Old Habits

After the Moriarty terror, Sherlock has been thinking nonstop about him, until his only escape turns out to be a small white pill.


12. 12

Sherlock was rushed to the hospital, he was barely breathing and his consciousness was lost. Immediately he was hooked to machines to keep him alive as long as possible while Molly worked on finishing the antidote. Sherlocks unconscious body was surrounded by people. His friends. John, Mary and William. Lestrade, Anderson, and Sally. Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft. Anderson had called them all to join around him in his dying moments. His breathing was shallow even helped along by machines. Tears were shed by every visitor as they watched his chest rise and fall at an unsteady rate.

John couldn't control himself as he burst into tears, Mary held him and William as she here self fought back crying. Sherlock was like family to both of them, he would always be their protector, in life, or death. Life without him would be hell on them both.

Lestrade remembered the first time him and Sherlock had met. It wasn't on a case, or around a murder scene, it had been at a news stand. They were both younger, and Sherlock had brought up the fact Lestrade was troubled and offered to help. A sign of kindness he rarely showed again but remained in Lestrades brain.

Anderson and Sherlock had met on a case, and immediately they disagreed. Before him Anderson had been the best, but once Lestrade brought in Sherlock he was bumped down. Anderson would never admit his hate was out of jealousy, nor would be admit to adoring Sherlock.

Sally too secretively looked up to him. Wanting to know how he did it, how he solved the cases with clues undiscovered by anyone else. She loved Sherlock but knew he would never love her back, and unlike Molly she could hide it.

Mrs. Hudson cried, she new Sherlock was dying, she knew she would soon be living alone. Sherlock and John had been like sons to her. Watching Sherlocks body struggle for life was like a knife stabbing in her chest.

Mycroft watched his brothers chest limply rise and fall. It was his fault Sherlock was dead, he had gotten him into drugs again simply to save himself. It was because of him Sherlock was now dying. His little brother he had tried so dearly to protect was now falling victim to death because of his stupid idea. Mycroft had never cried in his life until this moment. The tears began and refused to stop.

Molly rushed in. "Excuse me" she muttered, tears in her eyes. She held a syringe. "I'm not quite sure if it will work"

"It's all we've got" Lestrade reminded her.

Molly stood behind Sherlock, watching his body twitch. She loved Sherlock, she deeply loved him, more than herself. She couldn't bare to see him suffer the pain of death. But she couldn't bare to be the one to kill him if her concoction failed. She slid the needle into the crook of his elbow and shot it in.

The room was silent as they all waited for something, anything. Nothing happened for minutes on end. Tears fell harder as they came to the realization that Sherlock was dead. The heart monitor however began to make steady improvements. "Molly you did it!" Anderson shouted, flinging himself onto her.

"Not yet, he's still out cold." She reminded him, pushing him off.

Sherlock groaned as he moved slightly in the hospital bed. Barely awake and still barely breathing but finally conscious, and definitely living.


"He's awake"




"Give him space!" John ordered pushing the rest of them back as he knelt beside the bed. "Sherlock?" Sherlock groaned again and opened his eyes. Staring at John, then surveying the room. "Sherlock, can you hear me?" Sherlock pushed himself up and met the eyes of everybody in the room one by one. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock eyes met with Johns. His mouth opened slightly. "Who?"

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