When John Watson was a doctor, he liked hospitals. They were incredibly well equipped with some of the best technology for medical care. They were sterile, preventing the risk of mass spread of disease. They allowed him to work, to do what he did best, to fix people.

When John Watson was a patient, he tolerated hospitals. He saw the necessity of their existence, and appreciated the care given to him when he was admitted. Even if he was bored out of his mind, and it always had the strong smell of cleaning fluids and people which very often gave him a headache, he was grateful that he was there.

When John Watson's best friend was lying unconscious in a hospital, he hated them. The lights were too bright, the machines were too loud, but more importantly, it had been three days, and Sherlock was still unconscious and the doctors who had been assigned to him had not done a thing about it.

John knew in the logical, medical part of his brain that they were doing the right thing. There was no major damage that they could find, however they would be more sure when he woke up and they could perform a more thorough check. The only thing they could do was wait.

The illogical, impatient part of his brain, however, wanted to scream at them. Why was Sherlock not awake yet? They had to do something, anything.

He hadn't left the hospital since they arrived on the night of the chase. John had been checked over and was cleared by the nurses on duty. He's then followed Sherlock as the doctors performed various tests and scans, until they had set him up on one of the empty wards. He'd spent a few minutes trying to regain control of his emotions, but it was difficult when he was in the same room as Sherlock when he was in this state. He'd quickly gone outside for some fresh air and to ring Mary, because John knew she would have been worrying all evening about them. John explained everything to her, voice quivering and breaking as he spoke. She told him she'd be there in ten minutes.

Mary had sat with John on a bench outside as he cried. She had cradled him against her and whispered soothing words of comfort as he buried deeper, clinging on to what he had. He silently thanked God that at least one of them was okay. If a situation ever occurred that put both Sherlock and Mary's life in danger, it would break him. For now, he breathed in the smell of her honey scented shampoo, and allowed her words to wrap around him like a protective barrier.

When they'd returned to Sherlock's bedside, she'd made a big fuss about plumping his pillow and making sure his blanket was tucked around him, and John watched as she smoothed back the ebony curls from Sherlock's forehead and plant a soft kiss there. As she pulled away, she told him to wake up soon. It reminded John of the way his mother used to tuck him in bed at night, and filled John with waves of fresh, raw emotions.

Mary returned to their flat, but John insisted that he stay with Sherlock until he woke up.

There were several visitors for Sherlock the next day. Lestrade was the first to make an appearance. He looked exhausted. There were dark shadows underneath his eyes and his shoulders were more sagged than usual. He was worn. He tried to lighten the mood by cracking a joke about the amount of paperwork he'd have to fill out, but John did not want to laugh. He did not want to do anything. It was only a short visit, and Lestrade left to continue with the case.

Next to visit was Molly Hooper and her fiancé, Tom. She took one look at Sherlock on the bed and burst into tears. John let Tom do the comforting, he did not want to comfort anyone. He wanted Sherlock to wake up. Molly spent her time there holding Sherlock's hand and talking to him. John was unsure about whether Sherlock would be able to hear her, but he appreciated the fact that she was trying. She told Sherlock about some of the interesting bodies she'd seen at work and promised him that he could have his pick when he woke up.

"Please wake up, Sherlock." It was barely louder than a whisper

She was shaking, and her voice was weak, cracking as the tears fell over her cheeks. She let go of his hand to wipe them away, and Tom moved forward to collect her together and leave. Probably for the best, John thought.

Mary had come again. She bought John a fresh set of clothes and kept an eye on Sherlock as John went to get changed. She'd forced John to eat something, telling him that starving himself wasn't going to do any good to anybody. John reminded Mary of how much he loved her. Anyone else would have treated him like a child, like he was something delicate that need to be protected. Mary wasn't like that. She knew what John needed, and made sure that he got it. What John needed now was a rock, something stable to hold onto whilst his life was whirling around him in dizzying circles.

She stayed with John for the rest of the day. At about 4pm, John began to feel confined, so he popped out to get some air into his lungs, and Mary watched over Sherlock again. John returned and before he stepped into the ward, he saw Mary leaned on Sherlock's bed. She'd pulled her chair right up close and her head was laid on her folded arms. Her mouth was moving, talking to him, and John opened the door slightly to hear what she was saying.

"You have to wake up Sherlock. I know you will. I bet your big, clever brain's trying to break out right now, isn't it?" She smiled at him fondly, before her face fell into an expression of – what John could only describe as - heartbrokenness. "Please Sherlock, for John."

John opened the door and walked in, as if he'd never heard what Mary had said, as if he'd never felt the ache in his stomach that they caused. He sat in his chair, and Mary took his hand and squeezed it reassuringly. John squeezed back, but he did not feel reassured. Sherlock was still not awake, and John would not feel better until he was.

On the second day, Mycroft had paid his younger brother a visit. Mary had gone to work, but John had phoned in and taken time off under exceptional circumstances. He left the room, to give Mycroft some privacy with Sherlock. John had never seen Mycroft look so worried before. It was almost as if he were human. But John did not acknowledge this. Instead, he let Mycroft spend however long he needed with Sherlock. After about an hour, Mycroft emerged. He still looked worried, but less so than when he had entered the room. For strange reasons unknown to John, seeing Mycroft look less worried actually calmed him. It was probably because if anyone were to find a fault with anything, it would be Mycroft. So, either there really was nothing to worry about, or Mycroft was keeping the truth from John. He settled with the former, not wishing to contemplate what Mycroft cold be keeping from him. John had resumed his place in his chair and continued to watch.

There were no visitors on the third day, apart from Mary, who came in before heading off to work. She's ruffled Sherlock's hair gently and kissed John before leaving. John did not do anything that day. He just existed. He did not talk to Sherlock as the others had done, the idea seemed ridiculous. Besides, what on earth would he say? Sherlock would know that John wanted him to wake up, he didn't need to be told, and anything else John would want to say would be irrelevant.

He just sat there for hours, watching Sherlock. John was just about to drift off to sleep – for he had slept very little over the past days – when he heard the quiet moan and the rustle of movement coming from the direction of the bed.