It was all wrong. All wrong. He'd just got engaged for god's sake. He should be out celebrating with his new fiancée (the word grated in John's mind) not lying here, on drips and oxygen, being pumped full of morphine, with surgical dressings over his heart.
John wiggled a little closer to the edge of the uncomfortable plastic chair. He reached out and gently took Sherlock's unresisting hand. To check his pulse. The heart monitor beeping in the background could be wrong. Nothing like a manual check to confirm. To be sure. The pulse could not lie.
Sherlock had spent seven hours in surgery as they fought to repair the damage caused by the bullet from the unknown shooter. John had arrived at University College Hospital just as Sherlock was being prepped for surgery. Obviously, Mycroft had used his influence as John was waved straight through. He waivered slightly, thinking he should call Mary and let her know. She'd be worried at him being out all night. He settled for sending a quick text, just to let her know he was with Sherlock. No need to worry her. No need to let her know he'd already died in the back of the ambulance before they'd managed to bring him back.
John rubbed a hand over his face and through his ruffled hair at the memory of sitting in the waiting room, pacing, drinking a foul excuse for coffee, waiting for the news that Sherlock was OK. He'd known as soon as the surgeon walked in that it was hopeless. That Sherlock was gone. How many times had he worn that same expression when talking to friends and colleagues of the fallen? How many times had he used those same platitudes?
Before his heart could break, the surgeon had been called back. A nurse dashed out, clearly confused, telling him to wait.
"I don't believe it, but he's fighting. I just … this has never happened before. Give us some more time. Just … stay there. Yes, stay there." Then she dashed back through the doors towards the operating theatre where Sherlock lay. Not dead. Fighting. Glorious idiot.
So John waited. More pacing. More coffee.
Finally, the same surgeon but with a different expression. He explained Sherlock had died. They'd called time of death. Then he defied the odds and revived. They didn't know how. Perhaps a fault on the machines. His body falling to too low a threshold for his vital signs to register. Perhaps. They didn't know. Apologies, we didn't mean to worry you unnecessarily. He's being moved to a private room where his condition can be monitored. He isn't out of the woods yet. He might still succumb. They won't know his chances until he wakes. It was unusual, but as a courtesy, Dr Watson had special permission to stay with the patient.
"Sherlock. His name's Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes."
"Yes, yes. Of course." Flustered, the man turned away.
John couldn't blame him. Surgeons couldn't become connected to their patient's. To him, Sherlock was just another wounded body to mend. So much bone and blood and tissue to repair. And, in this case, possibly an interesting submission to the British Medical Journal.
A nurse entered John's world. The small private room that enshrouded Sherlock. Nothing existed outside of that at the moment. Not Baker Street, not Mary, not the bastard who had put a bullet in Sherlock's chest. The nurse's checks forced John to temporarily leave Sherlock's side. The man asked John to wait outside. John shook his head and moved to the corner of the room, arms crossed tight across his chest, shoulders hunched, his eyes never leaving the nurse's hands. Every check, every movement scrutinized with expert eyes. John remained, guarding the precious individual who, at this moment, could not protect himself. It's what Mycroft would want. It's what John did, for Sherlock. Friends protect each other. Friends.
The nurse left and John resumed his place, again checking the pulse of his friend, his best friend. It felt stronger. John would wait until Sherlock awakened. As a friend it was the least he could do.
He looked at the dressings on Sherlock's chest. He knew the extent of the damage. What the surgical team had struggled to mend. He knew how many times Sherlock had died. Murdered by a coward with a gun against an unarmed man. He knew infection was a significant risk.
He stood, leaning forward to brush a few strands of hair from Sherlock's forehead, a small smile playing on his lips. He needed to check, for his own peace of mind, that infection was not setting in. He could not feel any signs of fever through his fingers. He rested the back of his hand against Sherlock's brow. Nothing. Not sensitive enough. He needed to know, to detect it early, to give Sherlock a fighting chance. He needed to do this, for Sherlock. Bracing himself so as not to put pressure on the unconscious man, John rose on tiptoe and brushed his lips against Sherlock's brow. He drew back, a look of tenderness in his eyes as he again caressed the relaxed forehead that protected the most amazing mind he had ever known.
No sign of fever. Good. He would check again in a while. No harm in using the method employed by mothers for millennia. No, no harm at all.
Now to wait for the git to wake up.
John sat back in the chair. He wanted to talk, but what could he say. The recent past was too boring, and John really didn't feel like discussing Mary. While Sherlock was … away was just too painful. In the end, John started at the beginning. He talked in hushed tones of his childhood, of Harry, his parents, the brief time he'd shared with his grandparents. Family holidays before alcohol took its toll (no need to mention that. Only happy memories for Sherlock. Only the good stuff).
John talked of college, of rugby matches, of nights down the pub with the lads, of university, of meeting Mike Stamford, of typical med student exploits. He told of nearly getting sent down for decking some entitled tosser who thought it was funny to use a hand stolen from a cadaver to feel up female students. Luckily the girls had rallied to his aid, supporting his story.
And in between the memories, the events that had helped craft John Hamish Watson, John would periodically rise, brush his fingers across Sherlock's forehead, then place a gentle kiss upon that still relaxed brow. Not really a kiss, just a gentle brush of lips. Just to check. Just to be sure there was still no sign of fever. Then, he would nod and return to his seat before continuing his stories.
He explained to Sherlock why he joined the Army. He told Sherlock things he'd never told anyone, because before the only people who needed to know where there with him. Now he needed to tell Sherlock. Everything. The highs, the lows. He held nothing back. The only event he didn't discuss was the one thing that Sherlock would find most important. The injury that had ended his military and surgical careers. The events that had placed him in that bedsit, with a cane, and the need for a mad flatmate. The injury that had brought John to Sherlock. That was a story for another day. For when Sherlock awoke.
John pictured it now. They would sit opposite each other in Baker Street, in their armchairs, drinking whiskey, with the fire burning low in the grate, and John would tell Sherlock everything. All the things he'd buried for so long. All the truth's about himself that he had never told anyone; that he had barely admitted to himself except in his darkest hours. The truth's he had never even contemplated telling Mary.
It struck him that it said something about his relationship with his wife. That he felt no compunction to share truths about himself with her. In fact, now he thought about it he'd rarely shared any personal information about his history. Yet she seemed to know. Little comments that showed more knowledge about him than he had shared. Still, she was a nurse. She'd have diagnosed things about him just from being with him. And of course she'd probably read his medical file at the surgery. But no, enough of Mary. Sherlock was his main focus. Sherlock needed him, even if the git wouldn't admit it. Always wanting to be the Great Sherlock Holmes, needing no-one, without realising how much he depended upon others – Greg, Molly, Mrs Hudson, his homeless network, even Mycroft. Idiot.
He realised he'd said that aloud. A groan from the bed startled him from his musings. Standing beside the bed, John took Sherlock's pulse.
"Come on, Sherlock. Wake up. You're safe. You're in hospital. It's OK. You're OK. I'm with you. Wake up."
Again Sherlock's eyelids fluttered. John reached across to press the call button for the nurse.
"Emm'ry." The word was rasping and barely audible, but John was sure that Sherlock had tried to speak.
"Mary? Is that what you said Sherlock? Do you want me to get Mary?"
John was shocked. After all this time, their years of friendship, and he couldn't deny. It hurt that the first word Sherlock spoke after his brush with death was the name of a woman he hardly knew. Not even the name of his own fiancée, but that of John's wife. A bitter twist in John's gut was quickly tamped down. Buried with all the other hurts he had endured over his life.
Sherlock was awake. Against all the odds. He couldn't ask for more than that.
As medical staff flooded into the tiny room, John grabbed his coat and rejoined the rest of the world. Pulling out his phone, he texted first Mycroft, then Mary.
He's awake.
He didn't know if Greg or Mrs Hudson had been informed of the shooting, so he left that for another time. Stretching his shoulders with a groan he heard the tone signalling Mary's reply.
I'm coming. See you soon.
He wandered towards the gents for long needed relief, then to the vending machine for more coffee before he settled down outside the hive of activity that Sherlock's room had become, as he awaited the arrival of his wife.