SAVE JOHN WATSON
"I had all and then most of you, some and now none of you, take me back to the night we met, I don't know what I'm supposed to do, haunted by the ghost of you, take me back to the night we met"
-Lord Huron - The Night We Met
A single tear cascades from a ghostly white angular face- it splashes against the plain white bedsheets below and soaks into it slowly leaving a damp darkness behind.
There's a hand- quite familiar- pale thin and veiny, reaching out to take another- and squeezing. Tight. Its a lifeline.
His lifeline. The only thing he has left to hold onto- even if it's pointless to. He won't let go.
"I won't let go." the brunette whispers over a painful sob, then closes his galaxy-grey eyes that seem almost colorless. "I promise, John. I promise."
There's no response from the sleeping soldier- no words to soothe the other's aching ears.
Sherlock believes he's forgotten the sound of the other's voice- the distinct tone of it, and the way it heightened at his name.
John Watson. The doctor that never left the war. His John Watson, lying in a hospital bed, unconscious and dependent upon a machine for what most believe will be the rest of his life.
Sherlock can't imagine this being their reality for the next however many years to come- he simply can not. It hurts too much. Too much. John deserves better...
He truly does...but unfortunately Sherlock is still too afraid to let go. He feels guilty. Guilty for not being there sooner- If he had been clean, and more observant perhaps Eurus would've never slipped under his nose- John wouldn't have gotten caught in the crosshairs of an old sibling rivalry, and would've never been shot. Sherlock feels completely hopeless. Like a failure.
"I was supposed to protect you." that baritone voice whispers, a croaky in tone, and hoarse from crying- "I was supposed to save you, John Watson." those bright grey eyes open wide- pained and drained of all sign of fate. "And I failed you."
That face buries itself in the soldier's hospital bedsheets, and a white pale hand reaches out to touch the tall man's shoulder.
Its Mycorft- standing behind his weeping little brother- devasted but steeled for show. Unwavering in the face of sorrow. Mycorft, the man amongst goldfish. He's the only reason John's plug has not been pulled yet- because a certain someone begged him not to end this yet- that someone being Sherlock. But now...there's no other option. It has to end. It must. 'Sherlock, it's time."
Sherlock shoulders away his brother's hand, furious look upon those worn features. He's afraid- conflicted. Mycorft understands. "No!" says the poor man, shaking that head of curly black locks, and sobbing, "not yet- I-I've changed my mind. I'm not ready yet. I need more time."
The taller ginger exclaims with pity for his youngest brother, and frowns hard upon him. "Sherlock, you're being selfish." the ginger attempts to explain, but he knows Sherlock will not hear it. "For god's sake, Sherlock, look at him!"
The detective turns instinctively to the unconscious soldier, and quickly bites back a sob- John looks so peaceful...almost as if he's no longer suffering.
However, Mycroft, and even Sherlock, despite how much he tries to deny it, knows that is not the case. "He's suffering.' Mycorft exclaims, his voice barely cracking as it raises- "it's been five years, Sherlock, this is no life for a soldier."
Sherlock shouts, "and I presume death is better!?", back in defense, and spins that head of curls around to eye his stoic faced brother. "He's my priority, not yours-"
Mycroft steps closer, and simply replies, "you're right.' he adds, rather suddenly, "as you're mine."
Sherlock's eyes narrow, that brown dirty hair lying lazily in that long pale angular face. "What is that supposed to mean?"
"It means it's time to stop pretending that this is healthy, and face reality. the doctors have diagnosed him brain dead, yet still..." the ginger waves an idle hand in the formless air around them, "here we are."
"We're here because there is still hope!-" the brunette refuses to listen- being stubborn as usual. "I know there is. I know it."
"Be reasonable, Sherlock, the doctors have ran numerous tests, done brain scans, examinations-" Mycorft shakes his head for affect, "and each time, each test came back with the same result, negative."
"No." Sherlock won't hear it. "He's breathing, and alive that means he's not dead." the brunette insists, desperate to convince himself that he, himself, is right, when truly he knows he is not.
"Sherlock, the doctors have proven that he is."
"Then maybe the doctors are wrong!" Sherlock exclaims furiously- lunging from where he sat and right into Mycorft's face.
Mycroft stands his ground- straightening his posture and looking the brunette dead in the eyes. "Are perhaps you are too blinded with guilt to actually see that they aren't?'Sherlock remains silent- no comeback it seems. Simpy tears- cold colorless tears streaming from the pale brunette's sharp-cut cheekbones.
And for once in Mycorft's life he sees terror in those teary grey eyes of Sherlock's, and wonders if ever he had quite seen them so void before. Not in a lifetime, he knows it. "Oh, brother."
Sherlock collapses into his brother's embrace, and finally let's the pain show- the bottled up emotions that he's been containing- he let's them pour out like a ferocious waterfall- the ginger keeping him close to comfort that aching only human heart of the detective's.
"Th-they're wrong.", Sherlock whines into the taller ginger's chest, and beats his fist into it as the harshness of this reality sinks into him like the teeth of lion- merciless and untamed. Sherlock is broken.
And Mycorft isn't quite sure if he'll be able to stitch him back together again...