Chapter Text
Baker Street, specifically the flat situation, was different than it used to be. There was no longer a C flat, but a very much larger flat that had breathed through walls and doors, adding another bedroom, a full albeit small bathroom, some closet space, and now accommodated two grown men and a teenager. Sherlock still occupied the downstairs bedroom; John and Rosie had their own spaces upstairs. Of the three rooms, only the former military personnel kept the room neat, tidy, and completely organised. And the clean, orderly one fussed periodically at the others, knowing he had zero control over one of them, to be honest. Rosie listened and did clean when prompted, but mostly, John was skilled at choosing his battles, and often keeping her room clean, he let slide (though sometimes, he did close the door so he didn't have to look at it).
They've settled into a routine, now and then John going on random dates, and Sherlock still mocking those John dated. Mostly, Rosie didn't seem to mind, and of course, John kept it low-key, and she was engaged with school, a few good friends, and figuring out what being thirteen involved. It was the unusual woman who could tolerate more than one outing with the good Dr. Watson, and when one did manage to go for round three, it was as if the gloves came off for Sherlock. The deductions, severe, and the more personal, the better.
John swore off dating, off women, and occasionally swore he was moving out. Although this threat happened more than once, in the end, he would either forget or decide one more try might be worth it. And he had very little inclination to put Rosie through a relocation.
So he would evaluate if it was worth the risk of moving out, of getting serious, of pursuing these things he thought he might want. It never was. And not that he was paying too much attention, but the last date was over a year previously.
Mostly, John was satisfied with his life, professionally a flexible clinic with some triage call now and then, done via telehealth or a simple audio phone call. Rosie, doing well in school, starting to consider an instrument, a sport, a vocal singing group. Her tribe included Mrs. Hudson, honourary grandmama, and Sherlock's parents, who doted on her and would spoil her if John didn't intervene. She would do an occasional outing with Molly, and would come back with froofy and frilly things, an occasional new fingernail colour, and one time Molly planned ahead with a pre-arranged surprise (fully endorsed by John) and they met at John's office, where one of his colleagues did a very professional, very tasteful, very safe ear piercing. Rosie, at thirteen, was beyond thrilled.
Sherlock and John co-parented, though they didn't call it that. Rosie called him Sherlock, John of course was papa. But it was a joint effort at times, especially once she got busier. Her mobile, a gift from Mycroft, had enough features to keep her happy while allowing for some parental controls so John could keep track of her location and her browsing. There seemed always something to coordinate, other parents to touch base with, various adults leaving messages, or Rosie herself interspersing every hundredth text or so with an actual call.
So when John's mobile rang, even from an unrecognised number, it wasn't necessarily that unusual.
Until it was.
++
"Hello?"
"This is Silvia, from the A&E at Chelsea and Westminster hospital. I'm looking to speak with John Watson."
The introduction, the premise never positive, and instantly John could feel the entirety of his stomach lurch. And drop. Oh god. "Speaking." John gripped the mobile, tension building in his hand, his head, his back. Home alone, he braced for what obviously was not a good notification.
"I'm calling to let you know Rosamund Watson is a patient here. There was an automobile accident, and she was brought in by ambulance. They're working on her now, and the senior doctor here asked me to call you." Rosie had made plans after school to be with a friend, the parents were taking them shopping and then doing alleged homework together, then she would be - she was supposed to be - home for dinner. "Mr. Watson?"
The shock of the news, the sudden jolt of information, hit John like a sucker punch, and he took a deep and slightly painful breath. His skin tingled, heart pounding as he clutched the mobile. Then, almost automatically, John switched into crisis mode. "Is she okay? What are her injuries?"
"I don't have that information for you. Given her age, I do need permission from you to continue treatment. The emergency protocols allow us to do a lot, but we typically contact a parent as soon as possible."
"Yes. Of course," his fingers, cramped, shifting his hold, and he looked around, knowing he needed to get moving. Mobilise. "How long has she been there?" John pocketed his keys, wallet, and reached for his coat as he asked the question.
"Registration time was ... about fifteen minutes ago. We got your number from her mobile."
John heard that, understood that, and it hit him hard that Rosie didn't give the info. It was retrieved. Serious then, if she was unable. Or unwilling? "I'm leaving now." His mouth was dry, words coming clipped and tight. "So you don't have any information about the extent of her injuries at all? Is she conscious, do you know?"
"I'm sorry, all I can tell you is they're working on her, to get her stabilised. Come to the A&E registration when you arrive, and someone will help you."
"All right." He can't bring himself to say thank you before hanging up.
The flat looked empty, hollow, lifeless. Sherlock was somewhere, working a case with Lestrade. The stresses of his earlier shift at the clinic all seemed a lifetime ago. Taking a deep breath, he looked about once more before making a quick run upstairs. Rosie's room, part of the addition, was just as she'd left it - a jacket thrown on the floor, a discarded wardrobe option from the morning, the sheets partially pulled up, pillow askew. Inside, he reminded himself to be calm, rational. Doing so, he grabbed her empty backpack, the old one from last year, and inside placed some items: phone charger, fleece blanket, stuffed animal from her bed. As he worked, he pressed a speed dial on his mobile, Sherlock of course, and he was disappointed when it went immediately into a message. "The number you have dialed is not in service at this time, please check the number and dial again..."
He opened messages, cued up Sherlock's thread, hit the speaker, and spoke, "Hey, call me when you get this."
Undeliverable.
Going across to his own room, the old original tiny one, he did a similar gathering: sweater, charger, book though he knew he'd never open it. His feet were sure though rushed on the stairs back down. A few more items before leaving, he tossed in his refillable water flask, a few snacks from their kitchen. On the notepad on the desk, he wrote a quick message for Sherlock, if they couldn't connect by mobile: Call me asap, Rosie's at Chelsea/Westchester, followed by his unreadable initials, JW.
It had been ninety seconds since hanging up from the hospital call. Since the only thing that mattered ... needed him.
The wait for a cab, though less than two minutes, seemed endless. The drive to the hospital, similar, measurable certainly but feeling interminable.
From the back of the cab, en route, he checked her location on the mobile (at the hospital) and Sherlock, who was off the grid completely, which was certainly inconvenient but not unusual exactly. He searched for and located the parents whom Rosie had been with, and sent off a benign text message, hey is everything okay? variety. Until he had further information, he certainly wasn't going to elaborate, and he didn't know if Rosie's friend had also been involved. He tried to call Sherlock again, and again was unsuccessful. He tried Greg Lestrade, a text message of more urgency, 'Have Sherlock call me ASAP' but the message remained unread and undelivered. He presumed then, that they were both somewhere that had insufficient mobile coverage. Beyond that, he stared out the window, trying to slow down his breathing, trying to keep himself from imagining the absolute worst.
The cab pulled up to the very doors of the A&E, John paid the driver, paying cursory attention to the amount, and entered the building. Behind the desk was a locked door, a gateway into the department. Off to her side, a security guard behind glass walls, viewing several departments, a central vantage point, at the door. The clerk had a computer open, several phones in front of her, wristbands and tags and other means of identification.
There were people waiting at the desk, and a triage system in progress. and John could barely stand it as one person in front asked about amenities in the cafeteria, needed explicitly written directions to get somewhere, and the one immediately in front of John wanted to expound on every non-emergent symptom that brought them in. When it was finally his turn, he said, "My daughter's in A&E. I got a phone call to come."
"Name?" Her fingers were poised over the keyboard.
"Watson. Rosamund."
"And you are?" Her fingers flew, a very quick entry, and she watched the screen.
"Her father. John Watson."
She nodded. John studied her face as she perused the information that came up, and he could see the very moment she spied the name. Then, she picked up the phone. "I have parent for Watson out front." Another pause, and the clerk nodded, hung up. "Someone will be right out to get you." She touched another few buttons, and a tag printed. She handed it to him, her voice perhaps a little softer, gentler. "You'll need to wear this while you're in the building."
He barely looked at it, designating it that he was a visitor for Watson, his name and today's date, as he peeled it and stuck it to his lapel.
She pointed to the door, indicating that he should wait there, and began to talk to the person in line behind John. "What brings you in today?"
The door opened eventually, and a spritely little scrub-wearing person came to the entryway, beckoned him through. "I'm Dr. Kerns. Maddie." She reached out a hand to shake his, and indicated he should follow. John squelched down the immediate reaction to drill her with questions, to be already alarmed that a physician was already talking to him, rather than one of the nurses or techs.
"John Watson. Rosamund's father." The door to the intake area closed behind them, and he couldn't stop the plea. "Please, how is Rosie?"
She stopped in the hallway, a bit out of the main hallway in the A&E, and her expression was solemn. "She's in the CAT scanner now, or I would take you directly to her. Hallways good, better perhaps, quieter, believe it or not." Her words were quick, and she didn't wait. "So Rosamund was brought in a little over half an hour ago, she was involved as a restrained rear-seated passenger in a car, hit broadside by another large vehicle. When the ambulance arrived, they found her awake, eyes open, but she didn't talk to them when they asked. They had to cut away part of the car to get her out, and put a special collar around her neck --"
"Sorry to interrupt, I'm a physician, so ..."
Maddie smiled, nodded her head, and continued, "That's helpful, thank you. C-spine immobilisation. She has a significant head injury, a scalp lac on the right, contusion for sure. Likely concussed. Her hands must have been up, protecting her face at impact from flying glass, so there are some significant wounds along her arms, the back of her hands. Will get some xrays on the right one, a bit misshapen and likely fractured. While she's in CT, they'll dash into the radiology department for a few other images. Protocol for any significant traumatic injury."
"So awake. Responsive?"
"Purposeful but not interactive. Confused and agitated on scene. Appropriately withdraws to pain. But not talking. Protective reflexes are intact."
"Airway is okay? And vitals?"
"For the moment, yes. Breathing okay. Fast. Rest of her vitals, for the most part, yes, stable. Heart rate is up, blood pressure, a little low. Not uncommon."
"How long will they be in CT? God I really need to lay eyes on her."
"She just went over. And they'll do the trauma scan while she's there, so she'll be a little while yet."
John nodded, understanding that she was referring to the xrays taken of chest, abdomen, pelvis, and extremities as an overall precaution, searching for and ruling out injury. "What are you expecting the CT to show?"
Maddie smiled at him. "I think we'll let the radiologist give an official reading. I can't answer that, much as I'd like to." She tilted her head, indicating, follow me, and led John a few rooms down to one of their larger trauma bays. It occurred to him then, seeing the large room with so much emergency equipment at hand, that Rosie had been placed in a trauma bay capable of trauma resuscitation, and although he was not surprised, he nearly staggered with the realisation. "Have a seat. She'll be returning here when they're done. And I'll let you know what the labs show. When the CT is read, I'll come tell you." Her hand was warm as she reached out to steady him as John did sit down as she'd instructed. When John was finally alone, he took a very shuddering, very raggedy deep breath. His mobile remained quiet, though he woke it up, anxiously. The room told a story, as he looked around, to observe. Her clothes, cut off, were hastily shoved in a belonging bag that was next to him on the counter. Inside, her mobile, her crossbody bag, a few dots of what might have been blood, as were her trainers. Equipment wise, John took note of the packages from the IV starts, the empty wrapper from the IV fluid bag, the lab tubes on the counter, left there as remnants of whatever they'd already sent. The stretcher of course was missing, the portable monitor as well, and he tried to sit in the stiff plastic chair, but his nervous energy drove him to his feet again.
He tried again to locate Sherlock's GPS signal, found him still off the grid. He sent off another text message, 'call me,' in case that delivered first, as he tried not to think of MVA complications of adolescents, presentations of head injury, and the rest of the damage that they might find. Part of him was somewhat grateful that her hands would likely have protected her eyes, though it worried him about all of that too - scarring, fine motor issues, tendons ... He forced himself to stop. Pacing there in the room, he wondered about the driver, the other vehicle, Rosie's friend, and what had actually happened.
But mostly, he wanted information about his daughter. His Rosie.
And he wanted Sherlock. To help him navigate, to keep him from freaking out, to ask the questions John wasn't processing right now. The solitude, oppressive, heavy in a crisis, very unnerving. Laying his hand on her bag of clothes, he forced himself to take a few deep breaths while he waited.