

They relapsed into silence, which she broke again. 

"You should get some rest as well, Mister Holmes," she said, making her way to the door. "It's been a long night."

"Call me Sherlock, please."

"What was your name?"

He gave her a long, hard look. But it was too severe, almost...almost like he was embarrassed.

She gave out a short laugh. "If it's something boring like Michael, or Jack, or William, or Harry or something like that..." she stopped when she saw Sherlock wince. She raised her eyebrows. "Which one?"

Sherlock grimaced. "William."

"Dear God," she agreed.

She opened the door and set one petite foot outside, stalling on the threshold. Sherlock cocked his head at her. 

"Eurus," she said finally, squeezing it out of her depths as if it was physically taxing to utter the word.

"Sorry, what?"

"My name. You asked for it." And one that note, her second foot found its way outside.

Just like that, she was gone.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- 

Ey

Wow this is actually getting heavy

I'm going through the "This was supposed to be a one-shot" phase rip

One more tiny part left maybe

Plus an epilogue or something

BUT THIS IS GENUINELY SO MUCH FUN TO WRITE FOR Y'ALL 

okay imma leave now

~A.M.