Chapter 5
It was dusk. Stars whirled above him like a kaleidoscope as he was rolled over. Wasn't he supposed to be in pain right now? There might have been a dim, shooting pain that paralyzed a very far-off man named John Watson. There was a man above him, very familiar indeed. He blocked out the stars. John protested. Everything was so tired. He wanted to sleep. Yes, sleep. He let it swallow him.
Something struck his cheek, and his eyes rolled. Why wasn't he allowed to sleep? Please. He was so tired. Everything burned, he felt like most of his body was already asleep, but he wasn't allowed to follow. Why not?
Let me sleep. Please let me sleep...
~
"John!" Sherlock hissed urgently, tapping the side of his face. Good god, if Sherlock had arrived five minutes later than he did, John would not be responding right now at all. No, John was on the verge of death. His skin was so pale, he was drenched in sweat, and he was cold. Oh, so cold. His fingers trembled like he was in the middle of a seizure. Sherlock continued trying to keep him awake as he frantically looked for a reason. He yanked John's shirt up- there was a scar struck down his left side. His kidney had already been harvested, but he clearly didn't bleed out, it was already scabbed. Sherlock pulled the shirt the rest of the way off, violently despite John's current state. His pupils were tiny, and buzzed at the sky, his eyelids fluttering.
His shoulder was marked with six pinpoint stab wounds, probably from shots, and one that looked like more of an act of violence than just an injection. He had been gone for a day and a half. What would they have pumped him with? Morphine, definitely.
Morphine!
He had been in too much pain, assumed they didn't give him any morphine, so it was nearly time for his next dose, but he had overdone it. He was suffering from morphine overdose. Which meant he needed immediate medical attention.
Sherlock wrapped his hands tightly around John's waist and forced himself to stand, slinging his flatmate over his shoulder so he could make it down the ladder. John wailed quietly in pain, and once on the ground, Sherlock switched to carrying him in his arms so his shoulder wasn't digging into the area where John's kidney should be. How were they going to get out over a barbwire fence?
They weren't.
Sherlock glanced around quickly for another option, but found none. With a quick breath of effort, he shot off, sprinting back towards the gate where he entered. There were a few shouts of alarm, and two or three bullets whizzed past his ear. One of them shot into his calf and he grunted as he tripped up. John, luckily, rolled immediately into a bush with enough friction to stop him. Sherlock, however, felt himself grow dizzy, rocks and mounds of dirt and grass pummeling him as he tumbled all the way down, his leg on fire. Something hard hit his back and stopped him abruptly.
The air whistled out of his lungs, and he reached back up the hill towards where John was. A swarm of soldiers jogged up towards the compound while three of them came down, holding a medical sling.
Sherlock shook breathlessly with happiness as he recognized John as the one being loaded into an ambulance.
Meanwhile, he rolled over, back aching, to find that he had rolled into the front tire of a military truck. When the air finally came back to him, he groaned in pain. Irene must have seen how he had gotten in and understood immediately that they needed backup, and called the local base. It wasn't an army, but they didn't need one. The staff at the compound knew who they were dealing with and had already surrendered.
Two shining black shoes presented themselves in front of Sherlock's face. He looked up to see Mycroft standing over him, his mouth a flat line. Sherlock let out a wheezy grunt of disapproval.
"Would you like some help, o' brother mine?" Mycroft asked pointedly.
Sherlock coughed and shook his head, slowly pushing himself to his feet, and then forcing himself to stand as straight as possible.
"You know, I'm a lot more helpful when you actually accept my assistance, Sherlock," he criticized.
"Didn't need it," Sherlock huffed stubbornly.
Mycroft smirked a little bit, then wordlessly turned and went off. Sherlock propped himself against the hood of the truck. His back still hurt from cushioning his fall, but he managed to sit up straight enough to keep his image in check as he rushed over to the ambulance. One of the nurses tried to stop him from climbing into the back with his beloved, but she was thoroughly ignored until she threw her hands in the air and marched off, supposedly to seek out Mycroft and make his brother behave.
As if.
John was splayed out on the medical stretcher. His eyes were closed now, but his tremors had worn off, and he looked more calm. Not at all comfortable or healthy, as he was still pale and clammy and tense, but he looked calm. Sherlock let his expression soften as the nurse returned to supervise, the doors shut, and they began to drive off. John was okay. Life in the flat would be painfully laggy for the next week or two, but that was alright, because John would be okay.
Sherlock pushed the hair off of John's forehead gingerly, and laid the other hand in John's, clenching it delicately and letting John's notable pulse in his wrist relax him. Irene texted him. No doubt she had hitched a ride back in the truck. Not like there was any more room in the ambulance, anyway, and it wasn't much of a more comfortable ride.
John's eyelids fluttered open briefly, and he murmured something.
"What?" Sherlock said after a second, and leaned in to hear him.
"I love you," John whispered.
Sherlock wondered if those three words were what made life worth living for normal people, because hearing them from John made him almost dizzy with bliss.
"And I love you, John Watson," he murmured quietly in his beloved's ear.
He couldn't not smile, struck with a sense of delight as he ran his hands through John's short hair. The ambulance bumped along. John would be much, much better than just "okay", and so would he. He didn't let himself succumb to emotion. Never had he ever done such a reckless thing as let himself care.
But Sherlock could get used to love.