His Empty Chair

Chapter 8

It had been no more than three minutes since Sherlock shot himself and yet the world was crashing down around John and this time he couldn't hold it back. Why couldn't Sherlock just shoot him. He had already lost everything. Mary was gone, his beautiful wife was dead and so was his child. The sorrow he felt was all encompassing and the one thing that he taken comfort in was that Sherlock was alive. He had not wanted to wake up, waking up meant facing the pain. John was running after Sherlock who was limp on the stretcher. Tears were running freely down his face as he chased after them. There was just so much blood, John was covered in it and more was soaking the sheets that Sherlock laid on. He had tried so hard to slow the flow but it had continued to come out as he tended to Sherlock. But he was losing too much.

John would not leave Sherlock. He could not die, not again, not him too. John did not think he could cope with another death and Sherlock too. He couldn't bear the thought that Sherlock had died for him, Sherlock had never cared and yet he had just shot himself so that he wouldn't have to shoot John. Sherlock's eyes were closed and his chest barely rose and fell as they ran to the surgical ward. John couldn't lose Sherlock too. The brilliant mind that John loved would be put to rest and never used again. The amazing mind that could calculate what was going to happen before it did was dying and there was nothing that John could to save it. Sherlock had saved his life in more than one way over the years. Coming back from the war had left him scarred and yearning for more. He had never eaten a more delicious meal in his life than the one he briefly ate with Sherlock on their first night together. As the years progressed he had realised that Sherlock had saved him from the bluntness of everyday life. John refused to believe that Sherlock was dying, he would save him. John Watson would save Sherlock.

But he couldn't they had just entered the surgical ward ahead of him. Panic swelled in his chest. John couldn't see Sherlock, he was going to die and John would not be there with him. He needed to be there. He was covered in Sherlock's blood and he was crying, a worrying sight to any of those who saw him but he ignored them. He needed to see Sherlock, needed to memorise every inch of his face, he needed to see those wondrous eyes filled with life. An immeasurable ache and anger had filled him. He needed to see him. His only friend in the world was dying and he couldn't get in. He was unaware of his screaming but he did know he flung himself at the door over and over again. He wanted to hold Sherlock's hand, he wished he could give his life to Sherlock. He did not want to bear the pain he felt. He was conscious of a great pain in his stomach from where he had torn the stitches but he did not care he had to get to Sherlock. He wished he could kiss him again. If he died John would never get to, he would never get to see him alive and well.

John did not know how much time passed where he screamed and flung himself at the door, whether it was years or merely seconds he did not know. All he knew was that he had to get to Sherlock. But he was bleeding and his energy was fading.

All of a sudden hands were grabbing him and forcing him away from the door. Away from Sherlock. He couldn't leave, they didn't understand the last person that mattered to him was in there dying. Or possibly already dead. He redoubled his efforts kicking, punching and screaming. He had to get to him he couldn't die, it was the only thoughts that he seemed capable of thinking. He couldn't lose Sherlock too. Not again and not after everything.

But the hands pulled him back. He continued to struggle but he was finding it hard to. With a sudden realisation he noticed the small pain in his neck and he dimly thought he saw a nurse with a syringe. He panicked, no they couldn't do this, he had to get to Sherlock but his eyes were drooping and he was falling back on the people holding him. He couldn't go, Sherlock was dying, he had to see him. But the drug was too strong and he too weak, the wall of darkness overthrew him. His last thoughts before blacking out were that he would never see Sherlock again and that his heart was already broken.