I see emotion in your eyes
Will I remember? Can I remember?
Sherlock Holmes wasn't used to feelings (curiosity and boredom constantly changing places didn't come into equation). So right now, while having quite too much of them dancing can-can on his guts and making him dizzy, he decided to make at least minimal use of them and distract himself (it takes a genius to distract yourself from the feelings with those exact feelings). He needed to focus on something, anything.
Let's start with sorting them out.
Anger? Yes, certainly. He was angry at the whole world. But mostly at this guy with scarred face (who will be chased down by the only consulting detective and— well, he hasn't thought much of the details yet, but certainly the guy won't come out of it alive). He was angry at Lestrade for giving him the case of scarred murderer. He was angry at the doctors for their uncertainty. But most of all... He was angry at himself.
Fear? He had to admit it's presence. He felt it crawling over his stomach and making a nest there. Oh god, Sherlock hated fear.
There was more, much more, but above all of them, the most transparent one was guilt.
He felt guilty, hell he did. For a prodigy he was, Sherlock was for quite often doing things that turned out wrong-
Which leads us to the elementary reason for being where we are, the reason for all those feelings and the distracting.
John was laying motionless on the hospital bed with hideous bandage over his head and this was all so wrong. Doctor said the damage wasn't as bad as it looked (Sherlock still smelled John's blood on himself, his shirt and trousers were soaked with it) but they won't have certain diagnosis till the ex-army doctor wakes up.
So Sherlock waited. Patiently. He wasn't sure about the amount of time passing. The first minute of looking at regularly rising and falling John's chest seemed like eternity itself, so what did it matter how many time has actually passed? World's only consulting detective was sitting in uncomfortable hospital chair and was really really far from getting bored by this stillness.
"Where..?"
John's voice was weak and hoarse. He cleared his throat and opened his mouth to say something more but was interrupted by his flatmate, who has jumped on his feet the moment he heard the voice.
"You're at Bart's, you've been knocked out by this scarred bastard, he hit you quite hard, I—" Sherlock stopped when he noticed too puzzled look on John's face.
"Excuse me but... You're not from the hospital staff aren't you? What are you doing here? Do we know each other?"
Sherlock realized he was gripping John's sheet only when his eyes landed on his white knuckles. He took a deep breath. Then another. And the third...
"I'll get the doctor, they wanted to be informed when you wake up," he said after the fourth. He wasn't quite sure the voice that said it was his own.
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Waiting for the doctor was even worse than waiting for John to wake up. Previously there was at least calmingly regular rising of John's chest and now— now was only damned white door to John's room; to a room of injured John who didn't remember him.
Alright, let's calm down. Nothing will hurry the results. Distraction.
Sorting out the feelings—where were we?
Oh, the fear has not stopped at making the nest. Now it owned a mansion over Sherlock's guts and made a party for confusion, hopelessness, rage, guilt (that was now growing like a healthy teenager) and shy desire of revenge.
Since when did he even knew how to name all those feelings?
Was now stupidity joining the party? The answer to that question was lying behind those damned white door.
When the doorknob moved, Sherlock found himself already by the door. Doctor jumped surprised by detective's sudden appearance.
"Well, the only harm that the wound has caused to his brain is slight damage of his memory centres. The last thing he remembers is getting shot in Afghanistan. There is a chance he will recover his lost memories but I can't guarantee when it'll happen... or if at all."
Sherlock felt doctor's hand on his shoulder and forgot to shave it off as his brain was getting through the data it's just received.
"Excuse me now, I've got other patients I need to visit today."
Sherlock counted his breaths again. He has been perfect at deadening his emotions since he was a child, why was it so hard to do lately? He never needed to even think about it, there were always more important and more interesting things than feelings.
Where was his dear indifference and unconcern now?
He finally entered the room. John was sitting in his bed, his pale face full of misunderstanding. Sherlock wasn't sure what to do with himself, so he stood by the door, waiting.
"I'm sorry," John said suddenly. "The doctor told me you're my friend and I— I'm sorry, but I really don't remember you."
Sherlock counted three breaths.
"We're flatmates," he specified.
"Oh..." John seemed embarrassed. "So... What is your name?"
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Thanks for reading! I'll truly appreciate all reviews and opinions on the story. I'm not a native speaker of english so I'm a aware that there must be a lot of awful mistakes up there... Anyway, if anyone actually read it and enjoyed it a little - let me know! I'd like to know if there's even on reader for whom I should upload next chapters ^^