By the time they reached the hospital, Sherlock had composed himself. He had wiped his face and put back on the stoic mask he usually wore to hide his emotions. On the inside, though, he was a mess.
He wanted to sob, to scream at the injustice of it all, to curl up under his blanket and block out the rest of the world.
He wanted John. He wanted his best friend there telling him that it would be alright, wanted to feel the doctor's heartbeat and assure himself that he was alive. But he couldn't. All he could do was wait in the incredibly boring waiting room with Lestrade, hands together and placed under his chin. All he could do was replay that one moment again and again in his mind.
He didn't know how long he sat there before a nurse finally came in.
"Are you the family of John Watson?" she asked.
"Doctor," Sherlock hissed. The nurse started in surprise at the detective's hostile tone.
"I'm sorry?"
"Doctor John Watson. And he has no family other than his sister, but I am his emergency contact."
Without a word Sherlock started off in the direction the nurse had come from, not even giving her time to tell them the extent of the damage done to John. The flustered woman ran to catch up and lead him and Lestrade to John's room. Along the way, he passed many people and had to forcibly shut down a part of his brain so that he wouldn't be distracted by all the information he was getting just by glancing at the people in the halls.
Stay focused, he told himself. They made three turns and went up two floors before finally reaching the right room. Sherlock entered, leaving the DI to thank the nurse, and sucked in a sharp breath.
John was lying too still for Sherlock's liking, dressed in a green gown. There was an IV attached to his arm and oxygen mask placed over his mouth and nose. His head was heavily bandaged and one of his arms was in a only thing stopping Sherlock from running over and making sure that he was alive was the constant beeping of the heart monitor.
"Oh God," Lestrade breathed when he came in a moment later. Sherlock didn't say anything, just sat in one of the chairs next to the bed and stared at his best friend, as if he could wake him up with just the power of his mind. "Sherlock, how did he end up in that river?"
The detective stiffened visibly.
"It was my fault," he muttered after a while. "I was on the Hanging Tree trying to get this bit of evidence," he held up the glove, "and the tree was coming loose. He tried to warn me but I didn't listen. So he came up to get me and the tree fell and he pushed me off."
Lestrade sucked in a breath. Sherlock didn't have to turn around to know that the DI was angry.
"Sherlock, you idiot," Lestrade said, not yelling for the sake of not waking their friend. "You always do this, why don't you ever listen to him? All this could have been avoided."
Sherlock didn't defend himself. He knew that everything the DI was telling him was true, he knew that it was all his fault. They sat in stony silence until the doctor arrived. He either didn't notice or chose to ignore the tension in the room.
"Which one of you is Dr. Watson's emergency contact?" he asked.
"I am," Sherlock stated.
"The doctor was extremely lucky that help arrived when it did. His injuries are serious, but not life threatening. He has a concussion and a broken arm, lost quite a lot of blood, and his lungs had to be drained of water, though thankfully he doesn't have hypothermia. The anesthesia should be wearing off soon. He should be fit to go home in a few days." The doctor checked the machines and IV before giving them a small smile and leaving the room.
Lestrade glared at Sherlock the entire time, eyes narrowed and hands clenched into fists. He only left the room to take a call, and even then Sherlock could feel his glare through the window in the door.
"I have to get back to the station," he said a few minutes later, sticking his head into the room. "I expect you to call me when John wakes up." And with that, he left, not even saying good-bye to the detective.
Finally alone, Sherlock let the tears fall. He grabbed John's hand and clung to it like it was the only thing keeping him alive. He was so caught up in his misery that he didn't notice that John was awake until the hand he was holding squeezed back.
The detective's head shot up and he stared at John through his tears. John offered him a weak smile which Sherlock quickly returned.
"How are you feeling?" he asked, pushing down his guilt for a moment.
"Like I fell off a cliff," John answered. He slowly pulled himself into a sitting position and carefully pulled the mask away from his face. He sucked in a small breath, testing his lungs before pulling it all the way off. Sherlock handed him the chart at the end of the bed at the doctor's request and sat nervously while he read the pages.
"Hmm," he said after a while. "I'll be fine. So, Sherlock, why are you so upset?"
The detective jumped a little at the blunt change in subject. How did John know he was upset?
"I know you are, so don't try to lie to me."
Sherlock fidgeted for a moment more before finally hanging his head.
"I'm sorry, John," he whispered. "I'm so sorry that this happened to you. It was my fault that you fell, I should have listened to you. It should have been me." Even though he whispered that last part, John still heard it and stiffened in response.
"Sherlock, it wasn't anyone's fault. Yes you were a complete git and should have listened to me about coming down, but it was my decision to climb that tree and save your ass. Don't blame yourself," he added in a softer tone. "It shouldn't have been you, that's why I took your place. You're too good for something like this to happen to you."
Sherlock smiled a little at the reassurance. He was glad that John wasnt mad at him, but the feeling of guilt was still there, although abated a lot. John, forgetting about his broken arm, attempted to sit up further. He hissed at the pain of his weight on his arm (and dizziness from his concussion, but he wasn't admitting it) and let himself fall back.
"John?" Sherlock looked at his friend with worry in his eyes.
"'m fine," the doctor said through gritted teeth. Eventually the pain seemed to have subsided and John let his eyes close. "Did you give the glove to Lestrade?" he asked.
"Of course," he said, offended that John thought he would forget something so important. A thought seemed to occur to John, and he looked at Sherlock.
"Did Lestrade come with you to the hospital?" Sherlock nodded. "Was he concerned?" Another nod. "Did he ask you to call him when I woke up?" Yet another nod, though this time the face held an expression of boredom. The world's only consulting detective couldn't be bothered to phone the DI when his friend was bed-ladden like this.
Once again reading Sherlock's mind, John sighed and took his phone off of his bedside table. His head pounded when he looked at the screen's light, so he held the phone out to Sherlock.
"Phone Lestrade and tell him I'm alright," he ordered. He could feel a headache coming on and the gash above his ear was throbbing in time to his heartbeat. Once he made sure that Sherlock was actually speaking to Lestrade, he curled up underneath the blanket and closed his eyes. He had only meant to rest them, but he soon found himself drifting off into a terrible, nightmare filled sleep.