Sherlock Holmes hated feeling useless. Hated it with a burning passion. He was, after all, the only Consulting Detective in the world and a genius, he should never be useless. Not when he could tell a person's whole life story just by glancing at the clothes he or she wore. And especially not when it was the most important person in the entire universe who was in danger and needed him.
Sherlock paced briskly in the long hallway, checking his phone every few moments and glaring at it when he saw that he had received no new messages. He was aware of the stares he was receiving- from doctors and patients alike- but could not find himself to care anymore than he would normally. He knew he looked out of place with his scarf still tied around his neck while his long dark clock billowed around his legs every time he turned. The whiteness of the hospital in general was not helping either; he looked like some kind of dark shadow haunting the halls.
He turned on his heel once more as he reached the end of the hallway, reaching for his phone again. He scowled at tiny screen as he looked through his messages. The last texts he had sent were to Lestrade and Mycroft over five minutes ago, and he had even attempted to contact that woman, Sarah, after some consideration. He had also called Ms. Hudson only to find that she was 'not available' and 'could not come to the phone at the moment' according to her answering machine. Sherlock squeezed the phone in his hand, his knuckles going white. Why were the few people he bothered to talk to on a daily basis not available the minute something important happened? And what were they up to at one in the morning that was so vital that they could not answer any of his calls? Was sleep really that necessary?
He heard the sound of a door opening, and immediately stopped pacing. He looked up to find a balding man with glasses stepping out of a patient's room with a tired expression on his wrinkled face. Sherlock immediately strode over to the doctor, and stepped in front of his path, stopping him from walking away.
"Excuse me, sir. May I help you?" the doctor asked, slightly irritated. He was a busy man, Sherlock could tell, with a number of patients waiting for him and another long sleepless night away from his wife and children. That was unfortunate for him, but Sherlock needed information, and he needed it now.
"Hello," Sherlock said smoothly. "I am a good friend of the man in that room over there," he nodded at the door the doctor had just closed. "And I was wondering if I could have an update on how he is doing? None of the nurses will let me go in to see him."
A look of understanding crossed the doctor's face. "Ah, yes, of course. You are here for John Watson, am I correct?"
"Yes," Sherlock said. "Is he going to be alright?"
The doctor reached for a stack of papers in his coat pocket and read through them carefully.
"It looks like he will be just fine," he said finally, much to Sherlock's immense relief. "Physically, he wasn't hurt that badly, considering the damage that was done to the cab he was in when the accident occurred. He will most likely have a small concussion and a bit of soreness, but otherwise he should be okay. We won't know for sure how he was affected mentally though until he wakes up, I'm afraid."
Sherlock let out a breath he had not realized he had been holding, and was vaguely surprised at the amount of relief he felt at hearing those words. He was careful to keep the happiness off his face, however; he didn't want all of London to suddenly think he actually cared about something. He had a reputation to uphold, after all.
"How long will it be until he wakes?" Sherlock asked.
"Hard to say," the doctor said. He checked his papers again while Sherlock waited, trying with difficulty to not tap his foot in obvious impatience. "He could wake up in at any second, but if not, he should come to conciseness before tomorrow night."
"And if he does not?"
The doctor hesitated before saying, "If not, there could be a problem."
Sherlock nodded, keeping his face blank. "Thank you, doctor. May I see him now?"
"Visiting time was finished hours ago, only family members are allowed to see their-"
"I am his brother," Sherlock interrupted. It wasn't necessarily a lie, per say. They were close enough to be called brothers.
The doctor frowned and looked Sherlock up and down. He didn't seem convinced.
"Are you sure? You do not look anything alike from what I can tell."
"Of course I am sure! Harry Watson, look me up if you wish."
"You said that you were his good friend not a minute ago," the doctor said.
"And brothers cannot be friends?" Sherlock retorted, getting more and more impatient. Why were these people so insistent on not letting him see John? What did it matter if they were not blood related, they had a strong bond regardless if they shared the same mother or not.
"Please, doctor," he said when the other man did not respond. "He is my friend. I need to see him with my own eyes to make sure he is alright."
The doctor sighed. "Fine, you can go. If anyone comes in, just tell them that I let you stay. They won't kick you out that way."
Sherlock allowed himself to smile slightly. "Thank you, doctor."
He walked past the doctor, and slowly opened the door. The room was bright with the pale fluorescent lights, and he could see the outline of a bed at the other end of the room. He cautiously headed towards John's bed, only hesitating for a moment before pulling back the curtain.
He wasn't sure what he had been expecting. John's chest wrapped up in bandages? His legs and arms in casts? That would have been awful for sure; Sherlock wouldn't have anyone to chase after criminals with for months if that was true. Thankfully, John looked perfectly normal except for a white strip of cloth wrapped around his head from a rather bloody gash. He looked tired too, even when he was sleeping, Sherlock noticed. The bags under his friend's eyes were deeper than he had thought.
Sherlock sat down on a chair next to the bed and propped his elbows on the sheets. He stared at John's blank face, trying to imagine what John would say when he awoke. Would he remember the car accident? Would he ask why he wasn't back at their flat? Maybe he would even wonder if they had run out of milk or not yet.
He allowed himself a small smile at the last thought. That would be like John to worry about trivial things like milk and such; Sherlock wouldn't even bother about food or drink if it wasn't for him. He needed someone like John in his life to remind him that he did indeed need to survive outside of his own brilliant mind. Ms. Hudson was good at doing that too, but it was John who really made the difference. Without John…well, there was no need to think of that right now. He was still alive, after all. Still breathing, still here on earth with Sherlock. He wasn't going anywhere.
Sherlock reached out and took John's hand. He carefully placed a thumb on the thin blue line that was John's vein and waited a second before he was felt the steady pulse. Sherlock felt relief rush through him once more; for a moment he had been worried that John wasn't alive at all. His face looked so…empty. Blank. Dull. Boring. Not at all like the man that had somehow squirmed his way into the genius' life.
He stared at John's face for a long time with unusual impatience. But eventually, the time got the better of him. Sherlock was never one for waiting around anyways, and neither was John.
"John," Sherlock muttered, watching his friend intensely as if his mere gaze could wake him. "Wake up. I know I haven't always been the best roommate, and I realize that I do complain maybe a little too much about being bored sometimes, but, well, that's just who I am. I don't really mean those things I say when I call you boring or ordinary. You know that, right? Well, you should. And you really should wake up soon, by the way. I'm starting to get bored- again- and I don't think that it would be a good idea to start shooting the walls in a hospital. Those nurses would really love a reason to force me to leave here. I don't think they like me very much."
He paused, waiting for any kind of reaction and receiving none. He sighed and drummed his fingers on the bed, waiting another minute before he decided that John really wasn't going to wake up anytime soon. Sherlock glanced at the clock on the wall, calculating in his head how long it would take him to walk downstairs and get a cup of tea. Not that long, maybe three minutes or so. He looked back at John, as if vainly hoping that the doctor would wake up at that very second and offer to get Sherlock a cup of tea himself.
Sherlock stood up and headed towards the door, glancing back at his friend once or twice. At the last minute, he stopped and strode over to John's bedside once more.
"Listen," he said quietly. "I'm only going to say this once, and this one time only, you understand? John Watson, you are the only person in this entire world I would even think to consider my friend. You are not only that but my doctor, my flat mate, my partner in all of my cases and the person I go to for advice and insight. I would never know how to properly treat others or to take care of myself without you. You are a vital part of my life, such that it is actually hard for me to imagine solving crimes without you. I don't care what happens to the rest of the world; if I have to, I will pay any price to make sure you stay alive and by my side. Please, John, you need to wake up. You cannot let yourself continue to sleep endlessly like other ordinary people might because you are not ordinary. You are a fighter, an army doctor. So wake up already because I'm tired of waiting and I'm sure you are too."
Breathing slightly heavier than before, he gazed at John. Sherlock's shoulders slumped when John's face remained as slack as ever. For one moment, Sherlock had been convinced that perhaps the power and raw emotion from his words would be enough to bring his friend back to him. But, that was foolish. Words wouldn't- couldn't- change anything. It couldn't change the fact that the accident had occurred or that Sherlock still didn't have a clue about the whereabouts of Jim Moriarty even after all this time or that tomorrow was going to happen even though his world was momentarily on stand still. Words couldn't affect the weather or the way the planet apparently orbited around the sun and it most defiantly could not raise friends back into consciousness.
Angry at himself for his stupidity, Sherlock shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat and turned on his heel. His boots made loud clicking noises on the tile floor, loud enough that he almost missed the sound of shifting sheets behind him.
Almost.
Sherlock froze, his hand on the doorknob. He was almost afraid to turn- what if it was just his mind imagining things as unlikely as that was? There was a low moan, and he turned his head ever so slightly so that he could just see the edge of the bed. He saw the two lumps that were John's feet shift their position, and in an instant he was striding over to his friend.
He stood in front of John's bed and was amazed to find that he was indeed moving. Sherlock watched as John turned his head left and right before blaringly opening his eyes. He blinked a few times, and looked around the room with a confused expression. Sherlock quickly sat down again and reached out to gently touch John's hand. The army doctor focused his gaze on the genius, and Sherlock felt warmth blossom inside of him. John was alright. They were going to be alright. Everything was going to be fine.
"John," Sherlock said. "John, are you alright? I know you must be confused, just ask me anything. I promise to answer all of your questions."
John's brow furrowed. Then he opened his mouth and spoke three words that turned Sherlock's world upside down.
"Who are you?" John asked.
###IBelieveInSherlock###
2/13/2012
Hmmm, first attempt at writing Sherlock fanfiction. Hope it's good.
I do not own any part of the BBC series, Sherlock. This was written for pure enjoyment and no profit on my part.