The Waters of Depression

HELLO! So, two chapters in a day, don't I spoil you :D (Not really since you wait a month or so for an update lol) But today, here is a longer chapter to compliment the little chapter that I put up earlier.

 

Hope you enjoy, and as always, thank you for reading and reviewing.

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Sherlock smiled at those words. He had been coming around and the first thing he heard was “My Sherlock.” Then he remembered the bath, the water closing over his head in a stream of beautifully coloured bubbles and he sat up with a gasp. Hands grabbed him immediately and pushed him back down but he struggled against them shouting god knew what but something made the hands still upon his flesh and he found himself staring into those dark eyes, those wonderful, beautiful eyes that held worry for him. He coughed as his breath caught in his throat.

“J-John?” he asked, eyes wide. Then he looked down at himself, naked on a steel table. Around him, where the ever present perfectly square doors were of burnished steel. “A morgue?” he almost yelped and realised then how cold it was. His body shivered and John immediately pulled off his jacket and draped it around his shoulders.

“You idiot!” John hissed. Hugged him tightly and then turned and left the room. Sherlock immediately tried to go after him but found himself with a crash upon the arctic feeling floor. Two men came into the doorway then, one more tailored and upright than the other, both with looks of pure sadness upon their faces until they saw him.

Mycroft laughed, it was an inappropriate response but one that Sherlock though plausible in the situation. Greg however smiled and came to him, lifting him up from the floor and helping to support him as his legs wouldn’t. Sherlock hated the touch of the other man, hated that he needed it but knew he did. He looked at Lestrade carefully, deducting as he always did that they had been the ones to find him, to bring him here and to have waited for hours before this. He also knew he had been dead. Their faces were too haggard for it just to have been injury. And he knew with certainty that their grief was as much for John as it was at losing him.

“John…” he muttered and Mycroft took the place of Lestrade carefully. Sherlock turned his head into the soft fabric of the jacket Mycroft wore, his hands finding places to grip on one of the lapels, and the other around Mycroft’s upper arm. The first sob was ripped from his throat and Mycroft wrapped his arms around his younger brother. Lestrade stood there in complete shock with his mouth open, he had never thought Sherlock capable of anything like this. And to see it first-hand was nothing short of dumbfounding.

“A doctor first, and then find John,” Mycroft said. “He stormed out so he won’t be far. Just stay with him.”

Lestrade nodded and left the room with one more look. Sherlock shook, he knew he was being weak but it was allowed now. Mycroft was allowed to see this, he had seen it before. “I didn’t take it, the needle,” Sherlock muttered and Mycroft stiffened and then relaxed.

“I know,” he said stroking one hand down his back. “But you did coke.”

It was Sherlock’s turn to still then, though his body still shivered from the cold and the death it was getting over. “I don’t remember. I remember John leaving, and the bath was cold, and then there were bubbles in all colours.” He frowned, trying to fill in the gaps and his brain decided his brother was right. He had obviously taken something to think it was a good idea to kill himself.

“John left me,” he said, his voice flat. Mycroft nodded.

“Yes, but not in the way you think he did. People fight Sherlock, they fight and they part for some time to think. He would never leave you.”

“Where is he then!?” he shouted, pushing back from Mycroft and stumbling with tears glistening in his eyes. “Where is he!?”

Mycroft sighed and looked to the tray Sherlock had knocked from the top of a small chest of drawers. He opened the top draw, examined the needles in there before choosing one and picking it up. He walked towards his brother, meeting no resistance as he injected the serum. Sherlock looked at him, large eyes shining but dark, and then they closed and his body slumped into Mycroft’s arms just as the doctor arrived.

*

John was angry. In fact, with what he felt now, angry was an understatement. Sherlock had looked so pale, so weak. He didn’t know what had made him walk out but as he paced back and forth in front of the hospital entrance he knew it was a good idea before he did something he would have regretted.

He saw Greg before the detective inspector saw him and entertained the thought of fleeing for a second before he lifted his arm in a wave. The DI came over looking rather out of breath and John felt his heart stop. If Greg was running after him like that, it could only mean something happened to Sherlock.

“What happened?” he asked before Lestrade even had time to take a breath. “Is he alright? Talk to me!”

“Let- me- catch- my- breath,” Lestrade puffed as he stood up. “He’s fine, well, still alive. When I left him he was crying all over Mycroft.”

John was stunned, his brain refused to compute that simple sentence. “Crying?” he repeated as his chest seemed to clench and refuse to let him breathe. “What do you mean crying?” his anger was completely gone now.

“Exactly what I said. We went into the room when you left, and I lifted him up off the floor. Mycroft took my place and I went to find a doctor and you. When I brought the doctor back he was sobbing and Mycroft dosed him with something just as I walked in.”

“With what?” John asked, his anger back. He knew Mycroft would know at least basic medical procedure but he was still wary of Sherlock being hurt. Lestrade shrugged.

“I dunno, something to make him sleep or relax, he went all limp when it was injected.”

John ran then, he didn’t know what it was, but with Sherlock just out of death he didn’t want to take any chances. Lestrade ran after him, cursing as John was quicker than he expected.

*

Sherlock was awake through whatever Mycroft had done to him. It was like he was detached from his emotions. He watched as Mycroft held him and the doctor came over.

“What did you do?” the doctor asked carefully.

“Benzodiazepine, well, a mild derivative of it. He was going to have an anxiety attack and I wasn’t going to let that happen when he’s just been through whatever he went through.”

The doctor sighed, “Why didn’t you just use Ativan?”

Mycroft arched an eyebrow, “You think he would have swallowed a pill?”

“I’m right here,” Sherlock said looking up at his brother. “And I wasn’t having an anxiety attack. I was merely asking a question.”

Mycroft smiled a little. “Of course,” he said in an uncharacteristic display of the type of brother he had never been, letting Sherlock believe something that wasn’t true. “I am Mr Holmes, and you are?” he directed at the doctor.

Sherlock knew that Mycroft would have the man checked out thoroughly before the day was out, and was thankful, even if he would never say it.

“Oh sorry,” the young man held out his hand to shake “I am Dr Kirren. And since you seem like the type of man, I graduated first of my class at Stanford, and then moved here and took a class at Oxford on an advanced surgery programme before coming here to this teaching hospital.”

Mycroft nodded, and then looked pointedly at the proffered hand, and down at his, which were still wrapped around Sherlock. The doctor blushed and lowered his hand.

“Right, let’s get him to a room and run some tests.”

“No,” Sherlock said and though the voice was low, there was authority to it that Mycroft knew he really wouldn’t do what was asked. “John will come back when Lestrade finds him. We have to be here.”

“John will know where you have gone. We have to have you checked over before something irreparable happens to you.”

Sherlock closed his eyes. “Respiratory rate is returning to normal, there is no undue pain though some stiffness from what I assume was lying in the bath that long and also the effects of the drugs on my system. The drug is now out, completely, and I feel fine if a little feverish. There you have your checks. Now we will wait.”

Mycroft sighed and shook his head at the Doctor. “Well at least let us get you to a proper bed?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes without a word. He would not move until John came back. He didn’t care how long it took or what would happen to his body in the meantime. He wasn’t stupid and he knew that he didn’t have any pressing medical concerns. He could sit on the cold floor for hours if he had to.