A Bit Worse

A/N: Hey guys. Sorry this was late. Also I gave the last chapter the wrong name. I title chapter 12 Scientist, when that was supposed to be chapter 13. I have changed Chapter 12 to the correct name, empty with you. Enjoy <3

Sherlock knocked on the door to Joan Wilson’s room. He’d already been to see Sheldon, and John was likely to still be out for a little while. Sherlock hadn’t wanted to leave his side, but he’d promised to come back, and he owed it to the victims to give them closure. A soft voice beckoned him inside, and he opened the door with caution.

He had already swatted away three nurses trying to get him to lay down in a bed and rest, and he’d refused to even let them attempt to feed him painkillers. They’d managed to clean and bandage his wounds, but he knew why Joan’s eyes widened in surprise at the sight of him.

“Mr. Holmes, are you alright? You look terrible!” She asked, sitting forward. Her chest was still bandaged, but the color had returned to her cheeks.

“I’m fine, and I can only stay for a moment. I did, however, want you to know that it’s done. Moriarty, the man who took you and killed your partner, he is dead. I made sure of it.” He said, stepping a little closer, and looking down at her.

“The man you came here with to talk to me before, he was taken wasn’t he?” Her eyes were wide and knowing, and Sherlock’s carefully constructed expression slipped just a little.

“Yes, yes he was. He’s here in the hospital, he was drugged but with time he should be fine.” The detective looked away until he felt a soft hand slip over his. He turned his eyes to their joined hands, and then up into her face. She was genuinely concerned, and her fingers squeezed his in a display of comfort.

“Thank you.” she said softly, “Even if it wasn’t what was going through your mind when you stopped him, thank you for making sure that Sherly’s death wasn’t pointless.” Her eyes had begun watering, and a few wayward tears had slipped down her cheeks. Sherlock found that he couldn’t look at her any longer, and turned away once more.

“You’re welcome.” he said simply. She sniffed, and he could hear her wiping her face.

“Go to him, I’m sure yours will be the face he wants to see first. One more thing though, before you go Mr. Holmes.” Sherlock stopped halfway to the door and forced his mask back in place to turn around. He didn’t trust his voice, so he only raised an eyebrow to prompt her to continue.

“Don’t ever take him for granted.” Those few words tugged at his chest, and he dropped his chin, fringe hiding his eyes.

“Don’t worry, even if I had the chance to, I wouldn’t.” With that he turned, and let the door close quietly behind him as he went in search of Mycroft. There were things he needed to get in order.

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John woke with a start, his sense on alert.  It took a moment for the world to come into focus, everything was too bright.  White walls, white sheets, a faint beeping noise.  He was in a hospital room.  Everything felt stiff, but he seemed to have full use of all his limbs, and all his injuries had been properly cared for.    

He could hear Sherlock arguing with someone outside.  

"As soon as he is awake we are leaving!" Sherlock's voice was raised and agitated, "I don't care about my injuries Mycroft, they don't matter!"

"Sherlock half your arm has been badly burned, you're covered in blood and who knows what's going on with that hand, Sherlock you need to have medical attention. And we don't know if John is okay to leave."

"John is exhausted, but there is no lasting physical damage. Once he wakes up we're leaving." He looked at Mycroft then, "Please for once in your life, don't be a ponce. I don't want to spend the little time I have left having wounds treated. They have been properly bandaged, that’s enough. Please. I just want to take him home and be with him for these last few hours..." Suddenly he stopped, hearing the change in the heart monitor beeping.

He bustled into the room and his eyes softened when he saw John was awake. "Hey..." He said softly, brushing his unbandaged fingertips across his cheek.

John reached up, circling Sherlock’s wrist with his hand as he leaned into the touch, “Last few hours?”  His brow was furrowed, holding Sherlock’s hand against his cheek, like the touch would keep them stuck in this moment.  Part of him knew, of course he knew.  He’d seen the pills, he’d listen to Moriarty rant about his plan for hours while he was drugged, waiting for Sherlock on top of that bridge.  But he didn’t want to recall the hazy memory, remembering meant it was real.  

“Sherlock...” John breathed his name desperately.  He couldn’t lose him, not again.  “There has to be something we can do.  We can stop this, there has to be... something.. an antidote?”  

"John, there's nothing. There's nothing we can do... But I have about four hours left..."  He leaned down and pressed his forehead to the doctor's, grateful Mycroft was keeping Lestrade out in the hall.

"If it's alright, I'd like to go back to the flat as soon as you're ready. If I only have four hours left, I can't think of anyone else I'd rather spend that time with than you."

There wasn't much fear within him. Just an odd calm and a resounding sadness that kept his voice soft. He wanted to take John in his arms and hold him, just hold him until he lacked the strength, just to prove to that part of him that was still pumping with adrenaline that he was safe and sound. His eyes squeezed shut against the pain that welled up in his chest at the thought of leaving John again.

The heart rate monitor picked up again, prompting John to peel off the small adhesives scattered across his chest.  He nodded softly, closing his eyes as his nose brushed against the side of Sherlock”s.  John’s jaw clenched against the rising tide of emotion as he pulled the rest of the monitor devices off him.  Turning away from Sherlock he pulled out the IV, closing his elbow tightly to stop the bleeding as he swung his legs off the side of the bed, opposite Sherlock.  

John couldn’t look Sherlock in the eyes, not here, not while everyone could see them.  He wouldn’t be able to keep himself together.  

Mycroft knocked on the door as he stepped into the room.  He took one look at John, who was wrapping a bandage around the small puncture from the IV, before turning to Sherlock.  “I’ve taken care of everything.  You two may leave, Lestrade and I will be by in four hours.”  He took a step forward, standing awkwardly in front of his little brother.  Mycroft stood for a moment, like he might try and offer some sort of comfort, but in the end he simply held out his hand to Sherlock.  

He spoke softly, as if the words were only meant for Sherlock, but John still heard.  “We’ll take care of him.”

Chancing a look back at the two of them John saw Mycroft had grasped Sherlock’s hand in both of his, a bit of emotion bleeding through.  They had both changed so much.

Sherlock grasped Mycroft's hand and shook it, silently thanking him with his eyes. "Make sure that you do." His voice shook slightly as he spoke.

When John was up and ready to go, Sherlock moved to his side and wrapped his injured arm around the doctor's shoulder and pulled him close. Leading him outside, Sherlock hailed a taxi and ushered John inside. Once Sherlock had directed the cabbie back to 221B, he wrapped his arm around John and pulled him close so that he was leaning back against Sherlock's chest. The detective pressed his nose into John's hair, arms wrapped around his chest. The cabbie gave them a strange look but Sherlock only glared back at him until he pulled away from the curb.

"Are you really okay?" He asks, his voice soft as velvet in the doctor's ear.

John’s arms found hold over the detectives, essentially trapping himself in Sherlock’s grasp.  Was he okay?  No.  He was not bloody okay. His best friend, the man he’d just realized he loved, was dying.  The first and last time they’d kissed, the one time he’d come close to exposing his true feelings, he’d ran away.  And now he had less than four hours to show Sherlock how much he meant to him.  

But that wasn’t what Sherlock was asking of course.  He wanted to know if John was physically okay, if he was in too much pain.  It didn’t matter if he was in pain, not really, they only had four hours.  

He nodded softly against Sherlock, too afraid to speak just yet.  His fingers laced with through the detectives, closing his eyes softly as he tried to focus on the moment.  They only had here and now and John couldn’t waste it feeling sorry for himself.  

Slight trembling of hands. Increased heart rate. Breathing as if lungs are full or air is scarce. Sweating, pulling closer, not speaking. No John Watson you are not okay.

"You're a terrible liar...." He whispered in the man's ear. He allowed his fingers to be held captive by the soldiers and closed his eyes, letting himself map out the feeling where their bodies touched. His brain was in hyper drive, distracting himself from the harsh reality that he only had four hours left to spend in this city that he loved, with this man that had stolen his very life and inserted himself in it. His head was filled with swirling thoughts of the army doctor. John eating toast, John fresh out of the shower, John watching him shoot up the cocaine...

The thought brought him to examine the effects of the drug and he found that he would soon start coming down from the euphoric high, and although he no longer wanted to continue the use, he didn't want to spend the precious time he had left worrying about the pain of withdrawal.

Soon they pulled up their flat, and Sherlock paid the cabbie, pulling John with him, never once letting go of his hand. He led John up the stairs, and into the sitting room where he removed his coat from John's shoulders and hung it up on the peg next to his overcoat.

"How about some tea?" He asked softly, his hand resting on the blonde's upper arm.

Shaking his head John finally looked up to meet Sherlock’s gaze. Those eyes. John had been in a haze since the cab, but Sherlock’s question seemed to bring him back to the moment.

“No.”  

No, because tea couldn’t fix this.  Nothing could.

John’s brow furrowed as he stepped closer to the detective, one hand rose to cup Sherlock’s cheek gently.  “I don’t think tea’s what we need... Do you?”  

Any worries or fears John had been harboring before Christmas had been swept away, it all seemed meaningless now.  How could he have ever been afraid or ashamed of loving this man.  This man who was willing to do anything for him, ready to die for him.  John took another step forward so their bodies were almost flush, his thumb danced across Sherlock’s cheek softly.

“I wish I’d never left Sherlock.”  It’d seemed impossible that he’d heard those words barely two weeks before from the detective.  If he hadn’t of walked out on Sherlock none of this would have happened, a piece of guilt that was sure to eat at him until the day he died.   

Sherlock let out a breath that was meant to be a laugh, but somewhere between his lungs and his mouth, the vicinity of his heart he imagined, it lost all its resolve. He closed his eyes then, feeling the callouses worn into John’s hand from his gun grip, breathing in the air the other was breathing out because he wanted the man all around and inside him. He wanted to be filled to the brim with everything that was John so that for the last moments of his life, he wouldn't feel empty anymore.

"No..." He breathed finally, "That's not what we need, and please don't muddle our time with apologies or wishes, just... Be with me John," he lifted the shorter man's other hand to his chest and placed it over his heart, "I want all of you. I want all the things I regret not voicing until now, but, first I'm afraid we must do something unpleasant..."

Pulling John's hand away from his face, he laced their fingers together and pulled him the few steps to the coat rack, unwilling to let the soldier go for even a moment. He reached inside the pocket and filled out the materials he'd been using to administer the cocaine into his system.

"As much as I want to be sober for you John, I don't want your last memories of me to be in agony. I'm sorry, I don't want to, but you understand why I must don't you?" His eyes were wide and nervous as he looked down at the shorter man.

John’s eye narrowed slightly as he studied the contents of Sherlock’s hand carefully, but his expression quickly softened as Sherlock explained.  Slowly, John reached out, cupping his free hand over Sherlock’s, sliding the contents into his grasp.  Seeing distress cross the detectives features John merely shook his head, pulling the man across the room until they were standing in front of the green armchair.  He set the infernal, but necessary drug on the edge of the writing desk before softly pushing Sherlock back into his familiar arm chair.  John paused, taking in the sight, trying to memorize how perfect the man in front of him looked.  

He was standing just in front of Sherlock, his knees touching the seat cushion, centered between Sherlock’s.  He could lean forward, right now, catch that beautiful mouth, but where would he stop?  No.  They had to do this first.

Standing farther away than he personally would have liked John explained. “I told you you wouldn’t have to face any of this alone.  I meant that.”  He drew his bottom lip between his teeth, his eyes darting from Sherlock to the drugs beckoning him.  He wouldn’t not let Sherlock do this alone again.  “Tell me what to do.”