A/N:
Sherlock's POV. Enjoy!
Updated 29/10
~tIM
White. Blinding whiteness was everywhere. His vision was blurred, but soon everything came into focus. White panels. A ceiling. Newly replaced. He tried to move his head, but he couldn't. It was too heavy, and it throbbed painfully. So, instead, he was left to stare at the whiteness. The third panel to the left was crooked. Replaced by a divorced man, left to his gambling habit in a tough financial situation he concluded. Never a good combination. Soon, there were noises added to the whiteness; sharp, bleating noises. He was on a hospital bed. Well, that was new, Sherlock had never woken up on a hospital bed before. He felt the IV taped to his right wrist, his reference band around his ankle. All his limbs were functioning and sensory, except for his head. What was wrong with his head?
The whiteness turned black, and someone was screaming. There were flashes of red and grey, and a sick laughter echoed around Sherlock's head. But as suddenly as it had appeared, the apparition faded away, leaving him in the numbing whiteness of the ward again. What was that? he thought to himself. A dream? A nightmare? I don't have either… unable to place the images in his memory, he blamed whatever drug was being given to him through the IV.
"Mr Holmes?" a woman wearing a white coat and holding a clipboard appeared in the edges of his vision.
Unmarried but in a relationship with a co-worker; a mother of triplets. Used to do ballet semi-professionally.
"Mr Holmes, can you hear me?"
Yes, of course I can hear you.
"Mmm," he grunted, unable to move his mouth around the words he was trying to say.
"Can I talk to him, please?" a voice said, coming from his left. It was a man in his thirties, a non-smoker, recently traumatised.
"In a minute, Doctor Watson, I just have to ask Mr Holmes a few questions."
"Just… just let the doctor through," Sherlock said, his speech slurring. "Maybe he can tell me what's… what's wrong with my bloody head."
The woman sighed and scribbled something down on her clipboard, but soon vanished and was replaced by a man in a plaid button down shirt and black jacket. He was blond, about 5"6 and had a scar just underneath his left cheekbone; and formerly an army doctor. Something about his arrival calmed Sherlock down, easing the pain in his head and letting him think a bit more clearly.
"Hey, Sherlock," he said smiling. "You feeling okay?"
"Why aren't you wearing a coat?"
"Sorry?"
"You're my doctor, it's really quite unprofessional of you not to be dressed in appropriate attire while treating a patient."
Doctor Watson was taken aback. He looked down at Sherlock and laughed curlty, almost as if he had taken offense.
"Bastard. This some kind of joke?"
"Not at all. And I don't think swearing at me will help, Doctor. Now, what's your diagnosis?"
The man's eyes widened, and stammering slightly, he disappeared from view. What is going on? The medical industry has seriously gone downhill if this is the standard these days. The woman flashed in and out of the corners of his eyes. Two people were having a hushed conversation back towards his left, but they were too far away for Sherlock to make anything out. The machine kept bleating at his side, a monotonous G flat adding some sort of order to the mild chaos consuming his last few minutes.
A pair of footsteps approached, one purposeful and decisive, the other lagging yet sharp. He recognized both.
"Hello Lestrade. Mycroft, go away."
They stood on either side of his bed, looking down at Sherlock with concern. It was rather unnerving.
"Good to see you too, brother," Mycroft smiled, but it turned into more of a grimace. Revolting.
"He knows who we are… so how come he doesn't know John?" Lestrade queried.
"Who?" he asked. The irritating white coat woman appeared back at the foot of his bed, accompanied by a man in a white coat.
"Sherlock, this is very important. What is the last thing you remember?" Mycroft looked genuinely worried.
"I… I just moved into a new Baker Street, and asked Mike Stamford about a flatmate. Lestrade, you were working on the joint suicides… I don't think they are suicides, by the way. Why? Is something wrong? Actually yes, something is wrong, my head. Where is that doctor?"
The machine bleeped faster. His head hurt more. The lights were growing brighter, and everything was a bit out of focus.
"I'm afraid Mr Holmes is still in a fragile condition," the coat woman said. "He will need to rest." Lestrade and Mycroft frowned, but walked away, and instead the little doctor came back into view, looking at Sherlock silently from afar. The machine bleeped more slowly. The man in the white coat came and fiddled with the drip. The painkillers kicked in, and he slid back into a stupor with Doctor Watson's face inexplicably etched in his mind.