Pressure on my stomach. Pain burning, numbing. Every movement, every breath hurts. Need to sleep so badly.
"Open your eyes, Sherlock. Open your eyes." John's voice is insistent, the nascent but half-hidden panic succeeds in pulling me back from the precipice of unconsciousness, of promised painless peace.
"Tired." Feeble groan of pain, almost incomprehensible.
"I know you are. I know. It's the blood loss." He swears under his breath, pressing down harder. A low whimper escapes from the back of my throat at the fresh, throbbing pain. "You have to stay awake."
The cold seeps under my skin, creeping through my blood, numbing some of the pain. I shiver involuntarily, and feel John's reassuring fingers against my neck.
His face looms over me, blurry, eyes grave, colours all blurring together. (When did I open my eyes? I don't seem to remember.) "Just stay awake," he murmurs. "Don't think of the pain. Don't think of the tiredness. You'll be fine." His voice breaks and I swallow, trying to gather the strength to speak.
"Sus . . . Sussex." The word is less of a word than a breath, and I hope he understands. Confusion flickers across his face, and through the haze of pain I see the dawning of comprehension, of memory.
"Retirement." He smiles, just slightly, but it isn't enough to hide the worry. "Sussex and the bees. Think of the bees, Sherlock. And the cottage. I know it's a long way off, but think of all of the time you'll have for crazy experiments and blowing stuff up so you won't get bored. The scientific papers and all of the monographs, and the time you'll have for private cases."
I try to cling to his voice, to focus on his words, on the images conjured by what he's saying, but the tiredness crashes into me again, eyes slipping closed, tenuous grip on consciousness creeping away, slowly sliding beyond my grasp.
"Wake up, Sherlock! Don't you even think of falling asleep. You have to hold on. Who'll figure out how to save the bees if you give up now? Just think of all of the research you could do, the experiments on honey-based glue or whatever, the new wing for your mind palace. And I know you don't like it when it's too quiet, but you won't be surrounded by idiots all the time, and you'll be able to play your violin at all hours with no neighbours to complain."
"What . . . 'bout . . . you?" Each word burns my throat, an effort in and of itself.
"I'll be there too. I'll visit or stay nights when you're feeling low or whatever. We'll work it out." His voice is low, hesitant, hardly reaching my ears, drowned out by the sirens approaching. "Sherlock? Sherlock!" He seems so very far away, and the mists in my mind are so much closer, promising an end to this lingering tiredness.
It's the tiredness that comes back first, so familiar and so unwelcome. I know there should be pain, but instead there's a simple buzz, a low hum through my bloodstream. Drugs, of course. Morphine, most likely. The air doesn't seem quite right, manufactured somehow, almost plastic. Even closed, the light is enough to burn my eyes, searing my retinas through thin lids offering little comfort.
"Sshh, Sherlock. It's alright. You're alright." John's voice is hoarse enough that I force my eyes open to look at him. In the moment before I close them again, I take in the shadows below his eyes, the stubble on his chin, several days old, at least.
"J'hn." His name is a garbled, mumbled groan, but I need to force the words out, need to know what's gotten me here. "What –"
He shushes me again, gently, as if afraid that I'll worsen if he isn't careful. "Don't try to say anything. Just rest. You got shot about two days ago, but you'll be fine." He squeezes my fingers and I sigh, feeling oddly relieved at his presence. (Hazy though everything is, I know it's illogical to feel like this, but I can't bring myself to disconnect just yet.) "Rest, and think of Sussex. Everything will be fine."