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Thank you for reading and such, I'd love it if you checked out my other stuff too! Let's see what John found then. This might get graphic, by the way, and upsetting, it's basically me recalling what I saw and went through when my nan was... dying basically.
Tubes were everywhere. That's all John , tubes and more tubes. Some were entering Sherlock through his mouth, other's by his nose, and some were up his top.
John's eyes absorbed everything that he saw. His ears identified the slow and continuous beep in the room as the machine monitoring Sherlock's heart rate, and could see the drip by his right side, feeding Sherlock the vitamins he needed indirectly.
John couldn't stand in the room anymore, he had to get out; find out why Sherlock was in there. He pushed the door open and eased it while closing; as if he was scared the sound would awaken Sherlock or irritate him in some way.
He discarded the disgustingly coloured apron and gloves and found the nearest doctor.
"Hi, um, my name's John Watson, the man in there is my friend. Sherlock Holmes?" he still wouldn't accept the fact that Sherlock was this ill.
The doctor held up his file in his hand and flicked through a couple of pages, his eyebrows rising slightly as he found the right sheet.
"Ah, yes. Follow me, Mr Watson."
Doctor Watson John mentally corrected. He followed the man into what seemed like a consulting room, or a very strange office. He didn't care if he talked about this outside, he just needed answers.
"Please, take a seat," the doctor motioned towards a chair. John reluctantly sat down, growing impatient at the entire situation.
The doctor cleared his throat before continuing. "Your friend, Mr Holmes, well, there's no easy way to put this; he had a heart attack, and, as mild as it was, we had to put him on life support just to be safe.
"It seemed that there was an unknown substance already in his body, we think some kind of chemical or drug, and when we gave him some anaesthetic s for his leg and another drug to calm him, it seemed to react badly with the substance already in his body.
"He started to have a mild fit, only convulsions, but then the two or three chemicals that had reacted had somehow travelled to his heart before we could correct anything. And, as you know, he suffered a minor heart attack."
John took in a lung full of air, he hadn't breathed since the doctor started talking. John blinked a couple of times, wetting his lips with his tongue and going to speak but not knowing what to say.
"How, um, h-how long will Sherlock stay like this?" His voice broke slightly at the end of his sentence.
"We don't know for sure, but we are certain that Mr Holmes will recover. However, his brain was deprived of oxygen for approximately 6 minutes while we tried to resuscitate him. It is likely when he does come back to full waking consciousness; he will be weak and won't be able to do a lot for himself."
"I'll take care of him," John replied instantly. The doctor flashed a fake smile of approval before continuing.
"You will have to feed him, possibly help dress him, help him wash and get around, and also find ways of regaining his strength and stamina that he will have lost."
John felt as if someone had come along and decided to place a fridge on top of his head. The feeling that he was experiencing was unexplainable; like everything in the world had decided to congregate on John's shoulders.
"There is one thing, though, Dr Watson," the man continued.
John swallowed nervously and nodded, signalling for him to carry on.
"Because the brain is so fragile, and because it was starved of oxygen for 6 minutes, Mr Holmes may have lost some or all of his memory, whether it be short or long term. He may not be able to speak very well, or remember familiar faces."
John looked to the floor, cursing himself for crying in front of someone.
The doctor leaned in closer to John. "I know how hard this must be for you, Dr Watson, but I can assure you, we are doing everything we can."
John laughed slightly when the doctor finished talking and sat up from his seat. "Thank you for your time," he held out his hand and the other man took it, shaking it with more vigour than expected.
He awkwardly left the room, checking Sherlock quickly, in case some miracle had happened and he had woken up from this nightmare. He escaped the white, pristine confines of the hospital and flagged down a taxi.
...
The flat seemed so empty. The package lay ripped on the top step of the stairs, evident of where Sherlock had tripped over it. John picked it up and placed it neatly on the coffee table, before sitting down in his own chair and allowing all the emotions to finally come cascading down over him
...
Any progress? – BLOCKED
Yes, I managed to inject the flunitrazepam into his system before the administered the morphine. SM
Good, that's good. Keep me updated, I want to watch the poor doctor burn. – BLOCKED
...
It had been 2 weeks, 4 days, 8 hours and about 31 minutes since Sherlock had broken his leg. John had visited him every day, he brought books to read to him, flowers to made the bland room look brighter and replaced the note on his bedside in case he woke up while John wasn't there.
He was in the store buying more flowers, when his phone buzzed in his jacket pocket. He whisked it out, not affected by the wave of hope that overcame him every other time his phone vibrated.
John's grip on the flowers loosened and they fell to the ground, various petals and leaves breaking off on contact.
Sherlock had woken up.
GAHH it's been so long, I'm so sorry! Hope this is okay for all of you, let me know what you think and I'll update as soon as I can!
-Sherly xo