Idle.
He watched as a moth flew around the fluorescent lights on the ceiling.
Sherlock didn't move. He had no reason to. He was very good at being still if he wanted to.
Well. He didn't really want to. But he had to. He knew he had to. This was his fault.
He had decided to stop watching John. It wasn't pleasant, the feeling he got every time John 's eyelids would flutter or his lips would twitch, only to realize that he still wouldn't wake up. False hope.
It seems like hospitals were full of it.
A comatose state, from Sherlock's somewhat limited knowledge of medicine, can last from six hours at minimum to several days to entire decades. So far it had been five days and, as Sherlock checked his phone for perhaps the fiftieth time that hour, nine hours. And still John was unconscious, not responsive to stimuli, pupils not reactive to light, completely still and entirely idle.
As idle as Sherlock, who had waited for five days, grateful for Mycroft's involvement considering visiting hours, and who will continue to wait.
Upon later reflection, Sherlock had realized, he really should have seen this. Only now did he think that there really could not have been any other result, that this is the only thing that could have happened. This or any variation of this. He had been so careful with everything else, so prepared like he always was, and the plan had went perfectly. Sherlock Holmes never makes mistakes.
But he had never anticipated that John would be so affected.
How could he have? He had never been that close to anyone, ever. He knew that John was different, of course, he knew that he cared about John, would do anything for John, but he had never thought that it could also have been the other way around. He never thought that he would meet someone that could not live without him.
And the day that John Watson decided he could not live without Sherlock was the same day that Sherlock Holmes felt a rare emotion he could not place, one that made his heart leap to his throat and his stomach sink and his entire world begin to collapse, all of which faded away into relief when Sherlock was notified that John was not dead.
Not dead. Not dead, the most beautiful phrase he had ever heard, Sherlock thought wryly.
He had been thankful that that John had not attempted suicide with a gun, at least. That would have been completely irrevocable, and the result would have been Sherlock visiting the morgue instead of the hospital. No, John chose a more sentimental way. Hardly unpredictable.
Yes, hardly unpredictable. That was what Mycroft had said.
"He had attempted to jump off the roof of St. Bartholomew's Hospital." Even on the phone, Mycroft's voice was calm and smooth, the kind of voice you would expect from a person who made a living from manipulating others. Someone who knew how to use words as both a weapon and a shield. "Hardly unpredictable. I'm surprised you didn't see it coming."
And at that, Sherlock's fingers clenched the phone even tighter.
"It's alright." Sometimes it seemed as though Mycroft could read minds. "He's not dead."
And Sherlock let out a breath he did not know he was holding. He did not care that Mycroft could hear him, hear the one sound that proved that Sherlock Holmes was scared, not just scared, but scared for someone else, scared of losing someone. As if he had feelings. A preposterous thought.
John wasn't dead. He was in a coma. Was that any better?
Yes, of course it is. There is always the chance he will wake up. That his eyes would finally open, his pupils would constrict in the bright hospital lights, that he would feebly turn and see Sherlock and everything that needed to be said would finally be unlocked. And afterwards, everything could go back to normal. Everything that Sherlock had been missing for so long, everything that Sherlock never had any time to appreciate. From hacking into John's laptop to trying to deduce his feelings from his footsteps on the stairs, from playing Cluedo to making fun of each other's blogs, or even just when they would spend hours together and not say anything. And it felt perfectly alright.
It'd been three years. Sherlock was too used to being alone. And even though it was stupid, Sherlock knew somehow that a silence with someone else is not as quiet as a silence alone.
He shifted in his chair slightly, the first movement he had made in a while. Other than the bed, the hospital room was furnished with a bedside table and only one chair, which was made of scratchy material and was now occupied by Sherlock. The lights were bright and clinical, and made the comically hideous wallpaper easier to see.
Sherlock stood up and immediately felt a wave of nausea. He could feel aching underneath his eyes, where he was sure there must be dark shadows. When was the last time he had slept?
H e couldn't remember, which was informative enough.
His limbs ached as well. It suddenly occurred to him that he might have been in shock. It all felt like a daze. The past week had been strung together through foggy memories. The phone call from Mycroft, being snuck into the hospital, staying in John's room and refusing to leave. So many refusals, he remembered. He had refused to eat the food the nurses brought him, refused to sleep when they arrived with extra blankets. Refused to leave when Mycroft himself asked.
Sherlock shook his head, as if it would be enough to clear it. Maybe he was in shock. There is a first time for everything.
He looked at his fingers. They were trembling.
He balled his hands into fists and paced around the room. He hadn't noticed how cold it was until now. He automatically turned to John, lying in the bed. He was fine. He had blankets and pillows. He was comfortable.
That was enough for Sherlock.
He walked over to the bed. Sherlock's head was swimming. He really needed some sleep. Sleep or stimulants. Sherlock opted for the second one. He'd get some coffee later, he supposed. But he didn't want to leave John yet.
It felt as though if he left the room, if Sherlock took his eyes off John for one second, then he would slip away forever. It was like trying to grasp water in his hands, trying to keep the droplets from falling through his fingers. It was only until now that Sherlock could see how easy it was for everything to change in one moment, and how earth shattering it felt.
And Sherlock felt guilty for making John feel that way. For driving him to the point that death seemed like the best option.
But he didn't know if he was ever going to admit it.
Sherlock looked down at John's face. There was nothing there. None of the anger or sadness he had felt when he jumped. No happiness, no excitement, no amusement, none of the things that Sherlock loved seeing on him, none of the things that made John John.
John looked peaceful. Which was enough for Sherlock.
He collapsed into the chair and closed his eyes, sleeping willingly for the first time in a long time.