I've recently decided to take a look at my old stories and clean them up a bit. This one has a special place in my heart. I wrote it over a year ago. Since re-reading it, I have found many grammatical problems and inconsistencies which just had to be fixed. I'm hoping that this version will make a little more sense and be slightly more realistic. You will see more changes to the story as I upload later chapters. However, to preserve the essence, I've really only changed small grammatical stuff. Therefore, the story is essentially the same. For those of you viewing it for the first time. I thank you for taking the time to click on it and I hope that you enjoy the polished version!
I want to thank everyone again for a year of support! I appreciate every view I receive (yes I look at ALL the numbers and statistics that this fabulous site gives me, not just reviews).
Have a wonderful summer!
P.S. I hope to be adding to the sequel (which is not as it first appears, don't be fooled!) very soon!
The explosion had come out of now where; a blinding light and defining sound followed by intense heat and unendurable pain. Sherlock had missed it – not for the first time in his life – he had missed what was right in front of his face. How had he missed it?
John sat patiently by the hospital bed listening to the heart monitor and checking Sherlock's vitals himself every twenty minutes or so. He reached out and gently took Sherlock's left wrist. It was pointless, he knew, to do that when the immensely expensive, top-of-the-line, machines surrounding Sherlock's hospital bed were more than capable of detecting whether or not his best friend was alive; but the feel of Sherlock's steady pulse under his finger tips put him at ease. He sighed and leaned back in his chair. With his right hand he absently flipped through a magazine that someone had left on the bed-side table. His mind was blank, and he barely glanced at the glossy images, but felt somehow that by flipping those flimsy sheets of paper he might manage to feel less concerned and look a little more normal. He had been sitting – unmoving except to use the washroom facilities or get a bite to eat – for five days. He hadn't turned on the tele or read a book, he hadn't even checked his computer. That was when Lestrade had stopped by with a stack of magazines and newspapers to try and keep John sane.
"Have you slept?" The middle-aged inspector had asked, "You look like hell."
"No, and thank you," John said with sarcasm and a small smile.
"I know that you care about him, John, but you don't have to suffer too. He's a big boy and you know he's going to live. You should get some sleep."
"I try," he said honestly, "it's just impossible in here."
"So go home for a couple of hours," Lestrade offered.
John shook his head and rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger.
"I could stay with him," Lestrade offered, "I'd call if he even twitched."
"That's kind of you," John said sincerely, "But I just can't. I know I won't sleep at home either."
"You'd be surprised, you really look beat," he coaxed taking in the dark circles beneath John's tired, blue, eyes.
"Thanks anyway," John replied, effectively ending the discussion.
"You really love him don't you?" Lestrade had said after a moment of silence in which he'd taken a good look at the motionless Sherlock.
"Yes," John replied, not bothering to make the distinction between romantic and brotherly love. In reality, it didn't matter. He loved the big idiot-genius-sociopath-maniac and right now all that mattered was that his life had been in danger.
"He's a lucky man," Lestrade had added.
"Why?" John asked, "Because he survived? Or because he's got a maniac like me here to care about him?"
"Both," the greying man said with a warm smile. "Tell him I stopped by, won't you?"
"Of course," John replied kindly and shook the inspector's hand. That visit had been two days ago.
For being a self-proclaimed sociopath, John reflected, Sherlock certainly did have some good and loyal friends. That had actually been Lestrade's second visit to check up on the man who constantly insulted his intelligence and antagonized his team. Though, John wondered if it was more for himself than Sherlock, since Lestrade hadn't even bothered to ask how the tall, slender, man was doing.
Still, that was a better record than Mycroft. Sherlock's older brother had only come by the hospital once – the day he'd received John's text. He had come in person to ensure that his little brother would in-fact live – and to see that he had the best doctors, surgeons, and equipment that money could buy. He probably would have left without so much as a word to John, if John hadn't found him standing in the hall outside Sherlock's hospital room looking through the window at his unconscious and severely injured brother.
"I told you to look out for him," Mycroft had said flatly before turning and disappearing down the hall.
John had wanted to say something. It hadn't been his fault after all. How could he possibly be expected to baby-sit a grown, independent, iron-willed man twenty-four-seven? Sherlock had gotten himself into this one without John's knowledge. There was literally nothing he could have done and no way he could have known. But he didn't respond, and Mycroft had not returned since. John imagined that the hospital was keeping the mysteriously important man informed. Heck, he'd probably managed to have the info from the monitors go straight to his mobile.
John leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms above his head. With a sigh, and some slight dizziness, he relaxed again and looked at the serene face of his best friend. The small cuts on his face were healing well, and probably wouldn't even leave a scar – unlike those deep, life-threatening wounds that had resulted when debris from the explosion had ripped into Sherlock's back and chest. John knew that those would stay with him forever. John felt the pang of guilt again… the one that his mind knew he shouldn't be feeling, but that his emotions refused to let go. Sherlock had gone to the bank alone, he hadn't told John where he was going – or if he had, it was probably while John had been out doing the shopping – and he certainly hadn't told John he was on a case. Why was that? John wondered, but let the unsaid question drop because he would not know the answer until his friend woke up.
Two hours later, John had begin to doze when a slight movement roused him. Sherlock's hand had twitched.
John had rested his fingers on the man's pulse again just before he'd begun to drift off. The feel of the steady heartbeat had soothed his mind and calmed his nerves. Then, just as sleep was reaching out her elusive – though welcoming – arms to him, he felt the tendons in Sherlock's wrist move ever-so-slightly. He snapped awake and stared silently at Sherlock's face. The man's eyes opened. Then closed. They then fluttered open again. He frowned and lifted his right hand to rub them gently. John suddenly became aware of himself and removed his hand from Sherlock's left wrist.
"John?" Sherlock said then, turning to gaze in John's direction… something was definitely wrong. Sherlock's eyes didn't look right… they looked… unfocused, glazed over…almost…dead.
"I'm here Sherlock," John said suddenly, though it appeared as if Sherlock was looking right at him.
"I think you should call the physician," he said evenly, "I believe I may be blind."