This chapter is partly set in the present, partly in flashback. Present time is in normal font while flashbacks are in italics.

What Did I Do Wrong?

Chapter One: The Doctor's Fall

oOOOo

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep...

Oh, that incessant beeping, it was driving Sherlock up the wall!

He scowled at its source from his perch on the chair, wishing he could rip it out of the wall just to get some peace for a while. But even he couldn't bring himself to do that, since the beeping was resonating from John's heart monitor.

He sighed, staring at the screen, reading John's heart rate there, his fingers resting lightly on his friend's wrist as if to confirm what the machine said, as if needing to feel it for himself before he felt better about this.

John's skin was deathly pale, still looking as if he were frozen. His surgery had lasted nearly five hours, during which Sherlock had been sure he was going to go mad, not knowing if John was alive or... or not.

It was all Sherlock's fault any of this had happened, and he knew it. He had been the one to ask John to come on this case, had been the one to practically insist, just like every other time.

oOOOo

"But Sherlock, I have work today," John protested, pulling on his coat to leave for the surgery.

"No, we have a case. Would you rather wipe snotty children's noses, or catch a criminal?" Sherlock replied.

John looked over at him, standing ready to leave in his usual coat and scarf, eyes eager and hopeful. The doctor sighed, and Sherlock knew he got him. That look always worked.

"Fine," John exclaimed, clearly trying to hide a smile. "But when we can't pay the rent next week, it'll be your fault."

"We'll be fine," Sherlock said dismissively. "I can always ask Mycroft to pay it."

John chuckled as they headed down the stairs. "Like your pride will allow for that!"

Sherlock smirked to himself.

oOOOo

Sherlock blinked, shaking the memories to the back of his mind palace, where he shoved them in a corner and slammed the mental door. He crossed his arms and huffed. The clock on the wall told him it was nearly midnight, but he didn't feel tired in the slightest. He'd rather watch John, hoping desperately he would wake up soon. Hoping desperately he would be alright, with no long-term effects.

Sherlock dragged his fingers through his curly hair for perhaps the hundredth time that day. Taking a shaking breath, he tried fiercely to push away the rapidly resurfacing memories, but the sight of John just kept triggering them. He just wished he could look away.

oOOOo

"Come on, John, we're losing him!" he called, feet flying across the ground in pursuit of their suspect, Evans.

"Coming!" came John's faintly annoyed reply. "Just slow down a sec, would you?"

"No, we're losing him!" Sherlock repeated, rolling his eyes and putting on another burst of speed just to spite John.

It had been a satisfying case so far, Sherlock mused, if lacking the grandeur of some. The fact that the primary suspect was a drug dealer had made both Lestrade and John hesitant to let Sherlock take the case, but the latter promised he was clean, for heavens sake. Not to mention his knowledge of the drug-dealing infrastructure would actually help them catch the perpetrator more quickly.

The perpetrator in question had killed a half-dozen homeless people in a secluded alley. None of them were druggies themselves, but Sherlock quickly decided they must have witnessed a trade or something in that vein and so had been killed to cover it up.

Once at the crime scene, Sherlock's theory was only strengthened with his rapid-fire deductions. He and John had headed to the drug dealer's usual hangout, where Sherlock had donned a disguise and made his way in to gather information and hopefully evidence to coerce a confession from Evans.

Somehow, however, they'd been discovered. Sherlock figured something in the way he spoke, too sternly to be innocent, had given him away. Idiot. And so they were yanked into a chase through the streets yet again. Though Sherlock wasn't exactly displeased. Neither, he thought, was John.

"Evans!" Sherlock shouted as they dashed onto Millennium Bridge, pushing past a few scattered pedestrians, crossing the footbridge at breakneck speed. "Evans, stop this! We have backup!"

It wasn't a lie; Lestrade was waiting on the other side of the bridge somewhere to catch him. Sherlock had predicted Evans' path of flight quite accurately, he thought with satisfaction.

Evans skidded to a stop halfway across the bridge, whipping out a gun. The pedestrians nearby who noticed screamed and ran, quickly leaving the bridge empty except for Evans, Sherlock, and John.

And then it all happened before Sherlock could react to anything. Evans leveled the gun on Sherlock's chest but then, faster than the blink of an eye, John was there somehow. But he had been behind Sherlock, so how had he gotten there, and wait when had the gun gone off? Because John was falling, tumbling over the railing and into the Thames, and Evans was running away from Sherlock, and Sherlock was screaming, frantically scanning the cold waters below for John. And then Sherlock was about to throw himself in after him because John couldn't be gone, couldn't have drowned, that just wasn't possible because this was John, strong brave amazing John and he couldn't be gone. He was down there somewhere, and Sherlock could find him, he could save him-

And then arms were on his shoulders, pulling him back, a distant voice in his ear.

"Sherlock, it's okay, mate. It's okay," Lestrade's voice drifted into his mind slowly. "We got Evans locked up and we'll get John out of there. I promise. Just come here, let's go."

"John," Sherlock was calling, weakly struggling, barely comprehending Lestrade's words. He had to get to John, as this was all his fault that John was down there bleeding and freezing. Water was too cold today, too close to freezing temperatures, and a body couldn't survive there long without contracting hypothermia or worse. And oh please no, it was John down there, bleeding and freezing and drowning and dying. And it was all Sherlock's fault.

Please no. Please let him live. Please!

oOOOo

Sherlock shook his head frantically, forcing himself out of his memories again. He couldn't afford to keep reliving this; it wasn't going to help anything. He blinked away the dampness in his eyes and tried to calm his racing heart. His gaze fixed on John again, wishing he would wake up.

But the heart monitor kept beeping, no change in anything. John slept on, still recovering from what Sherlock had done to him.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep...

oOOOo

Twenty agonizing minutes after John plunged into the Thames, Sherlock laid eyes on him again. He climbed into the ambulance, more of a flying launch than a climb really, while Lestrade behind him assured the medics he was allowed to be there. Sherlock ignored them all, leaning over John's cold, wet, bloody form. So still. Oh John why are you so still?

Gunshot wound to the gut, easily fatal. Severe hypothermia after fifteen minutes in the Thames. Definite water in lungs. Possible other minor injuries due to drowning. Two broken ribs from chest compressions.

Overall, much more than a bit not good.

While the medics worked on keeping John's heart beating, Sherlock sat next to him, unmoving and silent. The only motion, had anyone else stopped to observe, was his fingers gently stroking across the back of John's cold hand. He was quiet and moved when the medics told him to, but refused to let go. Had the medics been inside Sherlock's head at the moment, they would have heard one thing, the one thing on which the consulting detective was focused.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep...

John's alive.

But he's also dying.

And it's all my fault.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep...

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