The Hospital

A/N: Kia ora, mates! So studying actually went a lot better than I thought it would, so I had time to squeeze this in. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: Owning BBC Sherlock is not my division. Writing stories with their characters for fun is.

It was too quiet in the hospital room. John couldn't stand it. Sure, there was the beeping of the heart monitor, the dripping of the IV, and a pattering of rain against the window, but John wanted to hear Sherlock on his violin, or messing around with experiments, or muttering in his Mind Palace. He didn't want to hear how hard it was for Sherlock to pull in oxygen, even in his unconscious state. He didn't want to hear the silence of Sherlock's still limbs.

The hospital room was monotonous as well, another contention for John. The walls, the sheets on the bed, the sky, Sherlock's skin: all white. Too white. Should skin be that white?

All right John, relax. There is nothing you can do. Sherlock is fine; he just needs rest. When he wakes up, he needs to eat, and take it easy, and not to be an idiot and run away after a gang of murderers without saying anything to me that stupid git—right. Breathe. Sit. Don't murder Sherlock in his sleep.

It had been like this for hours. The adrenaline from the rush to the hospital had worn off since Sherlock had been declared stable; a few broken ribs, a sprained wrist, and a cut to his head being the only lasting damage, along with a plethora of bruises. He was lucky not to have a severe concussion. John stayed with him, at first constantly checking his flatmate over, then progressing to pacing and hair pulling.

He sat in the white plastic chair next to Sherlock's bed, putting his elbows on his knees and dropping his head. The nerve of that bloody idiot—no. He looked up at his flatmate, his friend, and grabbed his hand. He examined the long pale fingers, with callouses on the tips, most likely from playing the violin. Yes, he could see the indents from the strings still present.

John snorted. He wasn't going to let the idiot play his violin any time soon. If left up to Sherlock, he would probably strain his wrist even more and fracture it.

"Don't stop."

John startled, looking up at Sherlock's face. He was blinking blearily at the doctor, squinting against the harsh light.

"You were stroking my hand," the detective croaked. "I liked it."

"Yeah well, I like being informed when my friend decides to go chasing after dangerous criminals and blowing up buildings," John glared, folding his arms to his chest. "We don't always get what we want."

"You're angry."

"Oh, brilliant deduction. I wonder how you saw that one."

"I'm sorry, John, but I couldn't let them get away. Surely you can see that. They had the plans to the political gala and hundred of people would have died if I hadn't have found out where their headquarters were. How was I supposed to know they rigged it? I think I did pretty well, considering. I even found—"

"You just don't get it, do you?" John interrupted. "I have been following you for years, Sherlock. Years. All this time, and you still don't get that I am here to help you; that I'm here to back you up. No, instead you get some half-arsed scheme into your head and run off without a word to anyone, expecting them to catch up in time to witness your brilliance. I can't keep doing this, Sherlock. If you can't respect that I'm here as your partner and that I can't help you unless you tell me the plan and listen when I tell you you're an idiot, then this won't work. I might as well go find another flat."

"John, you can't leave me." Sherlock reached desperately for John's arm, pulling him close even with the sharp pain he felt. "I need you, I do." John wouldn't leave him, would he? After everything?

"As a blogger, maybe, and to throw praise at you," John snorted. "You can find that with anyone."

"No, John! Sure I like it when you flatter me, who wouldn't? But I need you; you're my doctor, my blogger, my partner, my only friend." Sherlock tugged at John weakly, causing the blond to sigh and sit next to him on the bed. Sherlock fussed until he lay down and made him wrap an arm around his shoulders; John had to force back a giggle as Sherlock burrowed his head into the doctor's side, an arm wrapped possessively around his midsection. "I'm sorry, John. I will try to tell you my plans in the future, but you know me. I get so caught up in the game that I sometimes forget about everything else. Please don't leave."

"I can't do it again." Sherlock remained silent, but tense. "I can't watch you die again. God, Sherlock, I almost followed you. I couldn't bear living in a world without you. If Mary hadn't come around, I wouldn't be here right now. If I have to watch you die again, failing you again, Sherlock you better know that I would follow you. I can't live through that again."

"You could never fail me, John," Sherlock whispered, and glared up at his friend when he snorted bitterly again. "I mean it. Out of everyone, you were always the one to stand by me, even when I purposefully made you furious. I can always count on you."

"I didn't when you jumped," John's voice cracked.

"You did. You were scared for me, and angry that I wasn't. I manipulated you John, and you were still there for me, despite all my best efforts." They fell silent for a while, reflecting, before Sherlock spoke again. "I'm sorry I had to jump John, in front of you no less. I was doing what I thought best."

"Protecting me, I know. Doesn't make it hurt any less."

"It hurt me too, you know. I know I don't talk about it, but it was hard, not having you around. I didn't realize until I was gone how much you became necessary to function. I almost ran back to you so many times in the beginning, but I had to remember that I was protecting you, taking care of you like always."

"Taking care of me?" john teased. "Who's the one that feeds you, makes sure you sleep, patches you up, grabs all your odds and ends, cleans up your messes?"

"Sure you do that," Sherlock said imperiously. "But I make your limp disappear, and make sure you stay in shape, and play the violin to ease your nightmares, that sort of thing. I give you purpose."

"Yeah, you do do that," John murmured, serious. He ran a hand up and down Sherlock's back. "God help me, I need you too, even when you give me cardiac arrest."

"I don't mean to make you worry, John," the detective whispered dolefully. "I will be better, I promise."

"No you won't. I'll be happy with you promising to try, though."

"Promise." They lie together for a while, Sherlock falling asleep under John's gentle ministrations. For all his claims to heterosexuality, he was sure indulgent of Sherlock's need for affection. It had grown since he came back from the dead. It assured him he wasn't dreaming, and apparently it helped John feel that, too. Sherlock was glad, even if he couldn't indulge in his baser needs. No, he couldn't do that to John.

"John?" Mary was at the door, a worried frown on her cute face. Sherlock glared at her. Stupid Mary with her stupid petite body and stupid blonde hair and stupid kindness. She was so dull. "It's nine in the morning. You've been here all night. Why don't you come over to my place and get some rest? You must be exhausted."

John nodded, rubbing a hand over his face. "Yeah, rest sounds good. I'll see you later, Sherlock."

Sherlock tightened his grip, not letting the doctor get up. "John? I would really like you to stay. Please?" John smiled down at him, settling down.

"I think I'll stay longer, Mary, keep Sherlock company. I don't want him terrorizing the nurses." The feeling of triumph Sherlock felt was quashed when Mary gushed over how sweet John was and tried to rub Sherlock's head before leaving to bring back food. Only John was allowed to touch his hair.

That infernal woman had to go.