The floor didn't change, it was still cold and unforgiving against Sherlock's forehead. He tried to muffle his sniffles, blue eyes shut tightly. This couldn't have happened. He had just been walking, he always walked, what was different, what was the variable he missed? Exhausted, Sherlock huffed out a low breath, waiting for the inevitable. John. John mustn't know, he would be repelled. He would leave. His John. Sherlock gave in to the welcoming darkness in his brilliant mind.
John paced Lestrade's office, rubbing his eyes. Sherlock Holmes had been missing for 28 hours, and all the Scotland Yard inspector wanted to do was send out teams of men. "I'm just saying, Lestrade, it isn't like him to disappear for hours, especially when he's upset. I think we should start looking, not send out search parties… Not yet." he snapped, his patience wearing thin. He watched Lestrade's eyes widen slightly, but the other man didn't comment on it. The only thing that mattered was getting Sherlock back, where he belonged. (John's arms) The thought crawled unbidden into John's mind, and he banished it as quickly as it came. Sherlock wasn't interested in him, and he needed to focus.
The darkness broke in Sherlock's mind, and he flinched in anticipation, but the hands upon his were different, this time. There were more voices now, calling out codes and numbers he didn't want to make sense of. He wanted to ask of John, did they know John Watson. Sherlock heard sirens shattering the almost peace of the air, and more voices, gruff and harsh this time. Victim, attackers, how is he doing, what do we tell them, will he recover, medication, words words words swirling around him. He sighed and let himself be shuttled onto a medical gurney. More soft hands, people whispering, tiny pricks on his arms, slight pressure on his wrist again. Sherlock hoped John wasn't working tonight.
"What do you mean, I'm not allowed? He's my bloody flat mate, I'm the only friend he's got, what the hell is going on, Lestrade?" John watched the inspector's mouth moving, his brow crinkling. Words weren't making sense anymore, no one was answering, something was very wrong. The doctor continued his frantic pacing, trying to piece together what he could overhear. Sherlock Holmes - found in warehouse - too much - not enough time - where's Watson - room 301 - ambulance - under arrest - John shook his head, confused. Sherlock would know what it meant, him and his shockingly blue eyes, he always knew. He needed to think harder, think like Sherlock, Sherlock, high cheekbones gorgeous curls adorable nose thin limbs, John's Sherlock.
John found himself struggling through the people, pushing frantically to get to the room ahead. Nurses and doctors and patients and orderlies and visitors flew by as he focused solely on the number ahead, one number, he knew by heart. Room 301. The ambulance would have brought him to this hospital, if he had been found in the warehouses close to Sherlock's usual route. It was maddeningly simple. Sherlock would have a laugh with him later about it, John was sure. Suddenly, his feet stopped working. Standing in the doorway, John Watson felt a tear rivulet down his cheek. There he was, the most beautiful man in existence, surrounded by tubes and wires and monitors. It wasn't fair.
Sherlock heard scuffling footsteps in the door way stop abruptly. The same footsteps he heard outside his door some mornings, if he pretended to be asleep. The same footsteps he heard in the kitchen, making tea early in the morning. John. Sherlock heard a slight shifting of breath, quick inhalation and then a slow release. He winced, knowing what John must be thinking. Suddenly, voices at the end of the hallway, and Lestrade, ordering, "Someone get Watson out of here." Someone, Donovan, Sherlock knew, was leading John back down the hallway, John's hitched breathing becoming faint. "Sherlock? I know you can hear me. They said you were awake." Lestrade awkwardly shifted at the end of the hospital bed. "Are you, I dunno, okay?" Sherlock opened his eyes, sighing, "Lestrade, you know as well as I do that is the most idiotic thing you have ever uttered."
"You mean, he caught a rapist? He, he caught him, right?" John pleaded desperately, his eyes searching Donovan's. She began again, "John, I'm sorry, I know how hard this must be, please, just listen-" John felt himself cracking slowly, English becoming fuzzy in his ears, his vision blurring around the edges. It couldn't be. This was Sherlock Holmes, he couldn't have. He wouldn't have let himself. John knew Sherlock, he was there, why hadn't he stopped Sherlock from leaving? What if Sherlock blamed him? He couldn't stand it. He stood up and began walking, back down the long hallway. He felt Donovan's gaze on his back, knew she wouldn't bother stopping him this time. John needed to speak with Sherlock, he had to know he was okay, Sherlock had to be okay.
Lestrade looked up, his eyes carefully searching Sherlock's. "Hm. I'm presuming Donovan is informing John of my… Of this." Sherlock glanced down at his bruised hands. "Of course." Lestrade answered, looking as though he wanted to reach out and comfort the other man, but didn't. "Sherlock, I need an official report. You'll have to tell me what happened." the inspector murmured, his eyes searching Sherlock's again. "Naturally. You will have my full cooperation." he found himself trembling a bit, and stilled himself. Sherlock had to be strong, in no one else but for John. Lestrade blew out the large breath he had been holding, "Okay… Well, whenever you're ready, you know where my office is. And, Sherlock, if you need anything…" Glancing up, Sherlock gave a curt nod.
John reached room 301 in time to see Lestrade stand from his chair, a small grimace on his face. He glanced at John as he passed, whispering, "Be careful. He's still processing." John nodded, his eyes finding the bright blue ones ahead. "Sherlock." the name fell from his lips, full of unspoken agony. "I do not blame you. You should not blame yourself, John." said the man in the hospital bed, drawing his knees up to his chest. "How, uh, how bad is it? Will you be back at the flat soon?" John blurted out, desperate to hear Sherlock's voice again. (really he's talking to you and you can't think of anything more intelligent?) A small half smile graced Sherlock's lips, and he indicated for John to sit in the chair Lestrade previously occupied. "I will recover. I will be home shortly, they are finished with my tests." he answered quietly, and John felt Sherlock's eyes on him as he sat down.
Sherlock struggled to keep his voice steady, watching John's slow movements carefully. He felt something in the air, something that wasn't new but had never been spoken. Sherlock waited, his eyes roving John's face, mapping it out mentally and memorizing it. "I want to kill him." John's voice broke, his shoulders shaking with anger and pain. "Please don't. I would miss you if you went to prison." Sherlock felt his lips curve up in response to John's strained laughter. "God, I love you, Sherlock." Something froze in Sherlock's mind, his mouth fell open slightly, the words tumbling out before he could stop them, "I love you too, John." How curious. John simply looked at him, his eyes churning with a sea of emotions. Sherlock felt himself flushing, closing his eyes as he stood on the verge of apologizing. Before he could utter another word, John's lips were against his own, gentle and kind. The small pressure made him inhale softly, his eyes flying open to meet John's.
John felt Sherlock's lips part beneath his own, his heart ready to simply burst. Sherlock had said it. He loved John. A thin cold hand found his own, and he wrapped his fingers around Sherlock's. When they broke the kiss, Sherlock leaned his forehead against John's. "I wish, I would like to cuddle when we get home." John found himself stumbling over the words, "But it's okay if you want space, I understand-" He didn't want to push Sherlock, but he knew it might help if Sherlock felt safe. John wanted to crawl up into the hospital bed and rock the taller man in his arms. How dare someone hurt his Sherlock. John softly rubbed Sherlock's fingers with his own, Sherlock smiled again (three times in one day, you must be doing something right) and he softly squeezed John's hand. "I would like that, John," Sherlock whispered into the warm space between them.
Lestrade walked down the hallway, pulling his hand across his face. This was going to be the worst week of his life and he knew it. Reaching room 301, the inspector stopped in his tracks. John Watson was holding hands with Sherlock Holmes, and both men were staring at each other with such warmth, Lestrade found himself smiling slightly. (it's about damn time, those two were horrid about avoiding it) Maybe it wasn't going to be so bad, after all. John would figure out how to help Sherlock, he always did.