Doctor Watson, or John, was livid. He was ready to wake up the unconscious form on the bed, shake him up roughly scream at him, hit him, and call him all the names he could muster. But, instead, he just sat on the corner, kept one eye out for his vitals, and simmered.
About seventeen minutes and thirty three seconds later, John heard Sherlock stir. He got up from his seat in the corner, and came to his side. He decided to call him "curly", because of his curly dark hair.
Sherlock seemed to move more now, and moan something. Something which sounded like " water". John picked up a glass and a jug of water from the bedside, and pouring out some water, he waited for the sleeping form to wake up. But the sleeping form decided to keep squirming and moaning, so John turned around, bored.
Just then, Sherlock sat up, straight in bed, eyes wide with a sort of panic forming on them. He tried calling out something, but nothing came out. John turned around, surprised that Curly was awake, and handed him the glass of water. He took it, and finished it before rasping out for more.
John poured out another glass, a little intrigued this time. After Curly had the water, he made him lie back on the pillows. Then, in a firm voice, he began asking questions.
The last thing Sherlock thought before going under was actually quite funny. It went along the lines of "This should teach Mycroft a lesson". He had not meant to kill himself. Really, that would be just a waste of brilliance. He only took enough to ensure that he was knocked out completely cold. So, it came as no surprise to him when, coming back from consciousness, he could smell a sterile, hospital environment.
He tried to lie on his side, as his back was sore. But his ribs felt as though someone had danced on them, wearing hooves. Painful. Usually he did not feel pain, but this was actually hurting him. He let out a few moans as he adjusted himself on the bed, all too familiar with hospital environs now, considering that he had been in so many of them. Ouch.
He felt something in his nose. Oxygen prongs? He did not need those usually, except for that one time when he had pneumonia. His throat felt rough, like as though somebody had decided to substitute the vocal chords with sandpaper. He tried asking for some water as he slept.
Suddenly, thoughts came rushing into his head. He had a cardiac arrest. He remembered Anthea panicking and calling the ambulance as he struggled to breathe, pain in his chest. He was afraid for a few seconds, afraid that he was dying. Then darkness had washed over him. Warm, comforting darkness. He knew that was not a good sign, so he tried fighting it away. Either ways, he never liked warmth. He would rather take a dip in a glacier pool than a hot water spring. He remembered the darkness being there, sometimes pressing down on him with all its might, sometimes hovering lightly before him, giving him respite. He had fought the darkness, and survived.
He sat up straight now, ignoring the pain in his head, and the sudden dizziness, and looked around the room. A blonde man was standing with his back towards the bed, holding a glass of water. As if reading his thoughts, the blonde man-no, Doctor Watson- turned to face him, and held out the glass of water for him. He gulped down the water, and then gestured for more.
After making sure he was comfortable, Doctor Watson made him lie back in the bed. He took in all aspects of the Doctor. Training or applied recently for army. Army doctor then. Trained at Bart's. Healthy and young. Probably might go to war soon. Has a sister who gives him trouble and a mother too. No father. Living with family. And, the last thing was the most startling to read. He was very angry.
Doctor Watson began to interrogate, and then lecture Sherlock.
"Do you even know the value of life?" John asked Sherlock.
"Hm.. Yes, I do. Why do you ask?" The young man replied almost dismissively, like as though it was not as important as staring at him right now.
"Then will you give me an explanation as to why you tried to kill yourself?"
His words seemed to shock the young man. He opened his mouth, as if about to reply, but then shut it almost instantly. He opened it again, this time giving an answer.
" I was not trying to take my life. I was testing my limits. Apparently, this is my limit."
"Your limits? My god- You are a madman, not a junkie. A totally insane person."
"Actually, it is a high functioning sociopath"
John almost growled now.
"Look here, Curly. I don't care if you are a sociopath or a psychopath. All that I am asking you is why did you try to kill yourself? Do you even know how many people are out there, fighting for their lives, while you are sitting here, slowly giving away yours? Wasting it. You should not be doing this, but I am not a counsellor. No, all that I am going to tell you is, You come under my care again, because you did another overdose, or even did drugs, I will personally ensure that you are not saved next time. Am I clear?" There. He managed to remove it all from himself.
John felt better, much better. His spirits lifted even more when he saw the young man meekly nod, instead of smirking and answering him like how he did before. But what piqued his interest was the fact that, on mentioning his almost death, the young man looked surprised, as though he was not expecting it.
John turned around, and sat down on the sofa.
"Actually, I was not trying to kill myself at all. It's just that, doing so much, I must have been too weak to handle that much. Therefore, my heart would have given away."