Chapter Text
“We’re going to be late,” John worries aloud as he quickly does up the last button on his dress uniform.
“We’ve got plenty of time,” comes the low, calm rumble from the bathroom. “We aren’t due until 1800 hours.”
John runs a hand over his jaw, feeling for any bristly spots he may have missed and finding only smooth skin. “But there’s always so much traffic on the high road, especially with the construction.” He squares his shoulders and gives himself a serious once-over in the mirror, absentmindedly twisting the gold band on his left hand.
The water runs for a moment, taps squeaking as they’re turned off again. “I’m the one who should be nervous,” the figure in the bathroom chides. “This whole gala is for my pet project.”
“Yes, but when the man I love makes it his mission to help disabled veterans, the least I can do is make sure it goes off without a hitch. Beginning with arriving on schedule.”
John does a military turn as James exits the en suite in his own pristine army dress uniform and stands at attention. “Do I pass inspection, General Sholto?”
James’ face is serious, expression hard. His eyes rake down over John, but when they come back up to meet his, they are smoldering. “With flying colours, Captain Watson,” he growls, finally breaking a smile. He guides John’s face up for a kiss, then two, deeper, deeper. John wraps his arms around James’ back, pulling him even closer, then immediately regrets it.
“Whoa,” John says, pulling away with a chuckle when he feels his whole body start to react. “Let’s not get too wound up. We don’t have time for any un-winding.”
James drops his chin a little, as close as he gets to pouting. His auburn hair glints in the warm sunset streaming in through their bedroom window. “I can hardly be blamed,” he teases. “I haven’t seen you like this for far too long. I forgot what it does to me, a handsome man in uniform.” He turns John back to face the mirror, wrapping his arms around him from behind and nuzzling at his neck.
“I could say the same,” John smiles. Their eyes meet in the reflection and John feels his heart soar.
“I don’t know how I’d do this without you by my side,” James murmurs into John’s shoulder before placing a kiss there.
“You’ve got your whole team,” John says, tilting his head. “You’ve been planning this gala for months, I’ve barely done more than being a cheerleader. And maybe your arm candy.”
James smiles and shakes his head, light blue eyes holding John’s dark blue in the mirror. “I’m not just talking about tonight,” James says softly, warm breath tickling the back of John’s neck. His voice is somber but fond. “I mean every single day. Waking up, being a responsible member of society, being happy. Helping others. I couldn’t do any of it without you.”
“Well,” John says playfully, turning his head and kissing James over his shoulder. “Lucky for you, you’ll never have to.”
“Checkmate,” the thin man rasps, trying to pretend he doesn’t notice his hand trembling as he deposits the piece on the game board.
There is no trace of competition on his opponent’s face, but neither does it hold pity. Sherlock would never admit it, but he never takes it for granted. Still, his brother does worry. Mycroft shrugs his arm to reveal his watch, pursing his lips resolutely.
“It’s getting late. You should rest.”
Sherlock lets his eyes flick to the clock. Not even eight.
“Can’t handle being beaten … three times in one day?” Sherlock licks his chapped lips and pushes down the panic that threatens to rise with each laboured breath. He just can’t get enough air anymore. “If I didn’t know you better … I’d think you were letting me win.”
“I’ve never molly-coddled you before and I’m not about to start now,” Mycroft replies with raised eyebrows. He pulls the tray table away from the bed and begins packing the black and white pieces into their box.
“And I’ve bested you at chess … seven times in our lives … two of them tonight.” He levels Mycroft with his most unenthused look even as his chest heaves with each sentence. “I can’t even think … clearly anymore. Is this your idea … of giving your dying sibling … a Make-A-Wish? Tedious.”
“Don’t be dramatic,” Mycroft scoffs, tugging his waistcoat to lay smoothly and giving himself an excuse not to make eye contact. “You’re not dying.” The words hang heavily between them. It is the only lie Sherlock has ever heard his brother tell. “Soon,” Mycroft assures him, cleaning up some of the day’s detritus from the bedside stand and refilling Sherlock’s cup with water. “You’re at the top of the list now. Probability dictates it’ll happen practically any minute.”
Sherlock doesn’t have the energy to argue, and instead hums noncommittally.
“DI Lestrade will be by in the morning.”
“I don’t need … babysitting,” Sherlock scowls. “Not going anywhere.”
“The man considers himself your friend, Sherlock. I can’t fathom why, but he wants to spend time with you.” While he still can, Sherlock’s mind fills in soberly. “Maybe he’ll have a case for you to look over,” Mycroft continues. “Do you need anything before I go?”
Sherlock shakes his head. Never one for physical contact, Mycroft collects his coat and pauses at the foot of the bed, giving Sherlock’s ankle a brief squeeze before he leaves.
For its silence, his hospital room is hatefully noisy at night. The beep of the heart rate monitor. The soft hiss of cool oxygen at his nose. The clicks and drips of IV infusors. In the hallway, footsteps and conversations, nurses being paged, other patients being transported. Not that Sherlock can think much these days, poor oxygenation clouding his mind and making the act of laying motionless all day a physical exertion, but in this place it’s as impossible to sleep as it is to be awake.
Sherlock wonders how many more nights he has left before he closes his eyes and doesn’t open them again.
Schooling his features, John watches his husband turn into his General again. It doesn’t bother him, in fact he admires the way James can put on such a solid façade. John has always been pants at hiding his own emotions. As they exit the cab outside the banquet hall, John knows that for the fundraiser to succeed, they have to tread carefully. It’s no secret that they’re married, even among the higher ranks, but many military-types are still uncomfortable being reminded too blatantly. It’s an unfortunate reality, but tonight they’ll keep their affections chaste.
John finds himself pulled away from James for most of the cocktail hour as they make the rounds individually. Small talk to grease the right palms over passed hors d'oeuvres, gleaming silver trays and white-gloved hands. They catch each other’s eyes across the room now and then, knowing looks of love and shared jokes that only they can decipher. Dinner is just placed before them when the speeches and toasts pull James to the stage.
As the words John had heard practiced so many times echo across the ballroom, John feels pride swell in his chest. How did he get so lucky to find such a brave, selfless man?
As the waitstaff clear the tables and the band picks up their instruments to get the dance floor moving, a corporal stops and gives them the good news. Preliminary donation totals are outstanding. They’ve reached their goal, and will be able to fund a new facility for veteran mental health and emotional rehabilitation — a severely overlooked area that both James and John feel deeply about. John knows that having James to support him when his PTSD flares, and being able to reciprocate while truly understanding the source of the trauma, is vital to their happiness and ability to reintegrate into civilian life. So many soldiers never find that connection in anyone, and the results are catastrophic.
Under the pretense of needing the loo, they finally steal a quiet moment together. “I am in awe of you,” John whispers into James’ ear in the soft light of an empty cloakroom. Muffled music hums through the walls. Nearby, a woman laughs as a bartender fills glasses with ice, soft clinks like audible glitter.
“May I have this dance?” James murmurs, extending his hand to John. Wrapped up in each other, they sway and spin to an old love song, laughing in delight and feeling invincible for all the good they are now poised to do. John wants to stay in the moment forever.
“Adult male, 39, car accident. Severe head trauma. Patient lost consciousness at the scene and has not regained it.”
John’s mind reels as he runs along next to the stretcher. He is no stranger to trauma. He’s usually the one yelling out orders in times like these, making plans and taking action. But they aren’t on the battlefield anymore. They are home now, they’re supposed to be safe.
He feels like he’s in a fog. This must be a dream.
A nightmare.
They were just dancing, laughing, drinking. They were heady with success and pride. They were heading home to celebrate privately, built up sexual tension wrapping them both in all-consuming lust. He could still feel the ghost of James’ hand on his thigh, warm and possessive. Had the cabbie made a wrong move, or had they been hit? How had it all gone wrong so quickly?
There is so much blood; John hands are covered in it. The thick white gauze wrapped around James’ head is already saturated through. A crimson blossom bright against pale skin.
The stretcher is pushed through swinging doors toward the trauma OR. Strong hands grip John’s biceps, stopping him in his tracks.
“I’m sorry, sir,” a nurse says, hands on John’s arms. “That’s as far as you can go.”
“I’m a doctor,” John chokes, trying to get past her. “Please. I’m a doctor. He’s my husband. Please.”
But the nurse shakes her head and hurries after the rest of the team. The doors swing closed and lock, trapping John on the wrong side, in what he’s sure is a black hole he’ll never stop falling into.
Mycroft is reaching for the phone before he’s even aware he’s awake. The mobile he’s never used before is chirping, a special ringtone he’s never heard, but is always listening for.
The call has finally come.
Sherlock has a heart.
Harry’s arms are tight around him as she chokes back a sob. The foyer is dark, but John prefers it. He doesn’t want to see the light of tomorrow right now. Doesn’t want the sun to come up and solidify everything that has happened in the shadow of night.
He is still in his dress uniform. A soldier’s suit that should never see blood is now covered in it, dark red staining the navy. John’s got his own scrapes and bruises too, pads of gauze and bandages dotting his head and neck, his forearm splinted, but those injuries aren’t responsible for the state of his clothes.
His heart aches but somehow he is numb.
Harry pulls away and swallows. “I’ll stay tonight. You shouldn’t be alone,” she decides aloud, but he shakes his head, tells her to go.
She keeps talking, squeezing his uninjured forearm and trying to catch his eyes. Her words seem to echo, like she’s at the end of a long tunnel. Everything feels hollow. He manages to register that she’ll be back in the morning to help him with funeral arrangements, and calling their family and friends. He feels himself nod, thanks her, and closes the door behind her as she reluctantly goes.
He turns the bolt lock and braces himself against the dark wood with his good hand a moment, letting his head drop between his shoulders as he just tries to breathe. When he looks up, even in the darkness he can see there is still blood caked under his fingernails. Pushing down something that flares in his chest, he turns and leans back against the door, only to be confronted by his own reflection in the hall mirror.
Just a few hours ago, John’s reflection had been intertwined with James’. He can feel the strong arms that wrapped around him, the soft breath on his neck. He can see James’ bright blue eyes, full of playful affection, staring right back at him. John can taste his warm lips, hear James’ soft chuckle. But then he blinks and the memory is gone. He stands alone, in the dark, his new reality hitting him like a wave. His thoughts are a maelstrom, every beat of his heart in his chest an unimaginable pain. James. James. James.
John longs to crawl into his arms, to feel his heat, to breathe him in. To feel secure. To know it will be alright.
But the flat is empty and still bathed in pale moonlight. Only one heart beats within these walls. Nothing will ever be alright again.
The weight of it all finally crushes him, emotions overwhelming. Horror for the way life changed so quickly. Fear for how he’d survive alone. Anger that James died and John is still breathing. Regret for the life they’ve planned that they’ll never live now. Grief and rage bubbles up within him, and he screams to the heavens for the injustice of it all. It sets loose something within him, and suddenly he can feel his heart breaking, his chest a vice fighting to implode. John’s legs give out and he slides to the floor, cradling his head in his bloodstained hands as he weeps.
Despite the twilight hour, Sherlock’s room is full of people when Mycroft arrives. A team of nurses and orderlies are busy unhooking monitors, transferring IV fluids for transport to the operating theater. Everything has happened so fast, Sherlock hasn’t had time to feel anything but lucky.
Still, as Mycroft enters the room, harried from rushing to arrive in time, Sherlock catches a rare glimpse of emotions the split-second before his brother sees him and puts on his normal unaffected expression. The mix of raw hope and fear he sees there makes Sherlock’s stomach clench with anxiety. This is really happening now. A second chance at life, or a quicker route to death. He is suddenly struck with the realization that someone has died tonight in order for him to have this chance. He’d had so long to process it, years of knowing that his life would only continue under such circumstances, but now that it had come to pass, it’s like a lead weight Sherlock has no idea how to carry.
“There’ll be no stopping you now,” Mycroft laments, rolling his eyes at the inconvenience. As if the fact that Sherlock is finally going to be living a normal, healthy life is akin to Mycroft agreeing to a root canal.
“I’ll be fine without the … CCTV surveillance this time,” Sherlock bites back, affecting an equally put-upon demeanor.
They lock eyes for a moment, steely masks dropping long enough for unspoken words to pass between them.
“We’re ready,” the head nurse says. Mycroft nods.
“Godspeed, Brother Mine,” he whispers, feeling his own heart clench as Sherlock is whisked off down the hall.