A/N: I don't have a medical degree, so I don't know whether this can happen or not. It's just a story, I mean no offence to anyone who may be affected by any of the ideas in this story. Please don't hate me! Flashbacks are in italics. I'm not sure how often this will be updated as I am working on my Unconventional Weekend fic as well. Apologies for any delays. I don't own Sherlock, and the title is from a Doris Day film.
Hope you enjoy, please review and please be kind! :-)
It had been eight months, two weeks, three days and nearly two hours since the life of Dr. John Watson had been turned upside down and inside out. A single telephone call had changed everything. Who would have guessed that just a handful of words could bring the whole world crashing down around his ears so quickly.
Standing in the corridor, John gazed blankly into the middle distance, his eyes glazing over as the memories of that fateful day rushed to the front of his mind. He remembered climbing the stairs with the four bags of shopping to 221B grumbling at the lack of help from his lazy, good-for-nothing, genius best friend.
'Oh don't you worry about me, Sherlock, I can manage! I wouldn't want you to put yourself out, you might strain yourself!' muttered John as he walked into the kitchen. Putting the shopping bags onto the worktop, he flexed his fingers slightly to ease the discomfort caused by the plastic cutting into his hands.
Noting the silent stillness of the flat, John turned and made his way through the rooms. The flat was completely empty. Walking back into the kitchen, he saw that his flatmate's coat, scarf and mobile were also missing from their usual resting places. Heaving an exasperated sigh at the sheer thoughtlessness of his friend; could he not have left a note, sent a text, anything to let John know he was going to be out, John began unpacking the shopping and putting it away in the various cupboards set aside for the variety of foodstuffs he had purchased.
Once John had placed the final tin of beans into the cupboard, he picked up the kettle and, checking the inside for toxic substances (a mistake you only make once after spending two days with your head over the toilet, if you share a flat with Sherlock 'I'm an idiotic genius who doesn't understand the meaning of the words "don't put poison in the kettle"' Holmes), John filled it with water from the tap and put it on to boil. Collecting all of the necessary accoutrements to make a cup of tea, John leant against the worktop and waited. Just as the switch on the kettle flicked off to indicate it had boiled, John's mobile rang. Grumbling to himself, John picked up his phone and answered.
'Hello?'
'John, it's Greg. Mate, there's been an accident. It's Sherlock. It's bad. I'm at St. Mary's. You'd better come.'
'Greg? What? What do you mean? I don't ... what?'
'You need to come mate!'
When D.I. Greg Lestrade hung up, John pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at it for several seconds in shocked silence until his brain finally caught up with the older man's words ... 'accident ... Sherlock ... bad!'
The next few hours were all a bit of a blur. A taxi ride to the hospital, a consultation with the neurosurgeon who had carried out an emergency operation on Sherlock, sitting at Sherlock's bedside waiting for the man to come around from the anaesthetic, a conversation with Greg about how a simple slip on some fallen autumn leaves that had become wet from the recent rain showers had resulted in a bang to the head that had knocked the young genius unconscious and necessitated his immediate admission to hospital for a scan and subsequent surgery.
There were more discussions as hours turned into days which turned into weeks, and still Sherlock laid in the hospital bed, apparently unaware of the worry his prolonged coma was causing.
The slamming of a door further along the corridor brought John back to the present. His heart racing from the shock, he took a moment to recall where he was (the small private hospital tucked away in the middle of the English countryside) and why (Mycroft had ensured Sherlock was moved as soon as it had been deemed medically safe to do so). Moving closer to the room in front of him, John looked through the tiny window in the door into the room beyond. His best friend, Sherlock Holmes, the genius detective, was sitting at a table next to his bed, his hair finally beginning to resemble the dark curls for which he was so famed as it grew back from where it had been shaved all those months ago for the surgery that while saving his life, had changed it beyond all recognition. The loss of the memory surrounding the accident that had brought him to this particular time and place was, whilst upsetting, perfectly understandable, Sherlock had received a blow to the head and had then undergone brain surgery. The weakness in his muscles, after several weeks in a coma, also understandable, and will hopefully get better with physiotherapy. No, the main difficulty as far as John could see was Sherlock's apparent regression back to childhood. His unshakeable belief that instead of being a 30-something adult male, he was in fact a seven year old boy.