Nothing could have possibly prepared you for what you saw when you entered that room.
You suddenly felt faint, head spinning and ears ringing, as you wondered: How could John Watson have been so strong? You were the one well-known for being strong despite the circumstance (as was John, except for the fact that he tended to show more emotion then you ever had).
Sherlock, your Sherlock, looked practically tapered to his sterilized hospital bed. You made a few mental notes of all that seemed wrong with Sherlock's external appearance: pale skin, unresponsive (of course), skinny as ever, ill, and most of all, dead. You suddenly felt as if you weighed a million tons, and you feet could not move themselves to part from the floor. Sherlock's forehead was covered with sweat, and his once perfect (and actually, after a quick revision, still perfect) brown curls stuck to the sweat and plastered themselves to his forehead.
"Sher--" you allowed the partial name to escape from your throat before you nearly collapsed next to his bed. As your body nearly hit the floor you gasped a bit, pulled a chair (thankfully in arm's reach) over to Sherlock's bedside and weakly, with a molasses-resembling speed slid yourself into it. Ensuring that you would not fall again, you grabbed onto the railing connected to Sherlock's bed and held on to it with a ever-growing steady hand.
"My Sherlock," you managed to choke out, in a tear-suppressed whisper. "Oh my God."
Sherlock's medical chart, not in it's belonging space--for it should have been hanging on the wall-hook made specifically for the patient's chart--instead laid on the nightstand containing very few of Sherlock's belongings. You figured John had looked it over and placed it there, forgetting to place it back in it's respectable area due to all of the pressure and stress he'd been going through since Sherlock's demis--
No. You dared yourself not to think of this injury as Sherlock's demise, but rather a few injuries, and a learning experience. Yes, that was better fitted for this situation. It calmed you down a bit more.
The chart stared at you, begging you, pleading with you to pick it up and indulgently read through its descriptive words--the ones that described the injuries of Sherlock Holmes.
You were afraid.
You did not want to read them.
After about a few minutes of side-eyeing the chart with an evil glare, as if it could physically harm you in some way, you snatched it up, for the temptation of reading it had won out against your unwillingness to discover the truth about the harm done to Sherlock.
Looking down at the first sheet of paper lying on the clipboard, you began to read:
28 shots in total.
You breathing hitched as your eyes moved beyond those words, only to find a diagram of the human body, with arrows, marks, and a few written notes indicating all of Sherlock's wound wherever they were located on the body. Below, there was a complete written transcription of the diagram. It read: Two bullet wounds in abdomen, three bullet wounds in upper chest area, bullet-grazing on left side of neck, eight bullet wounds in right leg, six bullet wounds in left leg, two bullet wounds in left arm, and-- you gasped when you read the last phrase of the transcription: one slight bullet wound in left side of cranium.
'Oh no', you thought, helplessly allowing the chart to fall from your hands and go crashing to the floor. On the other pages of the chart, there were more in-depth explanations of each wound, but you could not bring yourself to read them. Ever. You dropped your head in your hands. It was only seconds before that action that you noticed the blood-infused bandage covering most of Sherlock's head.
'Oh no', you thought once more. How blind could you have been not to have noticed all of these things when you'd first entered the room? To your knowledge, from what you'd briefly skimmed over on the chart, all of Sherlock's wounds had been operated on, so for the most part, you didn't really have to worry about them suddenly whisking him away for some type of surgery.
Unless something went horribly wrong.
Unless something went horribly wrong.
No, no, no, you would definitely not allow yourself to think that way. Sherlock would be fine, perfectly fine. He would resume his life at Baker Street, the way it was prior to the way it was before the shooting. He would return to solving crimes, John would once again be by his side, you--
What would you do after Sherlock's recovery? Would you live in 221B Baker Street like you once had? No, you would give John and Sherlock their space. Would you visit 221B Baker Street? Maybe, if Sherlock accepted your presence. Or would he? Would he reject your presence? Would he not want you there at all? Would he just perceive you as a an object of the long ago past, and just--
No. This was not time to think about yourself, this was time to think about Sherlock's wellness. You immediately chided yourself for being so selfish and turned all of your attention back to the broken Sherlock that lay before you.
Broken? No. Sherlock was well, perfectly well, right?
He had to be.
If he wouldn't, you...you'd...
No. That was enough. You had to be there for poor Sherlock in that moment, and what was else would occur after was to be dealt with then, and only then.
Slowly, like molasses, you reached out to rest your fingertips on the portion of Sherlock's forehead in which the blood-soaked bandage did not cover. In soft, yet steady motions, you gently stroked the slowly beading sweat from off of his forehead. You stroked his curls in a direction away from the sweat. You stroked away a small fragment of dirt that lay in Sherlock's hairline.
You imagined yourself as stroking away the pain. For you, Sherlock, or the both of you? You had no clue yourself.
Gently, with your other hand, you touched Sherlock's heart. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat correlated perfectly with the sounding heart monitor which resounded its sound off of the smooth hospital walls.
You looked at Sherlock's eyelids--stared at them--picturing them opening, allowing his piercing orbs, their color a mixture of the most beautiful blue and greens to have ever crossed your field of vision, to mirror your intense gaze (and then some), to stare deep into your soul, to read every part of your being whether it be from the present, past, or future. You mentally once more visualized his eyes fluttering open. As they would, you would speak to him, kiss his forehead softly, and tell him how much you cared for him.
Staring at his eyelids, intense and concentrated, you could only formulate one plausible thought in your mind:
Accompanied or not, you were going to kill whoever did this to Sherlock.
And that was a promise, a definite guarantee.