This is what happened while Watts was unconscious during "The Death of Kendrick Ryen" chapter of Of Jackals and Crusaders. If you haven't read that chapter yet, I highly recommend you do so before reading this. In fact, I recommend you read the whole book, but at the very least you need to read that chapter.
Go on, this isn't going anywhere. We're talking major spoilers ahead. Shoo, go read.
You read it?
Enjoy.
Go on, this isn't going anywhere. We're talking major spoilers ahead. Shoo, go read.
You read it?
Enjoy.
Sherlock made his way through the dust, ignoring the pain in his chest and leg. The grenade blast had signaled an end to hostilities. Ryen had run off after throwing it, and the two men had followed suit.
Sherlock didn’t care. “Watts!” he screamed, running to his friend, heart in his throat. "No," he muttered as he saw the body covered in blood, his limbs askew at unnatural angles, the right side of his face destroyed... "Dear god, no." He forced himself not to panic, choked it down until he achieved some semblance of control. He felt for Watts' pulse - there. Faint, but there. He was still alive.
"Where the hell is that infernal card," he cursed as he went through Watts' pockets until he finally found the card that would summon an ambulance. He activated it, and found himself saying the same words Watts had said to him so many times before; "Just five minutes. Hang on for five minutes."
His fingers never left Watts' pulse in that time. “Damn it, Watts, why did you have to shoot at them? Why couldn’t you let me protect you, why do you constantly insist on putting yourself in harm’s way, just for my benefit… you can't die. Please," he cried in agony. He felt tears on his face. The pulse fluttered, paused, but came back, faint. “Damn it, where are they? I - I don't know what I'll do if you die. I will go mad if they take you from me, if my foolishness and arrogance takes you… oh god it’s my fault… so much blood on my hands, but yours… No. No, no, no don't go! James!" the pulse came back, barely there, erratic. He shuddered, exhausted, and for the first time in his life, Sherlock found himself on the verge of praying. The words were nearly on his lips when the sounds of an ambulance siren echoed over the concrete wasteland.
Sherlock became aware that he was bleeding - a lot. He hadn't noticed, running on adrenaline. Pushing the pain aside, he saw Watts loaded into the ambulance, climbed in after him, ignoring the medics exclamations of surprise upon seeing his tattered leg, bloody side, ignored the pain in his chest, all his attention on Watts…
Darkness closed in around the detective, his eyes on the shattered face of his friend. I will make this right, he swore to himself. Then everything went black.
The fluorescent light was blinding for an instant. Slowly, Sherlock’s eyes adjusted. He was in a hospital room. He ached all over. There was a warm, tingling sensation in his right leg, not quite painful - he recognized the sensation as a muscle-weave.
“Hey, you’re awake,” a familiar voice said to his left.
Sherlock turned his head towards the sound. “Red? What are you doing here?”
“Checking on you. You’ve been out for a day.”
“A day?!” Sherlock started to sit up in surprise, ignoring the pain, but Red’s firm hand stopped him.
“Lie back down, damn it,” she was surprisingly tender and scolding, simultaneously.
Reluctantly, Sherlock complied. “Where’s Watts?”
“In a hospital bed of his own. They’ve got him all patched up. Just waiting for him to wake.”
Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“They don’t know when... or even if he’s going to wake up. He was in bad shape. Very bad.”
Sherlock felt as though the floor had fallen out from under him. His heart sank, his mind raced, a flash of panic threatened to well up from somewhere deep inside him until his rational nature, that character he had worked so hard to nurture for most of his life, regained control, pushing the panic back.
“What are the chances of him waking?”
“None of the doctors are willing to make a concrete diagnosis, they just keep saying it’s up to Watts and that all we can do now is wait.”
The cool, rational mind faltered. “I need to see him.”
“Sherlock, you aren’t leaving here for a while. You’ve got broken ribs, your whole body is bruised, the weave they’ve got your leg on isn’t complete -”
“I need to see him, Red.”
Red sighed. “Alright, I’ll ask.”
Sherlock sat in the chair by Watts’ bed. His usual calm detachment had vanished as soon as he saw Watts’ face. Watts’ right eye was surrounded by steel, the cybernetic eye itself thankfully covered by an eyelid of translucent material. His left arm was in a cast, right leg heavily bandaged.
“I am so sorry, James,” Sherlock whispered, his fingers brushing the side of his friend’s face.
The doctors were not encouraging. Even with all the advances in medical technology, head injuries and their effect on the mind were still a mysterious matter. There was no way to know for certain when Watts would wake up. If he ever woke up.
He had to wake up.
He had to. If he didn’t…
He had to wake up.
“He’ll wake up,” Red said, as if she were certain of it.
Sherlock took a slow, deep breath. “Yes. Of course he will,” he lied to himself. “At any rate, worrying about it won’t make it happen any faster. I must focus on my own injuries, on getting back to work.” Red was looking at him strangely. “Is something wrong, detective?”
Red shrugged a little. “Not sure, honestly. Look, you’re irritatingly fun to work with, but I don’t have any idea how your mind actually functions, how it would handle emotional trauma. All I know is you’re not ok, no matter what act you want to put on, and I know I feel partially responsible for all this since I asked you to go after Ryen in the first place. You just tell me what you need, be honest about it, and I’ll do whatever I can to help.”
Sherlock regarded her for a moment, expressionless. A small, wry grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “It would help to have work. Do you find that callous?”
Red rolled her eyes, “No, I’ve never heard of anyone using work to ignore emotional duress,” she drawled with a sarcasm that would put Watts to shame. “But if that’s what you want, you’ll have to get back into bed.”
Waiting to heal was agonizing, but necessary. At the end of the second day, he convinced the staff to release him. He was glad to be back in his own clothes, the familiar feel of his stick in his hand a small comfort - even if he did actually use it for support. His leg wasn’t quite up to full strength yet. It got tired after a certain amount of time depending on its activity, but it was enough to work with, and he had a great deal of work to do.
He found him in an alley between warehouses.
“Who are you working for?”
“Who the hell are you?”
“That’s not important,” he grabbed Ryen’s hands before he could go for a weapon, pinning them behind his back and forcing Ryen to the ground. “None of that. Who are you working for? You had a meeting with two men four days ago, who were they?”
“If you think roughing me up a little is gonna make me talk -”
Sherlock stood up. Before Ryen could get up or turn around, he felt the point of a blade on the back of his neck. “Mr. Ryen,” Sherlock’s voice was coldly pleasant, “do not think for a moment that I will not run this through your spine and out the other side, pinning you to the street as a biological specimen. With whom did you meet four days ago?”
Ryen hesitated. The blade pressed down. “I didn’t know their names! Not their real ones, anyway. Just an interested party.”
“And what was said that made the deal go wrong?”
“Demanded the terms be changed. Didn’t like their manner, all high and mighty. Insults were traded. Things got ugly, tempers runnin’ hot, it happens.”
“Why did you throw a grenade?”
“I was outnumbered - how’d you know -”
“Two to one warrants a grenade?”
“There were at least three! Third one jumped up out of hiding and started shooting. Figured there were more, so…”
Sherlock felt the blood drain from his face. An accident. Watts was in the hospital, because of a misunderstanding. Sherlock was devastated, and enraged. “Who are you working for?”
“I can’t tell you.” Ryen cried in pain as a trickle of blood dripped down his neck. “I can’t tell you! She’d kill me.”
“As will I if you don’t give me her name.”
“No way, man. Anything you do to me is nothing compared to what she’d do. You wanna kill me, go for it, just make it fast and quick.”
Sherlock swore, and granted Ryen’s request.
He stalked up and down the alley, trying and failing to get his emotions under control. Damn it all to hell, what was wrong with him? Watts was dying because of an accident, because he’d insisted on following, because they hadn’t retreated in time, because he kept trying to save him, because the universe was cruel and what was the point of it all if he couldn’t even keep the man he loved safe!?
He struck the wall, leaving an imprint. He looked at Ryen’s body, the blood pooling beneath his neck and spreading down the pavement. He realized his sword was still bloody, wiping it off with a handkerchief.
“He asked me to,” he said to the apparition beside the opposite wall, “and he was far from an innocent.” She vanished. He sheathed his sword and set fire to the cloth.
His leg hurt. So did his chest… though he didn’t think it was the result of an injury. His vision blurred briefly. He sank to the ground and watched the handkerchief burn.
As it faded to ash and ember, Sherlock stood and walked home.
Sherlock didn’t care. “Watts!” he screamed, running to his friend, heart in his throat. "No," he muttered as he saw the body covered in blood, his limbs askew at unnatural angles, the right side of his face destroyed... "Dear god, no." He forced himself not to panic, choked it down until he achieved some semblance of control. He felt for Watts' pulse - there. Faint, but there. He was still alive.
"Where the hell is that infernal card," he cursed as he went through Watts' pockets until he finally found the card that would summon an ambulance. He activated it, and found himself saying the same words Watts had said to him so many times before; "Just five minutes. Hang on for five minutes."
His fingers never left Watts' pulse in that time. “Damn it, Watts, why did you have to shoot at them? Why couldn’t you let me protect you, why do you constantly insist on putting yourself in harm’s way, just for my benefit… you can't die. Please," he cried in agony. He felt tears on his face. The pulse fluttered, paused, but came back, faint. “Damn it, where are they? I - I don't know what I'll do if you die. I will go mad if they take you from me, if my foolishness and arrogance takes you… oh god it’s my fault… so much blood on my hands, but yours… No. No, no, no don't go! James!" the pulse came back, barely there, erratic. He shuddered, exhausted, and for the first time in his life, Sherlock found himself on the verge of praying. The words were nearly on his lips when the sounds of an ambulance siren echoed over the concrete wasteland.
Sherlock became aware that he was bleeding - a lot. He hadn't noticed, running on adrenaline. Pushing the pain aside, he saw Watts loaded into the ambulance, climbed in after him, ignoring the medics exclamations of surprise upon seeing his tattered leg, bloody side, ignored the pain in his chest, all his attention on Watts…
Darkness closed in around the detective, his eyes on the shattered face of his friend. I will make this right, he swore to himself. Then everything went black.
The fluorescent light was blinding for an instant. Slowly, Sherlock’s eyes adjusted. He was in a hospital room. He ached all over. There was a warm, tingling sensation in his right leg, not quite painful - he recognized the sensation as a muscle-weave.
“Hey, you’re awake,” a familiar voice said to his left.
Sherlock turned his head towards the sound. “Red? What are you doing here?”
“Checking on you. You’ve been out for a day.”
“A day?!” Sherlock started to sit up in surprise, ignoring the pain, but Red’s firm hand stopped him.
“Lie back down, damn it,” she was surprisingly tender and scolding, simultaneously.
Reluctantly, Sherlock complied. “Where’s Watts?”
“In a hospital bed of his own. They’ve got him all patched up. Just waiting for him to wake.”
Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“They don’t know when... or even if he’s going to wake up. He was in bad shape. Very bad.”
Sherlock felt as though the floor had fallen out from under him. His heart sank, his mind raced, a flash of panic threatened to well up from somewhere deep inside him until his rational nature, that character he had worked so hard to nurture for most of his life, regained control, pushing the panic back.
“What are the chances of him waking?”
“None of the doctors are willing to make a concrete diagnosis, they just keep saying it’s up to Watts and that all we can do now is wait.”
The cool, rational mind faltered. “I need to see him.”
“Sherlock, you aren’t leaving here for a while. You’ve got broken ribs, your whole body is bruised, the weave they’ve got your leg on isn’t complete -”
“I need to see him, Red.”
Red sighed. “Alright, I’ll ask.”
Sherlock sat in the chair by Watts’ bed. His usual calm detachment had vanished as soon as he saw Watts’ face. Watts’ right eye was surrounded by steel, the cybernetic eye itself thankfully covered by an eyelid of translucent material. His left arm was in a cast, right leg heavily bandaged.
“I am so sorry, James,” Sherlock whispered, his fingers brushing the side of his friend’s face.
The doctors were not encouraging. Even with all the advances in medical technology, head injuries and their effect on the mind were still a mysterious matter. There was no way to know for certain when Watts would wake up. If he ever woke up.
He had to wake up.
He had to. If he didn’t…
He had to wake up.
“He’ll wake up,” Red said, as if she were certain of it.
Sherlock took a slow, deep breath. “Yes. Of course he will,” he lied to himself. “At any rate, worrying about it won’t make it happen any faster. I must focus on my own injuries, on getting back to work.” Red was looking at him strangely. “Is something wrong, detective?”
Red shrugged a little. “Not sure, honestly. Look, you’re irritatingly fun to work with, but I don’t have any idea how your mind actually functions, how it would handle emotional trauma. All I know is you’re not ok, no matter what act you want to put on, and I know I feel partially responsible for all this since I asked you to go after Ryen in the first place. You just tell me what you need, be honest about it, and I’ll do whatever I can to help.”
Sherlock regarded her for a moment, expressionless. A small, wry grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “It would help to have work. Do you find that callous?”
Red rolled her eyes, “No, I’ve never heard of anyone using work to ignore emotional duress,” she drawled with a sarcasm that would put Watts to shame. “But if that’s what you want, you’ll have to get back into bed.”
Waiting to heal was agonizing, but necessary. At the end of the second day, he convinced the staff to release him. He was glad to be back in his own clothes, the familiar feel of his stick in his hand a small comfort - even if he did actually use it for support. His leg wasn’t quite up to full strength yet. It got tired after a certain amount of time depending on its activity, but it was enough to work with, and he had a great deal of work to do.
He found him in an alley between warehouses.
“Who are you working for?”
“Who the hell are you?”
“That’s not important,” he grabbed Ryen’s hands before he could go for a weapon, pinning them behind his back and forcing Ryen to the ground. “None of that. Who are you working for? You had a meeting with two men four days ago, who were they?”
“If you think roughing me up a little is gonna make me talk -”
Sherlock stood up. Before Ryen could get up or turn around, he felt the point of a blade on the back of his neck. “Mr. Ryen,” Sherlock’s voice was coldly pleasant, “do not think for a moment that I will not run this through your spine and out the other side, pinning you to the street as a biological specimen. With whom did you meet four days ago?”
Ryen hesitated. The blade pressed down. “I didn’t know their names! Not their real ones, anyway. Just an interested party.”
“And what was said that made the deal go wrong?”
“Demanded the terms be changed. Didn’t like their manner, all high and mighty. Insults were traded. Things got ugly, tempers runnin’ hot, it happens.”
“Why did you throw a grenade?”
“I was outnumbered - how’d you know -”
“Two to one warrants a grenade?”
“There were at least three! Third one jumped up out of hiding and started shooting. Figured there were more, so…”
Sherlock felt the blood drain from his face. An accident. Watts was in the hospital, because of a misunderstanding. Sherlock was devastated, and enraged. “Who are you working for?”
“I can’t tell you.” Ryen cried in pain as a trickle of blood dripped down his neck. “I can’t tell you! She’d kill me.”
“As will I if you don’t give me her name.”
“No way, man. Anything you do to me is nothing compared to what she’d do. You wanna kill me, go for it, just make it fast and quick.”
Sherlock swore, and granted Ryen’s request.
He stalked up and down the alley, trying and failing to get his emotions under control. Damn it all to hell, what was wrong with him? Watts was dying because of an accident, because he’d insisted on following, because they hadn’t retreated in time, because he kept trying to save him, because the universe was cruel and what was the point of it all if he couldn’t even keep the man he loved safe!?
He struck the wall, leaving an imprint. He looked at Ryen’s body, the blood pooling beneath his neck and spreading down the pavement. He realized his sword was still bloody, wiping it off with a handkerchief.
“He asked me to,” he said to the apparition beside the opposite wall, “and he was far from an innocent.” She vanished. He sheathed his sword and set fire to the cloth.
His leg hurt. So did his chest… though he didn’t think it was the result of an injury. His vision blurred briefly. He sank to the ground and watched the handkerchief burn.
As it faded to ash and ember, Sherlock stood and walked home.
