So who wants to hear the awful headcanon I thought of for the lost episode on the bus this morning?
Okay, no one, but I’m going to tell y'all anyway because I’m a masochist.
So what if we discover that garridebs did happen – it opens with a pov shot of a blurry hospital room, heart monitors going, and Sherlock’s face pops into view, bedraggled, unshaven, worried, red-eyed.
“Sherlock?” says a very scratchy-voiced John, whose POV we discover we are in. And that’s when the dam bursts: Sherlock starts to cry, one hand petting John’s hair, and the other smoothing over John’s right cheek as his head flops down onto John’s chest. Sherlock’s shoulders are shaking and his sobbing soft, and all John can do is wait, knowing that whatever has Sherlock so upset, it’s because of John himself.
Something still seems off; his head hurts and his vision is still blurry, and all his bones ache. John manages to raise one of his hands and places it on Sherlock’s head, which only causes Sherlock to sob harder. John wants to ask what’s wrong, why Sherlock is so sad and scared.
After what seems like hours but is only a few minutes, Sherlock raises his head up, eyes reddened but sparkling with hope. “John,” he whispers, his thumb brushing John’s cheekbone, only now realizing that he is bearded; How long has he been out? Sherlock’s other hand is still petting John’s head, like he is something precious to be treasured. “John,” Sherlock says again, this time more sure, “You heard me.” His smile is small and soft, and his eyes are huge and starting to tear up again.
“I… wha’? Wha'ppened?” John mumbles, his hands seeking for the ones on his head. Sherlock’s hands quickly grasp John’s, holding tight and squeezing like he’s afraid John will leave him again.
“What–,” Sherlock gulps, “What is the last thing you remember, John?” Sherlock’s voice wobbles, his eyes fixated on John’s face.
John struggles to recall a memory at all. “Not sure,” John answers. “I remember a gunshot,” – at the word, John hears Sherlock gasp and sees his lip wobble – “I think? I was in so much pain. I recall seeing your face… and then –” John thought hard… was Sherrinford all a weird nightmare? “…And then I had a weird nightmare, I think, but it felt so real… I guess… I guess it wasn’t since I’m here now and I was last in Baker Street.”
John thought it rather adorable the way Sherlock blinked at him in confusion. John gently tugged at his own hands, causing Sherlock to look down at the clasped hands, and then back up at John.
“Yes, a… terrible nightmare, John,” Sherlock sighs heavily, his lip wobbling once again. He brings their joined hands closer to himself, resting his forehead on them. “I was having a nightmare of my own, John. One that almost was never going to end.” Sherlock turns his head so that one of his eyes is peeking at John sadly.
John tugs his hands to himself, which forces Sherlock to be closer, given he seems to be stoutly refusing to relinquish his grip on John’s hands. John needs him closer. "What do you mean, Sherlock?“
Sherlock looks up at John, his pale eyes wide in fear. “I almost lost you, John. After everything I did, I almost lost you. I wasn’t good enough and – ” Sherlock’s voice is starting to rise in panic.
John brings their heads closer together, and that seems to settle Sherlock down enough for him to continue.
“You were shot, John. In the head.”
John gasps, pushing Sherlock away from him a bit so he can see Sherlock’s eyes. “What?”
Sherlock’s face scrunches up. “In your eye, John,” Sherlock amends with emphasis, John now suddenly realizing why his vision seems so weird. He must be on some pretty good painkillers to not even notice. "You must have been trying to get out of the way, and the bullet went through your left eye socket and lodged in your brain. I’m afraid you’ve permanently lost your left eye… but…“ Sherlock breathes heavily, stuttering. “John you’ve been in a coma for three months.”
John inhaled deeply. “Wha-what?" He tries to remove his hands from Sherlock’s grip, but the grip refuses to loosen. He needs to feel the evidence for himself. "Sherlock?”
Sherlock looks down at their joined hands, and gently loosens his grip. John slides his hands out of Sherlock’s slowly, and reaches up to touch his face. John’s expression turns grim as his fingers trace the stitches along the left side of his head, where the surgeons had cut open his skull to remove the bullet and his dying eyeball. Sherlock follows John’s other hand with his eyes as it scrubs at the beard that John had grown out since the last time Sherlock had shaved him a couple weeks ago. John’s two hands come together over his mouth, inhaling heavily as he takes in all the information to process. A slow breath into his hands, then: “So…” John starts, thinking he might know the answer to what he wants to ask, “how… bad was it?”.
John’s remaining ocean-blue eye is the most beautiful thing Sherlock has ever seen. He tries to restrain his emotions. “Everyone…” Sherlock choked, "always gives up after three.“ Sherlock places one of his hands over John’s, and the other over John’s heart. "Three months, John, you were unresponsive, and they were giving up on you. But never me, John. Never EVER me. They were… they were going to cut off your support today.” Tears start to roll down Sherlock’s cheeks as he recalls the argument he had with the doctors and his brother. “They… they allowed me one last day to say my good…” Sherlock chokes, “ – what I’ve always wanted to say. And you heard me, John,” A weak, watery smile is offered to John, “because I asked you to, for me.” A hiccup. “I love you, John. I wouldn’t be able to bear it if you did not pull through.”
John’s face does something Sherlock has never seen before, but he’s certain it’s something akin to fondness. “Sher–” John swallows heavily. “Sherlock. You idiot.” John reaches out for Sherlock, silently demanding physical contact with him. “You unbelievable idiot. Of course I came back for you.”
Sherlock’s resolve breaks when he glances to the hollow slit of John’s left socket, and sees it leak with tears. With a choked sob, Sherlock falls into John’s open arms, allowing himself to openly cry. One of John’s gentle hands starts to pet his hair, from crown to the base of his neck and back up, while the other holds Sherlock as close as he can with the awkward angle Sherlock is sitting at. John leans his head into Sherlock’s, and whispers into his ear: “I love you too, you idiot. Always have, always will.”
And there they stay until a nurse comes in and sees John awake, and runs to alert other personnel of their patient’s status.
ANYWAY. So that’s what I was thinking this morning. This was just supposed to be a shitpost. *shrugs*
turnnoffyourmind
titsay
stormborns
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
vaporwave
discoholicmusic
areudirty
gummygunk
