Sherlock opened his eyes deliberately as soon as he acknowledged he could. John was there, reading the Classifieds in the newspaper. He had clearly been anxious for a prolonged length of time. A week, no, two. About what, no, who? It was a whom. Ah. Me. When Sherlock realized that, he groaned a bit. Just as he expected, John's head snapped up and the eyes of two friends met once more.
John called the nurse in. She talked about how it was such a miracle, and Sherlock again considered the lack of weight in sentiment. John allowed himself a small flash of a smile as Sherlock rattled off the statistics of mugging victim's survival rates in London, which showed Sherlock to not, in fact, be a "miracle."
Sherlock then was quiet, ignoring how awkward he had made the small room, and paid his attention to John's small smile. He had expected it to be more relaxed. Something is off. I don't dance around subjects; this is John.
"What is wrong, John?" he croaked, angry at how weak his voice was. He shouldn't sound so tired; there was no pain.
No pain. He had been deeply stabbed thrice; where was the… there it is.
Sherlock winced. The nurse apologized, but John, though with obvious sympathy, looked less concerned than before. Why was the nurse apologizing and why was John…?
Morphine.
"Sherlock… um… you-"
"I know," Sherlock looked at his friend again. "I've had too much, haven't I."
"Had to, otherwise you'd…" John stopped to take a breath.
"Yes. Well, dialysis, then?" He was aware of what was to be done and wasn't particularly excited, but John was there.
"You," John choked, "will hate that. Going in… every week…" He cleared his throat. Sherlock leaned his head back and observed the ceiling.
"There is no point without the work," he stated. No emotion.
John stood up and put his hand cautiously on Sherlock's shoulder.
"You can't live without dialysis, now. Your kidneys aren't ever-"
"I know!" The words rang. John was hurt by the outburst. Boring. Knew he'd be. But only for a moment. His face changed to that of revelation, then hope, then determination. Ah, a transplant. He thinks I can get a transplant. "John, it's no use. There's too long a list." But John kept the same stubborness. "Don't be illogical-"
Suddenly Sherlock realized.
"No. No, John. I won't risk it. Mary won't want it either. John." The last word was strained. The pain was worse. No sleeping yet. "John, you're the wrong blood type."
"Liar. You don't know my blood type."
"O positive." Sherlock stated, and John noticed that it wasn't due to a long walk in the Mind Palace.
"Yes, and you're A positive. One thing that you have in common with many people of the world, if only that."
"In that case, you're more mediocre by three percent." Sherlock took a shallow, pained breath, which caused John's eyes to tilt slightly more into the worried position. Sherlock thought a moment. "Molly."
"Yes, I asked her. Figured you would need some blood someday." John smiled lightheartedly at the truth in that.
"But not you under surgery! Not an entire organ!"
"I have got two, you know."
"Of course I… know." Why did breathing have to be so difficult? More important: how do I prevent this? "I won't sign the papers." The ache was now a full-out sting, more concentrated. "John…"
"Shh… it's okay." Sherlock tried to stop it but he groaned as it rippled through him.
"Turn it back… up. Please."
"Liver, Sherlock. Just breathe, please. It's alright, you're safe."
"Don't do any… thing… illogical."
John smiled.
"Keep your breathing steady, mate. Sleep."
Sherlock passed out.