Disclaimer: not mine.
Summary: set just after 2.03. John has a concussion and Lestrade has to keep waking him. Every time feels different, but always there's something nagging- something big and dark that John can't quite remember.
The Dulling of Understanding
"Sometimes a great wound or concussion of the head, especially which happens by falling headlong from an high place, brings a prejudice and weakness to the animal faculty, dulling the understanding." Thomas Willis, 17th century English physician and anatomist
"Name?" the deep, twangy voice demands.
"Watson," John replies automatically. Something is wrong with this picture. His eyes won't open all the way and he's fairly sure that's Gregory Lestrade's hand on his forehead. But answering questions? That's something he can do.
"Do you know where you are?"
"Sofa?" It's a relatively safe guess. "A' th' flat?" Makes sense.
"How do you feel?" Lestrade asks quietly.
"Okay?" John hazards.
"Good. Go back to sleep."
"Name?"
"John Watson. Captain." A hand tightens around his arm. John isn't sure if he should add his serial number; this doesn't feel like an interrogation, and he's not inclined to volunteer information willingly in any case.
"Do you know where you are?"
"No."
His answer prompts a series of whispers overhead that may be vaguely concerned. He tries to open his eyes, take stock of himself, but he can't.
"We'll give it another round," a man says. He's got a bit of a twang. "Let him sleep a bit more, and if he's not any better we'll take 'im back to Bart's."
"How do you feel?" the man asks, turning his attention back to John. John has time to hear the question, but not to process its meaning, before he falls asleep.
"Name?" A pause. "C'mon, wake up, mate. What's your name?" Lestrade sounds legitimately concerned, and John wants to answer- he really does. But if he opens his mouth, it won't be pretty.
"Need to make sure your head's not too scrambled. Can you tell me what your name is?"
His mouth stays closed, but John gags anyway. Lestrade holds a bucket steady below his chin until the vomiting ceases.
"J-John Hamish W-Watson," he stutters, because from what he can see of Lestrade between his half-closed eyelids, the man looks scared to death. "'nd 'snot my head that's b-bothering me," he adds, in a hoarse attempt at humor.
"Good. Okay," Lestrade replies. "Do you know where you are?"
"B-baker Street. Two-two-one-bee."
"How do you feel?"
His response is a second round of retching.
"Name?"
"Fuck off."
"Do you know where you are?"
"Fuck off."
The High Inquisitor pauses. "Should I even bother to ask how you're feeling, Watson?"
John clears his throat and says very slowly, "Fuck. Off."
"Name?" There's something wrong with this picture. His eyes won't open at all. He's fairly sure that's Gregory Lestrade's voice, but the voice sounds like its owner has been crying.
"John," John replies weakly. "'re you all right, Greg?"
"I'm fine, mate," Greg replies huskily. "Do you know where you are?"
"'m on my couch, I think." There's something he's missing here- something big, something dark- but it's just out of reach. "Did something happe-?"
"How do you feel?" Greg asks, cutting him off.
"Knackered," John laughs. Something feels so wrong and he's terrified but god he's so tired too-
"Okay, mate. Sorry to have to keep waking you. You understand."
"Yes," John assures him, but he doesn't.
"Name?" John opens his eyes to find Gregory Lestrade kneeling beside him with a grooved and colorless face.
"John Watson."
"Do you know where you are?" He's on the sofa, on his side, legs half bent- recovery position. There's a bucket nearby that smells of sick and a pounding in his head that's far too bad for a hangover. Lestrade is questioning him with concern in his voice. Concussion, then. It's not a difficult deduction.
"My flat. I've got a concussion?"
"Yeah. But not too bad. How do you feel?"
That's an interesting question. The simple answers are bruised and nauseated, but John suspects Lestrade is getting at something more. How did he get the concussion to begin with? What led him here?
On his knees, Lestrade shuffles a bit closer; John sees the father in him clearly. It's in the troubled squint of his dark eyes, the steady grip of his wide hand.
"How do you feel, John?" He asks again. Something big and dark that has been lapping at the edges of John's perception like a tidal wave swells, falls, and crests again.
Then he remembers.
"Oh- oh my god," John hisses, obvious to the pain of Lestrade's nails biting into his flesh. Agony shoots through his head as he flails haphazardly, struggling to raise himself on horribly tremulous arms. "Oh god," he repeats, tears already collecting in his eyes.
"Sh-Sherlock!"