"Not now", John harshly interrupted his stream of words and didn't even spare him a glance.
Not exactly the warm, cheerful welcoming, Sherlock had expected. Not that he needed John to welcome him back, to cuddle or to – perish the thought – hug him, but he was gone for eleven months, 23 days and five hours, presumed dead, buried, had a gravestone with his name on it. And he knew that John had been waiting for him to come back, unwilling to accept the detective's death, still hoping for some sort of miracle. Sherlock looked at John, irritated, watched the doctor intubating a patient, young male, between eighteen and twenty years old, who had, according to his still half-drunk, but obviously most-scared friends waiting outside the treatment room, intoxicated himself by consuming a amount of alcohol in a very short period of time. It was easy to see that this stupid kid needed help, no longer able to breathe on his own – but John wasn't the only doctor in this facility and had way more important things to do such as asking Sherlock why he faked his death, how he did it, what he had done those eleven months, 23 days and five hours and most importantly why he came back at this particularly moment. Did John seriously believe it was a simple coincidence that Sherlock returned to the surface? Sherlock sighed. Once again, Watson had gotten his priorities wrong.
Sherlock was just about to tell Watson the obvious – that he needed to accompany him so they could talk in a more reasonable setting, more specifically Sherlock could talk and explain to him the big picture – when a nurse bumped into him and gave him a look medieval folks would have called "evil eye". Sherlock instinctively stepped backwards to get out of her way, trying to understand what was wrong with Dr. John Watson who still ignored him. The work at the hospital hadn't done anything good to the doctor. He looked exhausted, his face was pale and there were dark rings under his eyes, clear signs for being overworked.
"John, we have to ...", Sherlock inserted.
"Leave the treatment room."
"This would have contra-productive effects on my agenda", Sherlock replied. He had entered the room for purpose, he couldn't just leave. If his motive to go to the hospital and enter the treatment room wasn't vital, he wouldn't have come here in first place. Why didn't John understand this?
"Kid, you have to leave the treatment room", the nurse repeated and grabbed Sherlock's arm to usher him out.
Sherlock withdrew his arm and looked at the doctor. "I came here to pick you up", he loudly said in order to drown the noise those medical devices made, turning the significant evidence for the kid being close to sighing out his soul into an unsettling melody of oncoming death. "John, you have to walk me out. There are important things to do."
"This is bloody important! The kid is dying for God's sake!"
"Yes. And apparently, there is nothing you could possibly do to stop it. It is too late and you know quite well that I am right about this. You are wasting your time and by doing so, you are also wasting mine. So come to your senses and accompany me."
Within the blink of an eye, Sherlock found himself seated on a very uncomfortable plastic chair outside the treatment room, stared at by a tall, broad-shouldered security guard who stood right next to him, cross-armed, pursed lips, definitely not in a funny mood. Sherlock shook his head in disbelieve, while wrinkles appeared on his forehead. This was not the way their reunion was supposed to take place. Why did others always have to complicate everything? Couldn't they just for once do what he asked them to? But then … John wasn't just anyone. He was his friend and again going to be flat-mate, wasn't he?
Sherlock sighed. Fair enough. He would grant John a couple of minutes to adjust to the new situation, to him being alive, to them having to work on a case. The moment the kid died, John wouldn't want to stay at the clinic anyway. He was far too sensitive therefore, not able to realize that it wasn't his fault that the young man was in this unpleasant and all at once final situation. The patient had been old enough to know what the abuse of alcohol could do to him.
The crowed of kids had vanished, perhaps their parents had taken care of them or someone had guided them to the waiting area. At least, he didn't have to sit here with all those sniveling and crying kids around.
The doors flew open and the scary nurse left the treatment room. She glanced at him, angrily, but didn't stop to tell him what was on her mind. Actually, it wasn't necessary, because Sherlock knew: for some reason she believed him to be an evil bastard. While the doors slowly snapped shut, Sherlock saw the doctor standing at the table next to the obviously dead young man, the machines not making any more noises. He only saw John's back, but he knew that John's eyes were directed at the corpse, most likely his pale, expressionless face. He appeared to be lost, somehow, standing still, hardly breathing.
Sherlock leaped on his feet and paced to the doors, followed by the security guard's attentive eyes. He pushed one door open and said: "It is time to go."
John started to move and the detective thought he had finally filtered through to his friend. But when John turned around, his face was all tired and disappointed. He passed Sherlock without looking at him and replied: "His parents are waiting for me. Go get someone else to play your games with, Sherlock."
John entered the elevator and waited for the doors to shut close. He was worried that Sherlock would come after him, get on the elevator and go on talking about things John didn't want to hear right now. But the doors closed, he pushed a button and leaned his back against the cold metallic wall, closing his eyes. Yet, he saw the kid's face, deathly pale skin, blue lips, still some colourfully confetti in his brown, straight hair, the drawing of a crooked heart on his left temple. Died on his eighteen's birthday, celebrating with his friends in a shack on his grandparent's property.
Damn it, he was so fucking weary of all that shit.
The elevator stopped, the doors opened with a tiny pling and a man in suit and sunglasses went in. John straightened himself and gave the intruder a brief smile. "Dr. Watson?", the man asked, took off his sunglasses and blatantly surveyed the doctor.
"Yes", John answered, noticing that the stranger didn't try to shake hands with him.
"What fortunate coincidence", the man replied and discreetly pointed a gun at John. "I'm sorry, but you'll have to accompany me."
Thanks for the warning, Sherlock, John thought, being vexed with the one who had risen from his grave, considering to put Sherlock back to where he came from. Instead of telling him about some unpleasant folks being around, posing a threat to John and perhaps everyone who got in their way, he pissed him off by talking all that cold shit in the treatment room. John sighed, put a charming smile on his lips and said: "Today, everyone's mad about me. Very flattering, for sure, and I guess you are decent chap, but sadly I already have some appointments I just can't postpone."
The stranger slowly shook his head. "I didn't assume that you were stupid, Dr. Watson. Just do what I tell you and I won't harm you."
"I'm afraid I can't make such a promise."
"The last time I looked, doctors still had to swear the Hippocratic oath. Do no harm and all that crappy shit." He lifted his gun a bit and added: "And I'm still the one holding the gun."
A very smooth and fast move later, the man unconsciously lied on the ground and John held the gun in his hand. "We all make mistakes. And I had a really bad day."