Chapter Text
John didn’t actually get to see too much of the action that day, even if it involved the two most important people in his life.
The past few weeks had been stressful. Ever since the plane had touched down, John’s hands were tied with his junkie best friend and his increasingly pregnant wife. He’d, unintentionally, neglected her a little during the middle bits of the pregnancy, but as she got bigger, well ... he had to tend to her. Of course he did. But he also had to tend to his friend who’d just tried to overdose on a bloody aeroplane and who was also trying to track down ... a ghost, probably.
It was a lot, actually.
Whenever he was with one, he constantly texted the other. John felt exhausted, and worried, and nervous, and everything in his body just needed to stop being on for one single second.
But, he could get past this. Part of him almost enjoyed it. It was feeling needed, and it was the rush of impending parenthood, and it was helping out a man who helped him out so many times, and as long as he could get through this without having a stroke, he’d be fine.
Which was why when he texted Mary asking if she wanted white or wheat and didn’t get an answer, he started to get worried. It was 2 PM, and he was getting the shopping.
Of course, it was nothing to worry about. John attributed it to his growing paternalistic senses. She was probably napping, or pissing, or busy, three things which usually occupied Mary’s time nowadays.
On a whim, he texted Sherlock.
Got anything else yet? I thought you said you were going to that computer shop today. JW
No response, either. John forced himself not to worry. Sherlock didn’t usually use at 2 in the afternoon; he hadn’t quite gotten that frustrated yet.
In one sense, he should’ve enjoyed the one hour of freedom. He could’ve relaxed, maybe put the shopping to the side and get a beer. But, he didn’t. Instead, he just debated over wheat or white bread, feeling his soul dry up a little inside at the domesticity of it.
It was four PM when he finished the shopping and he tried to text Mary again, and call. Nothing. Nothing from Sherlock, either.
Simultaneous napping? Not that he’d ever known Sherlock to nap, but the man was on a very difficult case.
When he got home, he didn’t see Mary.
Three more texts, two more calls. Two more texts sent specifically to Sherlock about the whereabouts of his wife. However, he forced himself to be calm. She’d just gone out.
Frankly, his thoughts didn’t go towards anything dark. If anything, he thought, at the worst, she’d gone into early labour and was a bit too preoccupied pushing a girl out of her that she hadn’t thought to call.
The girl would be damn early, though, and that did stress John out a little.
Quietly, he put the shopping away. He looked around the flat in awkward boredom. The flat hadn’t really felt like home. There was something sterile about it. Not due to Mary, not at all, but there was a matching colour scheme, and there were no messes to be seen, and there was tasteful art on the wall. It felt odd.
He worked on painting the nursery a little. John knew he was behind on it, and Mary nagged him about it on occasion.
John was shirtless, barefoot, and in jeans as he started to paint the nursery. Didn’t want to get any paint on him, but he had to have some sort of dignity around the flat. They’d mutually decided on a soft violet colour. John figured that was so they didn’t have to name their daughter ‘Violet’, even if Sherlock preferred that name. John had argued that Sherlock, not being any sort of contributor to the baby, probably didn't have any right to name it.
Eight PM and counting. John’s worry was moving.
“Hi, um, sorry,” he said over the phone, leaning against the doorway to the kitchen as he stared out the back window. “I was just calling about my wife. It’s, heh, a bit awkward, but she is pregnant and I was just wondering if she checked in at some point for early labour. Mary Watson is the name. No, that’s fine, I’ll hold.”
Fifteen minutes later, he was informed that nobody under the name ‘Mary Watson’ had checked in.
John’s blood started to run colder. He called Sherlock.
“Sherlock. Hey. You haven’t answered my texts all day; you’re probably just ignoring everything on the sofa again.” His voice got grim. “Look. Listen to this, just -- god, please. I haven’t heard from Mary in hours and I’m getting ... I’m getting worried. I’m at the flat, car’s gone, and I haven’t heard from her. Please let me know if you find anything. Thanks.’
Maybe Mary had gone over to Sherlock’s. She always commented (well, teased) that she might as well just move in with the man and save John the trouble of running around.
Wait. Wait a few hours, John, and she’ll be back, teasing you about how protective you’re getting, and how sexy it is.
To distract himself, John started painting. His mobile was left in the middle of the room as he got an entire wall finished. Even at its loudest setting, John continually went to try and check it with his paint-covered hands. No new messages.
Could call Mycroft. Even if it was only for emergencies that he usually called the elder Holmes. But Mycroft wouldn’t give a damn about something like this.
Lestrade, maybe? Wasn’t much Lestrade could do. Wasn’t even his division, thank God for that.
Molly? His heart seized at the thought.
No. There would be nothing else to do but wait. Once John had finished all four walls, he settled down with the crib and attempted to build it. That was enough to capture his attention for a few hours, especially after he hammered his thumb.
Eleven PM. John got dressed and put on his coat, hand on the door. At least, if Mary came back now, even with a legitimate reason, he could get frustrated with her. She was pregnant, for God’s sake, and like it or not, she had limitations. If only if she wanted to keep John’s heart in good health.
Eleven fifteen and John heard a knock at the door.
Without hesitation, he wrenched it open and immediately launched into his row. “Do you have any idea how wor--”
Instead of his pregnant wife, John was greeted by the elder Holmes brother.
This was about Sherlock. For the first time in hours, all thoughts of Mary left his mind. Sherlock had OD’d, Sherlock was dead, Sherlock was in trouble, John hadn’t even bothered to check on him. Oh, god, the one bloody time.
“Dr. Watson,” Mycroft drawled, looking apologetic. “I apologise about the hour, but ... it is about my brother.”
Fuck.
“There’s been an accident and he’s been injured quite severely.”
Injured. Not killed. John’s shoulders sagged a little, and he could feel his nostrils flare. His command was unspoken. Explain.
“I’m not aware of the details, myself,” his mouth soured as if it bothered him to admit that. “He was admitted to the hospital; I’ve only just left him. Serious head injuries seem to be the extent of it, and he’s just getting sedatives out of his system.”
“Sedatives? He was high when he was attacked?”
Mycroft hesitated, looking to the side. “It wasn’t morphine, but that isn’t Sherlock’s only preference for sedation. Given his recent activities, I’m inclined to believe that he was under the influence.”
“He’s been clean for three weeks,” John tried weakly. “I’ve been giving him drug tests.”
“Perhaps he’s been buying urine. Perhaps this was one slip-up. The fact remains.”
“How bad is he, right now? Going into surgery?”
“A little. He may suffer from some brain damage when he wakes. He may be perfectly fine. He may not wake up at all.” Mycroft wasn’t meeting his eyes, and he could see the man go a little paler than usual. It all just felt so ... so sudden, to John, that he just had to take a step ack while his brain tried to catch up. Mary, gone. Sherlock, hurt. Someone needed to pay.
Not this, too.
“Do you want me to go sit by him?” John offered immediately. At least he knew where Sherlock was, and perhaps -- if he was there, Mycroft could focus on Mary? John wasn't an idiot. He knew the two things had to be connected.
Mycroft considered the offer for a second as he looked over John. “Your wife. You haven’t seen her in a while?”
John’s jaw set. Christ, he really didn’t want to talk about this to Mycroft. John didn’t really think Mycroft liked Mary, as much as Mycroft could be arsed to give an opinion on anything. Not that John could blame him, really, but he didn’t want Mycroft getting too interested.
“No. Not since I left this morning. I’m ... yeah. A little worried.”
“Sherlock gravely injured and your wife missing. Hardly a coincidence. If you will go sit by Sherlock for a while,” Mycroft informed him, “I’ll look into this further. I’m heading to his flat. Pack your things and you’ll go to the hospital.”
“Why don’t I go -- “ John was interrupted sharply. He thought, if he went to the flat, maybe he'd find something where -- Mycroft interrupted his thought.
“Do you think this is a joke, Dr. Watson?” His voice was chilling. “I’m more than content to let my brother traipse around London solving whatever cases he likes. If it keeps him off of the drugs, I’ll let him do anything he wants. My brother is injured, your wife is missing. And, to be frank, I am the smarter one. This is not you getting your fix. This is me keeping my brother safe.”
John couldn’t argue with that, and he dropped his need to be in the front of the action. Mycroft was deathly serious and John could appreciate why. If anyone really understood the depth of a sibling’s love, it was probably John. What Sherlock needed right now was a companion, and the brightest man in London -- probably -- was looking for his wife. That was the best he could do.
And hopefully ... please, oh god, she would be found. And she’d be fine. She’d just ... visited someone, fallen asleep, something.
---
The ride with Mycroft was perhaps one of the most uncomfortable moments in his life. He supposed, if they’d been different people, it would’ve been a bonding moment. The most important man in both of their lives was sitting in a hospital bed with serious trauma and they had to fix it. With, well, whatever help John could give. They could’ve talked. Could’ve made a plan.
Instead, John could only marvel about how strange it was to ride in the front, with Mycroft driving. He supposed that was the shock setting in, because the only thing he could focus on was Mycroft’s fingers gripping the wheel so tightly his knuckles were white.
“When he wakes up.” Mycroft finally spoke, after clearing his throat. “Inform me immediately. If you would.”
They were both staring straight ahead, as St. Bart’s loomed in front of them. It was black outside and the lights coming from the hospital lit up the inside of the car warmly. For a half-second, John didn’t want to leave. Even with a man he didn’t particularly care for very much, the car seemed like a place where John knew all of the variables. Inside ... what state was he going to see Sherlock in?
Not changing his gaze, John nodded his head. “And any word on my wife, you call me right away so I can go to her. I’ll find someone to watch after Sherlock in my stead.”
“Agreed.” His hands weren’t off the car; the engine was still running. Nodding his head, John took his jacket and left.
--
It wasn’t like John hadn’t been in hundreds of hospital rooms. Hospitals, wherever they were, were second nature to John. He felt sympathy when he watched them rush around with patients or papers or machines, he felt domesticity when the nurses chatted at the front desk, he felt comfortable walking into a clean hospital room. Second nature to him, all of this.
Walking along the hallway, John looked around at the numbers and watched for the room he’d been given. At finally seeing Sherlock’s, he pushed his way in without knocking.
The first thing he noticed was the shock of messy black hair. It was really the only source of colour in the hospital room, at the moment, besides the sky outside.
John was a doctor, he couldn’t afford to cry much over the wounded, but it still hit him a little. How weak Sherlock looked. How vulnerable.
The bedding was tucked in underneath him, and John had the sinking feeling he knew who had tucked Sherlock in. His arms were resting on top of the scratchy hospital blanket, pale and thin and straight. John knew there were track marks on the inside of his arms; he didn’t bother looking for them. The top of the medical gown was barely visible, flowing up into his neck and then his face. Bandages, there, probably some stitches in the back of his head where he was leaning against the pillow.
His best friend, injured and unconscious in a hospital. His wife, god knew where.
The only thing he could do was collapse in his chair and scrub his hands over his face, trying to breathe out slowly.
“Alright, Sherlock,” he finally sighed, bringing his hands down his face. Although he didn’t realize it at the time, the gesture was oddly similar to Sherlock’s usual steepling of his fingers. “We’re going to sort this out.”