The nurses pulled John back, forcing him away from Sherlock's lifeless body. His pulse. He hadn't had a pulse. John fought to stay conscious; it was difficult with the world going fuzzy around him and the ground trying to rise up to meet him. He was dizzy and felt a little sick. Sherlock's eyes were haunting him even as he tried to close his eyes and clear his head. He felt himself being lifted off the ground and he briefly noticed the entrance to the hospital before closing his eyes and deciding he really didn't care where he was.
When the strong arms around him disappeared John opened his eyes again, out of habit more than anything. He was lying slantways on a hospital bed and there was a nurse standing on the other side of the room.
"This will help you bleed." She said, or maybe she said sleep. John didn't really care either way. What was the difference? Either way she was injecting him with something. The room became fuzzy again, and try as he might John could not fight the emptiness before him.
When John woke up he was still in his clothes but lying correctly on the bed. It must have been hours, maybe days, he couldn't tell. More than that, he didn't care. What was the point? What did time matter anymore? He sat up and moved to the edge of his bed. A nurse walked in and smiled when she saw him.
"Ah, morning." She said cheerily.
Her voice irked John. He mumbled a greeting in return.
"Well, and how are we feeling this morning?"
'We' surely weren't feeling the same thing, but John decided not to point this out and simply muttered "fine."
"Good, good. Doctor'll be in to see you in to check on you in a minute. I'm sure we'll have you out of here in no time." The cheery nurse left and John let out a sigh. Out, in, none of it mattered. But he supposed if they asked him that was not the right answer. He knew the right answer, the one that would keep him out of a straight-jacket. He'd give it to them. He'd get out and see Mrs. Hudson, probably have to deal with Lestrade, too. He'd get through. He had to find a new flat, though. He couldn't go back to 221B. He'd probably never go back. Mrs. Hudson could send his things over to his new place once he'd found it, maybe Harry would take him in for a bit.
When the doctor came in John answered his questions as he knew he should and then signed some tedious paperwork. Tedious. Boring. Dull. Sherlock's voice rang in John's head as he thought of the words his friend had used so often to describe life without cases and the people around him. John hung his head and took a breath to steady himself.
"You alright?" A nearby nurse asked in concern.
John opened his eyes and gave her the best smile he could manage. He was pretty sure it came off as more of a grimace but she left him alone after that. After he finished his paperwork he limped to the front door and out onto the sidewalk. He couldn't help himself; without thinking, John made his way to the place where Sherlock had…where he had last seen Sherlock. It looked utterly normal. John thought maybe he should be shocked by this, but he felt nothing. The place should make him sad or angry, but he felt nothing.
"Dr. Watson."
John turned at the sound of Lestrade's voice. It was calmer than normal; softer. John noticed a grief-stricken quality to it, something his own voice probably had, or would if he felt grief…if he felt anything.
"Lestrade."
"Thought you could use a lift home."
John paused for a moment. "A lift would be nice, but I've got a different address for you."
Lestrade only nodded, John thought he might understand, at least a little.
"The car's just there." He pointed back toward the entrance to St. Bart's. John fell into step behind the Detective Inspector.