pipmer1

Title: If You Should Die Before You Wake
Author: PipMer
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Mycroft Holmes, Mary Morstan, Sebastian Moran, Greg Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson
Pairing: John/Mary
Spoilers: for the entire show
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 1953 this part
Genre: Drama, angst, epic Sherlock/John friendship.
Disclaimer: I don’t own, no money is being made from this
Summary: Post-Reichenbach/Hiatus/Empty House fic. This is how I see episode 1 of season 3 playing out. What happens to Sherlock and John in the time between Sherlock's Fall and his return? Expect lots of angst.

A/N: This is a work-in-progress. Many thanks go out to my awesome betas/britpickers

fawsley and

susako.

fawsley gave me helpful hints on how to 'show, not tell'.

susako went out of her way to visit the actual hospital I use here, so that the layout I describe is accurate. Thank you so much, ladies.

Thanks also to

morganstuart and

holyfant for their suggestions and cheerleading.

Prologue: Homecoming

The tall, blonde-haired figure stands silently in the evening twilight, smoke from the cigarette tightly clenched in his fingers swathing around his head like a shroud. The night is still and calm, the sound of the surf crashing against the distant beach barely registering as background noise in the man's mind.

He is standing on the balcony of his hotel room, barefoot, clad in a white, button-down shirt, sleeves rolled up past the elbows, and khaki trousers that hang just a bit too loosely around his hips. His striking emerald eyes are focussed… or rather, unfocussed… at some distant spot on the horizon, or on some distant point in time. The man's stance can in no way be construed as relaxed; his shoulders are tense, his back perfectly straight as if prepared for flight at a moment's notice, his face pinched in a scowl that would make anybody watching (if anybody were) instantly avert their eyes. He's currently enjoying the hospitality of a five-star hotel, all amenities one could possibly wish for, in a country known for its legendary history and breath-taking beauty. He currently isn't aware enough of his surroundings to appreciate any of that. His features have the look of utmost concentration.

If anyone were to look closely enough, to not just see, but observe, they might see a hint of sadness there as well. Although, ever since a… friend… once caught him out, he's been very careful to keep his expression schooled, even if there's nobody around to see. Because one never knows.

He absently rubs at his eyes, but the dry, prickling sensation remains. Sometimes it seems as if the lenses change not only his eye colour, but also the reality of the world he sees through them. Nothing is what it seems, or what it should be, anymore.

A text alert chimes; the man fishes a phone from his pocket and brings it to eye level, squinting in the dimness of the night as he flicks the buttons to read the message. As soon as he does, the blood in his veins turns to ice.

Moran knows you're alive. J has been shot.

He swallows hard; his thumb very slightly shakes as it types a response.

Is he alive?

The next ten seconds are the longest of his life.

Yes, for the moment. He is presently in surgery. It doesn't look good. And the others are now in danger as well.

Details.

He was coming back from the shops. He was at the front door of Baker Street when he was shot in the chest, one centimetre to the right of his heart.

He's still at Baker Street?

He moved back in two months ago after the deaths of his wife and infant son.

Without hesitation, he types back.

Coming home, NOW. Make sure that I am granted access to him, no matter his condition.

Which alias?

HS.

Understood. Do try and keep a low profile, and remain incognito for the time being. It wouldn't do to show your hand too soon.

Sherlock frowns at his brother's officious tone. He's tempted to fire back a string of insults, but he restrains himself. He flips his phone shut, shoving it back into his pocket. He flicks the remainder of his cigarette over the side of the balcony, and in two strides has opened the sliding glass door and stepped back inside his suite.

The plush, very expensive suite that his brother has rented out for an entire week will now go completely to waste.

Sherlock couldn't care less.

There's only one thing on his mind at the moment, and he is currently in a London hospital, fighting for his life.

A life that Sherlock has put in danger by being cocky, over-confident and careless.

Clenching his jaw, Sherlock throws his suitcase on the bed and proceeds to stuff everything that he had unpacked an hour ago back inside. He grabs his laptop and places it in his holdall along with his toiletries. His brain is on autopilot while his body does the things that are necessary in order for him to finally go home.

His phone pings.

Your ticket is waiting for you at the airport; your flight leaves in three hours. There's a taxi on its way to your hotel. Be careful, brother.

Sherlock doesn't bother replying. He grabs his room key, wallet and passport, stuffing the latter two into his back pocket. He takes one last look around, verifying that he hasn't forgotten anything. Satisfied, with his bag slung over his shoulder and dragging his suitcase behind him, he steps outside his hotel room, and makes his way to the lift.

It takes an eternity to descend the five floors to the reception; during the wait, he decides to contact his brother one more time.

As soon as he's out of surgery, or when there is any change, I want to be contacted immediately. Understood?

Of course, little brother. Don't you think I know how important the doctor is to you? Almost as important as you are to him.

What's that supposed to mean?

As soon as Sherlock hits send, the lift doors open into the foyer. Mycroft's reply, if there is one, will have to wait.

Sherlock has never before experienced this level of utter despair. Not even when he had relapsed for the third time and knew that the consequence would be getting thrown out of his doctoral programme at Cambridge. He had thought that was the end of his life back then. That didn't even begin to compare to this.

John is dying. After all Sherlock had done to ensure his safety, John Watson is fucking dying.

Helplessness has never been a condition that suited Sherlock. He remembers when, at the age of five, he had watched his baby sister draw her last breath. After that, he swore that he would never let that feeling in again. And now it's back, wrapping its unrelenting tendrils around his non-existent heart.

If he could make the plane arrive in London by sheer force of will alone, he would already be there.

The last email had been received one hour ago. The contents were discouraging, to say the least. John had made it through surgery, but the doctors only give him a fifty percent chance of making it through the next twenty –four hours. Surveillance on Edith Hudson and Gregory Lestrade has been tripled, but Sherlock is under no illusions regarding their safety. Moran's location is, for the moment, unknown. He could be anywhere, doing God knows what. It is now up to Sherlock to find him and deal with him.

But Sherlock can't even begin to think about Moran until he's seen John for himself, and ascertained his chances of survival. The answer to that will determine what course of action Sherlock takes regarding the sniper. It will determine whether Sherlock apprehends him... or kills him.

Sherlock leans back in his seat, closes his eyes and tries to empty his mind, at least for the remaining thirty minutes that the plane is in the air. He'll have plenty of time to think again when he lands at Heathrow.

Once back in London, Sherlock wastes no time. He deposits his luggage at the safe house that has been arranged for him, then speeds his way via taxi to University College Hospital. When (if) John's condition stabilises, he will be transferred to Princess Grace at Mycroft's expense. For now, John is in the critical care unit, comatose and fighting for his life.

Sherlock rushes through the revolving entrance doors and runs to the lift, frantically pushing the button that will take him to the correct floor. The climb seems to take forever, as the lift stops on its way to let in other passengers. Sherlock is practically vibrating with barely suppressed anxiety and rage. The lift finally opens, and Sherlock flies out the door. His eyes sweep over the signs hanging on the opposite wall, indicating the direction of Critical Care. Turning left, his long legs take him down the hallway, through a set of doors, and finally arrive at his destination. He stabs the buzzer for entry, and sweeps up to the nurse's station after being allowed in, breathing, "John Watson."

The nurse on duty frowns as she checks her clipboard. "Immediate family only. Name?"

Sherlock's jaw clenches. If Mycroft has failed to follow through on the one request he has made of him…

"Hamish Sigerson."

The nurse's eyebrow rises. "Half-brother? Yes, it says here that you are allowed to see him as soon as you arrive. ID, please?"

He thrusts his false ID at her, fingers drumming on the desk as he waits. The nurse (mid-thirties, divorced, single mother of two) looks at it carefully, lets her gaze slide over him, and nods. She hands his driver's license back, and says "Room 305, it's down the hallway that way, on the left. Five minutes only. Just one word, Mr. Sigerson," she warns as Sherlock starts to walk away. "He has yet to regain consciousness.."

"Yes, I'm well aware of his condition," Sherlock snaps. "I just need a few moments with him, I won't stay to 'disturb' or 'aggravate' him. Thank you." With that, Sherlock turns and strides down the hallway towards John's room. The nurse doesn't stop him.

Sherlock enters the room, and his breath catches. His vision narrows until all he can see is the figure on the bed, barely visible due to bandages, tubing and machinery. From where he stands, he doesn't recognise the man who had been his flatmate/colleague/best friend. He steadies himself, then walks over to the foot of the bed and takes the clipboard hanging there in hand. John's medical records, outlining his status and prognosis. Sherlock, of course, is not a doctor, but he is familiar with the medical jargon. After all, his studies in university were focussed on biochemistry and pharmacology. And he had lived with a doctor for a year and a half. Sherlock therefore understands what it is he is reading. The more he reads, the more feral his expression becomes. He lifts his head, and stares at the figure lying so still on the bed. He gently replaces the clipboard to its designated spot.

Sherlock remains standing in this one spot for several minutes, eyes fixed on his friend. He can feel a slow-burning pulse starting to claw its way from within his chest and spreading outwards. He can no longer hear the whoosh of the ventilator or the beep of the other machines surrounding John. All that he's aware of is a steady hum that is gradually growing louder, and that is trying to block out all of his thoughts. Both of his fists are clenched, and he feels a scream building up inside his larynx trying to break free from behind his tightly-pressed lips. He's reminded of the only other time he's ever felt like this, when he realised that Mrs. Hudson was being threatened and held hostage in his own flat. Part of him wants to laugh out loud at the irony. People never seem to realise that hurting the people closest to him won't ever get him to cooperate or to 'back off'. What it will do is make it that much easier to justify his actions to himself when he responds to their threats in kind.

The look on Sherlock's face is thunderous. The muscles around his mouth tighten, and his eyes reflect back murderous fury. He stalks from the hospital room with one goal in mind.

He is going to find, and then kill, Sebastian Moran. How slowly he does the latter depends completely on whether or not John survives.

Part 2

Additional Notes: Credit goes to fawsley for the line about Sherlock's lenses changing more than the colour of his eyes. I can't accept kudos for that part :)

I am feeling a bit disheartened about my writing lately. Please let me know what you think via feedback. Comments are love.