All characters belong to the BBC Sherlock TV show.

I've had this idea floating around for a while, I am fascinated by medicine, and hope I manage to at least correctly use some of the terminology here.

Warnings: some swearing, mentions of blood, poor old John, Sherlock staring and a cup of 'tea' if you could call it that.

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Chapter 1

He sat and he stared...hands steepled under his chin like marble columns.

There wasn't much to do otherwise. His usual fallbacks to abate boredom were quite lacking. Currently, In fact, he could hardly say he was bored. He couldn't say what he was at the moment, but bored certainly was not a word that discribed how he felt... not used to feeling like others. If this is how other people normally felt...how did he feel?

Inwardly he recognised the elevated heart rate, the jitters in his hands, the slight tachypnea - shallow fast breathing. Symptoms commonly associated with stress. Was he stressed? Most definitely. What was causing it? Well the constant computerised beeping certainly made him a bit jittery. Especially when it verges off it's normal rythem. The whoosh of air subsequently made any thought processes halt from forming beyond the room. The hitched rise and fall of the chest in his vision definitely made him feel... edgy...

Fuck sake. One of the marble columns moved to wipe down his now haggered face. Quickly passing over his eyes, and fingers splaying on either side of his temples to rub, move down his now stubbled cheeks, so he could continue to stare... at what he was staring at.

So he sat, and stared... Slender fingers pressed inwards at dry lips, halting at the Cupid bow.

Definitely stressed, how plebian and boring. His mind palace seemed inaccessible as it had the last week. His thoughts refused to move beyond the last few days, refused to pick up anything beyond the now and before the then. His mind was cruel, it sent him down this tortured path again and again, poking holes in what he had done, criticising his choices, condemning his actions. Projecting the horror that maybe.. just maybe... if I had been that little bit quicker, he wouldn't be here. He wouldnt be here...Wouldn't be there...lying in ICU for the 7th day. He wouldn't be... he would be... he would he home. John would be at 221B Baker street with him, yelling at him to please remove the rat kidneys spread all over the sink. John would be tutting at him until he nibbled on the toast placed on his lap. John would be mumbling goodnight as he trudged up the stairs to his room. John would be... John.

But John is here with him. But only Sherlock can hear the beep beep beep of the monitor, the whoosh of the ventilator, the chattering of life around them, however sick or busy. Only Sherlock can see the tubes and wires coalescing on the bed, biting into, burying into the body laying there, like worms feeding on a corpse. Bit not good - don't think of corpses - delete. Only Sherlock can see the rise and fall of johns chest has the ventilator forces air into his lungs, and the occasional hitch as the body fights against the intrusion... only Sherlock can see the bandages, everywhere. The bruises down the arms, along the chest, concentrated around the wrists. More bandages wrapped meticulously around johns head, the blond hair sticking out at the edges near his left ear...

Sherlock knows the right side of johns head is currently rather sparse of hair. He'd normally find it amusing apart from the situation it's resulted from.

Sherlock is jolted out of his one sided staring consest by a cup of tea being waved in front of his face.

"Drink Sherlock. Your no use to John if you die from neglecting yourself - more so than usual" Mycroft drawled. "Although Its debateable as to wether this is tea or just murky water." Sherlock's eyes quickly shuttered, and glanced at the tasteless looking liquid offered to him. He took it anyway.

"I can't say I'm much use to him currently at the moment" Sherlock muttered back in a vaguely tonless yet calm manner.

Mycroft tutted and Sherlock felt him pull a chair up next to Sherlock's statue like pose.

"How is our good doctor doing today?" He asked.

"The same as yesterday" answered Sherlock. His eyes wondered up from Johns body and to the hated heart monitor when it fluctuated. He didn't see Mycrofts cold eyes soften as he observed his brother tense minutely and relax as the monotonous beeping continued its dull beat.

Sherlock mindlessly drank some tea as his gaze wondered back to bandaged golden locks, and the closed eyes underneath the ventilator tubing, nasal gastric band and tape. He grimaced down at the cup and returned to staring. That can't feel nice.

Mycroft followed his younger brothers stare. "Any change in prognosis?"

Sherlock cleared his throat "unknown still." He stared into the 'tea' again with heated eyes. "It's been 3 days since they took him out of the medically induced coma. We just have to wait and see if-when he wakes up what the damage inflicted will have caused"

Mycroft winced at Sherlock's wording, and subsequent slip. He knew well enough coma prognosis drastically declined after the first 7 days, never mind the statistics of dying early on in a coma. He also new Sherlock knew this too.

He glanced at the foot of the hard hospital chair his brothers lanky form was folded up in. Booked upon books were stacked around him. Someone would hardly believe Sherlock had read all of these without missing on sleep. Mycroft knew his brother had hardly slept anyway. Titles and topics ranging around the subject in the bed. some books even pulled from johns own shelf in his bedroom, which housed his medical journals and updated editions of medical texts.

He leant down and picked up a thick book, just as a faint knock sounded above the whiring beeping machinery. A small brunette head popped in pushing in a small trolly carrying bandages, swabs and creams. "Just going to change the bandages gentlemen." She knew better than to ask them to leave. Whilst the lanky man with the wild eyes and curly dark hair was terrifying in his stubbornness and possessiveness of his friend - or was it partner? - it was the taller one, with the cold calculating gaze which unsettled everyone. They were used to distraught loved ones, tears, breakdowns, fights, and even abuse towards themselves. But the coldness and authority the man flung around had them all step wary of upsetting him. He'd taken charge as soon as the patient had entered the hospital, striding in with his umberella, demanding private rooms, placing in new doctors to take over care. The hospital manager also not escaping this mans athoritive requests, giving them direct permission for the curly haired one -Sherlock? Strange name- to stay regardless of the policies in the ICU.

Sherlock put the 'tea' down on the ground eyeing with with distaste, and unfolded himself to stand near the head of the bed. Uncharacteristically gentle hands helped the nurse unravel bandages, bringing to light the mess underneath of Johns head. River stone colour eyes darted over the purple and green hue of skin, shaven of hair, dried blood, and neat stitches. Deducing how it looked comparible to yesterday. He wasn't a doctor, his one lay in bed before him, but he thought it looked less angry today.

"It's looking good" the nurse said gently, wiping up around the site with antiseptic wipes. She applied a thin layer of cream around the wound, which ran from johns temple to just behind his right ear. Sherlock hummed slightly, and raised a hand, to touch some of the freed and longer golden locks.

Mycroft watched all this then proceeded to open the well thumbed book titled 'neuroscience: the medical guide' he flipped through the pages, deducing which had been most recently perused by the slight dirt smudges on the page edge and how easily it fell open. Several chapters stood out; traumatic brain injury, Subarachnoid haemorrhage, coma, brain structure, parietal lobe, rehabilitation methods.

He sighed and shut the book and watched his brother. His self proclaimed sociopathic cold, unfeeling brother, finally feel something. Glancing at Johns unresponsive form on the bed, he feels something within himself sink - perhaps his brother is not the only one.

Sherlock held johns head gently as the nurse finished wrapping bandages around it. "Thankyou" he mumbled softly. The nurse glanced up at him and smiled sympathetically.

The nurse left the gentlemen for a few minutes before ruturning to change over an IV bag, and an imvtravensous syringe. "Just his daily AED loves, not to worry."

"AED?" Mycroft turned to Sherlock with a raised brow.

"Antiepileptic drug. Most likely, John will experience some seizure like activity for a while. They found traces of AED in his blood stream at that damn place, under all the sedatives" Sherlock sat back in his seat, and crossed his long lanky legs in front of him. Hands in pockets. Staring at John, again. "It's possible that he already had seizures whilst under their captivity due to the damage. Again - no one knows what effect it will have on him." Mycroft could see arm muscles pulled taught and besides his brothers calm face, knew he was clenching his hands. He waited in silence for Sherlock to continue.

"I'm so angry Mycroft" Sherlock whispered. Low and gutteral. It sent a shiver down Mycrofts spine. "There seems to be no filter. Stress, anger - I can't seem to control these feelings... these emotions. I can't think of anything else, but how god, damn, fucking, furious I am. If that bastard wasn't already dead..." he bolted forward in his seat, arms pulled off of his pockets and furiously rubbed at his face. Agitation quite clear in his posture.

"It seems dear brother, that sentiment has finally caught up with you" Mycroft mused. He picked the umberella from leaning next to him. "Try not to dwell brother mine. We can only look forward now, and hope the good doctor pulls through..." he glances at Johns body "...if not relitively unscathed, at least relitively whole".

Mycroft patted Sherlock's shoulder, once, before striding to the door. "I'll be back tomorrow brother, please contact me if there is any change." He said before leaving the room.

Sherlock was left to wait. He sat, and he stared. Waiting for this limbo to end, for John to wake up, this purgatory to finally finish for both of them.

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I hope you enjoyed the first chapter. Poor John!

Please review, I'd love to hear any feedback. I will try and update within a week.