Missing conversation from a scene in HLV we could only imagine. This story I imagined to take place after Sherlock's collapse from internal bleeding at Bake Street, during a (presumed) hospitalization period before Sherlock was discharged, and possibly well before Christmas.
Go Home by Wynsom
"Go home." Sherlock Holmes opened his eyes and squinted. "You should go home, John."
"I'mmm home…," a sleepy John Watson mumbled from the chair in the private hospital room. He shook himself awake. Was he dreaming or had Sherlock clearly spoken to him? Diagnostic beeps remained steady. Their regularity had been the white noise allowing John to sneak catnaps as he regularly sat vigil (thanks to medical privileges at Barts) by the heavily sedated patient's bedside.
"Sherlock?" John's eyes darted from the pale human face to the face of the monitors, double checking the machines to confirm the full consciousness of the patient who was obviously fully awake. Dosing down the sedatives was the recent decision at the last medical conference and Sherlock was coming out of it as hoped.
"Sherlock!" Bright blue eyes followed John as he verified the vitals and took Sherlock's pulse. Sherlock offered a quirky smile, proof that he was responding to external stimuli.
Speechless, John grasped his friend's hand, joy transforming his weary face.
Sherlock smile again, this time with warmth, in response to emotional stimuli.
John laughed, his palpable relief like the morning light creeping over the windowsill.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes taking note of John's dishevel state—another long night's watch. "It's been weeks, John. You LOOK awful."
"Haven't looked at yourself yet!"
"You should go home, really, John. Get some rest."
"First let me report your condition... "
"No, wait." The raised hand, a gesture so familiar, commanded obedience.
John complied.
"You've been alternating work with visits, and it's catching up. Your clothes are crumpled, your shaving splotchy—no mustache, (thank you, so you must not have been hopeless on my account). You need a haircut. No one is taking care of you, helping you juggle the disruptions in you routine. You still trying to fit biking in there, but what the hell for, it's just a guilt-driven nuisance since you're not doing it with any regularity. Do I detect a coffee stain on your shirt? You fretting over A.G. RA (That's not hard, I've head you talking in your sleep.) You've been avoiding decisions, but you can't keep sleeping on office sofas, at Baker Street, or in hospital chairs."
"Welcome back," John's voice was amused, but his face tightened. "You know, Sherlock, a normal patient would be asking his doctor how he's doing?" John raised his palm quieting what he expected would be Sherlock's interruption. "Believe me, I know you are anything but NORMAL, however you still need to know what you can expect over the next several weeks, maybe months, as you recover and what therapies you will need, if any."
"I've been listening to the relentless medical chatter as a captive audience with no relief. Heavy sedation and semi-consciousness have their drawbacks."
"You're in hospital! Can't avoid it. Permit me." John examined Sherlock's piercing blue eyes, spreading the lids and directing the patient to look in specific directions, until he seemed satisfied. "Good!"
"Yes, John. I know there are some residual medical challenges that are unavoidable. All so unfortunate! But timing is very important. There's still an unresolved complication and we must be swift."
"Have you been listening, Sherlock?"
"Of course I have, I just told you." Sherlock attempted to sit up quickly. Immediately, he thought better of it when his sutured chest wound made him flinch.
"No, I mean, that you are still medically fragile…No climbing out windows to solve a case. Your next visit won't land you in hospital, more likely the morgue—and this time, Molly can't help you!"
Sherlock considered John's words with a tilt of his head. Maybe speed was not the solution. Yes, more time, more time to plan. He knew he was in no shape to assess every possibility from his hospital bed and a premature strike would be disastrous. "Advice taken," he decided. "You are a wise and trustworthy friend, Dr. Watson."
John raised his eyebrows in skeptical surprise.
"I concede respectfully." Sherlock retreated momentarily in thought. Once dismissive of motivations derived from emotions, Sherlock was seeing with new clarity John's constancy—a constancy Sherlock felt he didn't deserve. The least he could do to earn John's good faith was try, try not to die again.
Emotions aside, there was no other like John—a compassionate man with tremendous courage, a leader who was humble enough to follow, and an astonishing stalwart companion in dangerous situations—and this man, John, had chosen the offensively alienating Sherlock to befriend.
As he lay for indeterminate time in hospital, his consciousness enveloped by a dense fog, Sherlock was always aware when John was present. John would call him by name, converse with him, check his pulse, squeeze his hand. Sherlock would squeeze back and tried responding, but sluggishness produced only garbled incoherence. Often, he was too tired to be frustrated by his inability to be understood.
"Well, I concede! But indulge me this question…"
John nodded attentively.
"No matter how taxing to you... What's...? How's ...? Hmmm. Where's... Mmmary?"
"She checks in…" John glanced around and leaned closer, his face cast in shadow as he whispered, "She shouldn't have shot you."
Sherlock detected both apology and outrage warring within his friend. "But staying away, John, is not how you make amends." He closed his eyes, surprised by his own weariness. Morphine was readily available should the pain become too great again, but Sherlock was tired of feeling dimwitted. "I told you, you can trust her."
"I'm not staying away. I'm staying here, for you—to attend to you." John shook his head sadly. "She knows even a nonfatal gunshot wound can incapacitate for a long time, with perhaps a lifetime of side effects or disability. Blood loss could lead to brain damage, organ damage and failure. She knew all this and took THAT particular shot anyway." Despite his whispering, John's emotions were at a robust boil. "All this was complicated by internal bleeding because you felt compelled to leave the hospital to set things right—not just prolonging your recovery, but putting you in greatest risk. This," he gestured to the surroundings, "serves as home now! SHE must wait until I am happy that you are healing properly!"
"Until you are happy... Hmm. Will you be happy, John?" Sherlock searched John's face. The question had hit its mark.
"Christ, Sherlock! You care about people's happiness now?" John turned away, but not before Sherlock could see his anguished expression.
"Not people's happiness, just my friend's," was the soft reply. Sherlock closed his eyes again to hear the nuances in John's voice. Since his return to London, Sherlock had grown in immense appreciation of John's selfless friendship, something the self-absorbed Sherlock had taken for granted before. It may have been a poor excuse, though true, to assert that John's enduring loyalty and sincere devotion had been foreign to Sherlock. Rejected constantly as a result of his obnoxious social skills and overt intellectually snobbery, Sherlock was inept at cultivating actual friendships.
The literal impact of John's fierce rejection when Sherlock cavalierly strolled back into his life—surprise!—was life changing—Sherlock was becoming adept at deducing emotions—at least those of John Watson's. While John claimed he was not "good at this," when conveying his own deep feelings, Sherlock knew John was indeed good at this. Look how well he was teaching Sherlock.
Listening, Sherlock could hear John's pain. It was as deep as his own wound had been, but John's recovery might not be as quick.
"I don't know." John stammered. "I thought I was happy. I thought I deserved happiness. I thought I was blessed with not one, but two, now three people, who give my life meaning and purpose. Everything seemed so Bloody perfect and all too brief! How could I believe this illusion?" John choked on the words. "I was blind—you're right, Sherlock. Emotions cloud judgment—I was blind to her and her assassin instincts. Now you're lying here..."
"Not dead." Sherlock assured.
"SHE nearly killed you. Technically you were dead for two minutes. So she really killed you! It's as good as killing me. She knows how much I grieved for you before."
Sherlock felt weak before the resurrected grief on John's face. How wrong he had been to subject his best friend to two years of this pain. Too late to take back past wrongs, but Sherlock would do everything possible to make the present better and be the "best man" of which he was capable. "John, listen. She apologized for shooting me. Granted, her reasons were tinged by her dark past, which may be mystifying to us both, but it was a calculated gamble and her medical knowledge was in her favour and mine, apparently."
"You defend her and I don't know why!" John exploded.
"So many reasons: Let's start with the obvious sentimental ones, including that I like her. She's carrying YOUR child… She loves you. She loves your child." Sherlock moved more carefully to sit up. "She loves me too. I know that or I would not be standing here. Now help me stand." Sherlock encircled his left arm about John's shoulders as John cautiously brought the recovering man to his feet, robed and ready to start living again.
Sherlock's voice was gentle in John's ear. "I vowed to be there for all three of you...because you deserve happiness." Sherlock paused for balance and broke free of John's support to stand unaided. Straightening his shoulders, Sherlock turned toward his friend. "And you still love her. That's what matters most."
John dropped his gaze.
Yes, he did love Mary. He missed her. She WAS exhilarating, funny, caring, intelligent, warmhearted, strong-willed, forgiving, and now, he discovered, tantalizingly dangerous. She generously gave John his freedom, which made he want to stay by her side. But, John was in mourning for the promised life now lost, grieving the trust now broken, and in fear there would be no healing for the deep wounds that had been inflicted. He could only hope that, if the wounds did not fester, they would heal.
Watching Sherlock stand apart, summoning strength, John felt a pang of abiding affection and respect for his best friend. This incredible man with powers of deduction that few could equal saw through John's soul and cared enough to share an ordinary man's vision of happiness.
Looking up into Sherlock's brilliant smile, John caught his breath. If Sherlock healed, so could John's life, and they would all go home.