A/N: I wrote this as epic friendship, but if you want to see it as pre-slash, I will not disabuse you of that notion ;)
See end notes for tongue-in-cheek warnings.
John woke to the steady beep of a heart monitor. His doctor's senses kicked in immediately, informing him that he was in hospital. He twitched and moved his hand from its position on his chest to his side, brushing the railing on the side of his bed. He inhaled the familiar scent of disinfectant and sighed. He lay there for a few more moments while he quietly took inventory of his body. He ascertained that he didn't seem to have any serious injuries; he could sense no limbs in casts, nor could he feel the pressure of bandages anywhere. Finally, he slowly opened his eyes, squinting and blinking into the bright fluorescent lighting. He turned his head and found himself looking into the pale blue eyes of Mycroft Holmes.
"John. Awake, finally. How do you feel?" Mycroft reached inside his jacket for his phone, typed out a quick text and returned his phone to his pocket, eyes never leaving John's face.
John squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again, blinking rapidly as he tried to get his bearings. He licked his lips in preparation for speaking and found them dry and chapped. His body shifted slightly towards the man in the chair.
"Mycroft," he croaked hoarsely. "What are you doing here?"
Mycroft's expression was unreadable as he studied the man before him. "Waiting for you to wake up, obviously."
John managed enough strength to smirk. "Pardon me for saying so, but you've never struck me as the type to hold bedside vigils."
Mycroft's mouth tilted in a slight smile. "Indeed. You know me well. I've only been here since yesterday, when I received the call that you were exhibiting signs that suggested a return to consciousness within twenty-four hours." He spread his arms. "Hence the visit."
John wrinkled his brow in confusion. "You've been here since yesterday? How long have I been out?"
Mycroft's mouth twisted down in a frown. "You've been in a coma for over a year, John. Thirteen months, two weeks, five days, ten hours and..." He paused as he checked his watch. "... twelve minutes, to be precise."
John's jaw dropped. He struggled to sit up, but Mycroft was right there, a gently restraining hand on his arm. "Lie still," he ordered in a tone of voice that brooked no argument. "You're too weak yet to sit up on your own." He reached down under the bed and pushed a lever, causing the upper part of the bed to rise to a comfortable position before coming to rest.
"Thank you," John managed to choke out in spite of his shock. He stared at Mycroft in disbelief. It took a bit more effort to untangle his tongue for further speech.
"A coma. For over a year." His chest clenched in fear as his mind registered the conspicuous absence of a certain someone. When one of them was hurt, both of them usually were. Panic must have shown on his face because Mycroft was quick to reassure before he could even say a word.
"He's fine. No injuries sustained on his part."
John closed his eyes against the rush of relief that overwhelmed the faint stab of disappointment. Of course Sherlock wouldn't be bothered to watch over John as he languished in a hospital bed. He understood, he really did. He knew how his friend operated, and he would never expect him to express concern like a normal person. But he also knew his friend for real. He was convinced, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Sherlock cared about him, despite his carefully cultivated facade of indifference. Caring, though, never delivered results. In the detective's mind, it would be a colossal waste of time to sit by John's bedside as he slept. What could possibly be accomplished by such an act? It was a useless gesture that yielded no fruit. Of what use was an unconscious John Watson? Only when John was well and truly awake would Sherlock deem it worth his while to show up. And even then, after all this time... an entire year... John would be surprised if Sherlock would even bother. He probably hadn't spared a thought for him in months. He had more than likely completely moved on by now, dismissing John as a lost cause and relegating him to a dusty corner of his mind palace. Something that belonged in the past, and was no longer relevant to his life.
Extreme sadness settled over John, leaving him more exhausted than a 5K run.
Mycroft lifted an eyebrow at John's expression. He cleared his throat, then opened his mouth to prove once again that Sherlock wasn't the only Holmes who could read minds. "You were absolutely right about me not being the type to hold bedside vigils. My brother, on the other hand, has been a regular visitor during your... convalescence. Every Wednesday and Sunday, without fail. Once again, he has managed to do the unexpected."
John looked up in surprise. Warmth bloomed in his chest, replacing the sadness and disappointment. "Really. That is…. very sentimental of him. "
Mycroft frowned, his forehead creasing in irritation. As if such an obvious display of attachment was completely inexplicable to him. John imagined it probably was.
"Yes. Most unlike him."
"But… if he's been so solicitous of me, then why isn't he here now? Instead of you? Not that I'm not touched by your concern, of course."
"He's been in America for the past few days looking into something at my request. This is the first time he's been out of London since you became… indisposed. He cut his visit there short as soon as he was informed that you were starting to come out of your coma yesterday. I'm here at his behest, of course, until he can manage to arrive here himself. I was under strict orders to inform him the minute you woke up. Which I did, naturally."
John couldn't stop himself from grinning broadly. "So he's on his way here right now?"
Mycroft tipped his head in the affirmative. "His plane touches down in 45 minutes. I can assure you that he'll be here within the next two hours."
John rolled his eyes. "Yes, I'm sure you can."
The first genuine smile John had ever received from Mycroft Holmes flashed his way. "One of the advantages of working at the Home Office."
"Of course."
"Well." Mycroft clapped his hands together. "I really need to be off. So much to catch up on after missing the last two days at the office, you understand." He stood, tugging down his waistcoat and flicking imaginary lint off his lapels. He nodded at John.
"Do tell my brother hello for me, Dr Watson. I'll contact him tomorrow for his full report on the case. I wish you a speedy recovery. I'll let someone know you're awake on my way out." And with that, the British Government made a dignified yet hurried exit from John's room. John imagined that the cloying atmosphere of potential sentiment threatened to suffocate him if he didn't manage to make a timely retreat.
For the next hour John endured what seemed like endless prodding and poking, rapid-fire questions from his neurologist, blood-drawing, lights being shone in his eyes, and all manner of invasive procedures. Finally, he was left alone to catch his breath and wait with a churning gut for the appearance of his friend. A friend he apparently hadn't seen or spoken to in over a year.
For him, of course, no time had passed. To him, it felt like he had just woken up after a regular night's sleep. In fact, the last thing he remembered was going to bed at 2 in the morning after a particularly gruelling case. He had no memory at all of the day in question, and therefore had no recollection of any of the events leading up to his injury. No one had bothered to explain to him yet what had happened. He could only hope that Sherlock would be more forthcoming.
John must have dozed off, because the next thing he registered was his right hand being clasped in another's gentle grip. A thumb was lightly caressing his knuckles. As soon as he became aware of his own consciousness, the grip tightened and a familiar, beloved voice intoned his name.
"John."
A lazy smile spread across his face as John opened his eyes to find himself the focus of none other than Sherlock Holmes.
"Hello," John replied, drinking in his friend's face as if he were dying of thirst and had just stumbled across an oasis. Funny, that. He hadn't even been aware of the passage of time, and yet he felt the weight of those months in his very marrow, as if he himself had experienced the dull ache of separation. When in reality, at least according to Mycroft, it was his friend who had suffered that agony.
Sherlock looked the same, and yet different. He still had that messy mop of dark hair that refused to be tamed, although there was a touch of grey at the temples that hadn't been there thirteen months ago. It was longer than John had ever seen it, completely covering his ears and curling against the nape of his neck. His eyes were as sharp and focussed as ever, yet somehow they were softer and bright with an emotion that John was hard-pressed to believe him capable of. There were bruising shadows under his eyes, and fine crow's feet at the corners of his eyes. He still looked as put together as ever, wearing the same coat and scarf that had come to define his image. However, he was paler and much thinner than John remembered, cheekbones more stark and prominent than was healthy.
John's smile faltered.
Sherlock must have sensed John's concern, because his expression immediately shuttered. He blinked his eyes, and the indefinable emotion in them was now gone. He unclasped their joined hands and leaned back, creating physical distance that was a manifestation of the metaphorical distance between them. John's heart stuttered.
"It's about time you came to your senses," Sherlock said flatly. "Do you have any idea how many people you've upset with this little stunt? Mrs Hudson has been inconsolable this entire time. You're like a son to her, you realise. Harry has been convinced of your impending death for the past six months. It's taken all the resources at my disposal to ensure that she couldn't have your life support disconnected while you were still dependant on it. Thank god you haven't been for some months now. Molly – dear lord, the woman was somehow convinced that I must be devastated and in need of looking after, for some reason. She's been a right nuisance, always so solicitous and careful like I was going to shatter into a million pieces if you didn't wake up – "
"Sherlock," John said gently, interrupting the rapid flow of words. Sherlock froze, posture tense and unyielding. He lifted his chin in defiance, daring John to speak of things that had always been left unsaid between them. John, not being a coward, accepted the gauntlet.
"I understand that you won't tell me you were worried about me, or that you missed me. I know all that without you admitting to anything. Mycroft told me that you've been here to see me twice a week, since the beginning."
Sherlock flushed and averted his eyes, as if doing such a thing were something to be embarrassed about. For the great Sherlock Holmes, it probably was. Christ, John thought, I really am dealing with the emotional maturity of a two year old. He tried to latch onto something that he could say that wouldn't add to the tension, that would put Sherlock at ease and not add any further to his obvious discomfort.
"What did you do, anyway, during all those visits?" he asked lightly. " I can't imagine you not getting bored pretty quickly without something to entertain yourself. Surely you didn't just sit there and talk at me the entire time."
Sherlock shifted and sat up straighter in his chair, a bit of life flickering back in his eyes. He cleared his throat tentatively, as if he were unsure of what John's reaction would be. If he were any other person, John would have described his behaviour as… shy.
"Well, I had to get special permission, but sometimes I would bring my violin and play. I composed quite a few songs at your bedside, actually. When you come home I'll play them for you, now that you're able to properly appreciate them. I also brought a few films that I knew you liked. I've been told that sometimes patients in comas can still hear, so I wanted to provide you with some stimulation just in case. Wouldn't want my blogger going stir-crazy, trapped inside his own mind. I know all too well what that's like."
Sherlock paused in his narrative just long enough to study John for his reaction. John couldn't stop himself from grinning like a loon. "So you just sat and watched those movies in the company of a comatose patient? Movies you don't even particularly like? Did you by any chance shout abuse at the screen and make commentary the entire time?"
Sherlock returned the smile hesitantly. "I might have," he admitted.
John laughed. Encouraged, Sherlock continued on.
"After a case I'd come here and tell you all about it, from beginning to end. I would explain all my deductions to you, step by step, and how I arrived at my conclusions. Sometimes I'd even bring a file about a case I'd solved in the past, before I met you, and read from it out loud." Sherlock stopped for a second as he gathered his thoughts. "You seemed to like it when I read to you. I noticed a certain change in your breathing pattern when I did. So I also started bringing in your favourite crime novels from time to time and reading them as well."
John shook his head in amazement. This man, who had always proclaimed that sentiment was just a chemical defect, had done all this on the slim chance that John would benefit from it. Sherlock craved appreciation and acknowledgment. John couldn't provide any of that, and yet Sherlock had still chosen to be at his side, even though he stood to gain nothing from such an unresponsive audience.
How could John have ever believed that he was only a stand-in for Sherlock's skull, that he was only useful as a conductor of light, or as a source of praise for a massive ego?
A swell of affection for his friend left John breathless. His breath hitched for a moment before he could get himself under control. A moment was all Sherlock needed to read everything in a single sweeping glance. His eyes softened as he leaned forward and once again took John's hand in his.
"I'd be lost without my blogger," he said, tenderness colouring his tone.
John felt a sudden prickling sensation behind his eyelids, and he found himself blinking back moisture. Sherlock would never admit it, but Molly had got it right; he would have shattered had John not recovered. He didn't quite know what to do with this revelation as to his importance to the detective.
"You're tired," Sherlock said. "I think I need to leave you to your rest."
John huffed out a laugh, tightening his grip on Sherlock's hand. "I've been resting for over a year, Sherlock. I've only been awake for three hours, I don't think I need to go back to sleep just yet."
"Your body's recovering from a massive trauma, it needs to get used to activity again. Just the smallest amount of physical exertion is going to wear you out at first. Patience is a virtue, Dr John Watson."
John scowled. "I'm not a patient man."
Sherlock smirked. "No, but you are a patient. And you know what they say about doctors making the worst ones."
John sighed and plopped his head back on his pillow. "Alright, Dr Sherlock. I'll be on my best behaviour."
Then it hit him; he couldn't believe it had slipped his mind. "Oh, but wait! You have to tell me why I'm here, Sherlock! I have no memory of what happened. You can't leave until you tell me. Was it a case? Was I in an accident? Was anyone else hurt?"
An indecipherable expression flickered across Sherlock's features. John tried to name it, but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared.
Sherlock shook his head. He said firmly, "Not until tomorrow. I'll be by again, and I'll tell you everything then, I promise." Before releasing John's hand, he brought it up to his lips and brushed them lightly across the knuckles.
John's body stilled and his brain short-circuited. "What are you doing?" he asked hoarsely.
Sherlock gave him a peculiar look. "I saw it in a movie," he replied.
John broke out in giggles. Sherlock frowned, offence written all over his face. "You saw it in a ROMANCE movie, you twat! That's something you do to a romantic partner, not your platonic best friend!"
Sherlock dropped John's hand in annoyance. "How am I supposed to know the difference between one type of drivel and another?" he huffed. "I was merely trying to express my – fondness for you – in physical terms. What would have been a more appropriate gesture?"
John grinned. "A hug would be appropriate, but that can wait until I'm standing on my own two feet again."
Sherlock bit his lip in thought. "I could do a hug."
"Good. That's settled then. I'll see you tomorrow. Oh, could you bring me my laptop when you come? And my phone, perhaps? Some of Mrs Hudson's chocolate biscuits? Maybe," he teased with a twinkle in his eye, "you could read me a bedtime story?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Taking advantage already, Doctor? Before you even get home?" He stood up, fastening his coat's buttons and adjusting his scarf. His mouth quirked in a mall smile, and he said in his low, velvety baritone, "As you wish." With that, he turned around in a dramatic flourish and soundlessly strode out of the room, leaving his gobsmacked friend alone.
John yawned, feeling the encroachment of unrelenting fatigue. As much as he had yearned for Sherlock to stay and continue anchoring him to the conscious world, the detective was right. John still needed lots of rest before he could come home. The sooner he was back home, the better, so he might as well start training his body towards that goal by giving it what it needed.
Contentment flooded his being as another yawn caught him and he stretched, adjusting himself and the bed for maximum comfort. He closed his eyes and hugged his pillow close. He felt giddy as a schoolboy as he remembered his friend's parting words.
"As you wish, Sherlock Holmes," he murmured sleepily before he drifted off into a dreamless, temporary sleep.
THE END
END NOTES:
Warnings: 1) Princess Bride references, and 2) possibly inaccurate medical depictions. I beg your indulgence.
Credit goes to prettybirdy979 for Sherlock's "I saw it in a movie" moment, which saved the fic from veering into decidedly non-gen territory. Kinda. You can thank her or blame her, according to your pleasure.
What actually did happen to John, you ask? Well, I thought I'd leave that up to your imagination. If there's any interest, I may be persuaded to write that story sometime in future. I do have some ideas.