I do not own Sherlock or James Bond :)
A Stranger Over Her Bed
John sat by the hospital bed, the constant beeping of the various monitors the only noise in the room.
It seemed so wrong to see Sherlock being so still and quiet. She was always filled with such energy, always moving, twitching, watching.
But not now. Thanks to a suspect's bullet she was in a hospital bed, harsh white hospital issue bedding covering her, making her seem so small and pale.
It was all wrong.
John didn't even blink away from her face when Lestrade entered the room.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
The steady noise remained the only constant.
"Have you been here the whole time?"
John nods his head.
Sherlock was not supposed to get hurt.
"Have you slept?"
He shook his head.
This was all wrong.
"Had anything to eat?"
"No," he mumbled.
She was breathing fine and the doctor in him knew that she could wake up any moment. She had come through the surgery without a hitch. The bullet had been a through and through. By some miracle it had gone through above her hip and missed her organs. Seeing the amount of blood flowing from her and terrified him.
He remember what one of the doctors had asked him after the surgery.
Why hadn't he informed them of a previous bullet wound?
Because he hadn't known she had been bloody shot in the past that was why.
"-coffee?"
What?
"Come on mate, we'll get to the cafeteria for something to eat and drink. We won't be gone long,"
He tried to protest but Lestrade's argument that he wouldn't do her much good if he passed out from exhaustion and lack of food had him moving.
They sat in the silent cafeteria with only the occasion doctor coming in to use the vending machines. John was nursing a cup of vending machine coffee and a packet of crisps. Hardly a meal but there was a few hours to wait until things would be up and going for the breakfast crowd.
"You know," Greg cleared his throat, "I didn't actually know if she slept or not. I thought that Anderson could have been right,"
John looked up from the steaming plastic cup to frown at Greg. Anyone who thought that Anderson could be right about anything concerning Sherlock needed help.
"He has a theory that she is a vampire. One of those glittery ones, you know,"
John couldn't stop the chuckle that burst from him at this.
"Yeah, good theory I suppose," he whispered hoarsely, gulping down what was left of his coffee and crunching through his crisps in record timing.
They walked back to the room in silence and stopped when they reached the length of corridor that gave a view of Sherlock's room door and the window that ran the length of her bed.
There was a man in the room with her. His lack of lab coat told John that he wasn't a doctor.
He ran for the room, Lestrade at his heal, ready to do anything to the man if he was here to hurt Sherlock. Could he have hurt her already? If he had Lestrade would have to be pretty quick off the mark to stop John from killing the stranger.
Wait.
John skidded to a stop when he saw the stranger sit in the seat he himself had been in no that long ago and take Sherlock's hand. She was awake.
And was that a sleepy smile on her face?
John shifted nearer the wall and out of the line of sight of Sherlock or the man if either of them decided to look out of the window. Greg followed his example.
There was definitely a fleeting smile ghosting across her pale lips and when he held his breath he could pick up the deep voice of the stranger.
He watched in shock.
"Who's that?" Greg whispered from beside him.
John shrugged.
"Sherlock doesn't know anyone but us. Does she?"
John's usual answer would be no. Sherlock was not close to anyone that he didn't know.
But obviously she was.
After some minutes they watched as the stranger stood and then a whole new level of shock came over John as he watched the stranger bend over the bed and press a long kiss to Sherlock's forehead.
The stranger pressed his nose to Sherlock's in one of the most intimate acts John had ever witnessed in relation to the Consulting Detective and then left the room.
There was no hiding from his now and he nodded at them as he walked past.
This man shouted danger in every movement and John wanted to know what he had been doing in Sherlock's room, talking to Sherlock, kissing Sherlock.
They walked in to the room, all but tripping over their own feet to get through the door.
"Sherlock, are you alright?" John dashed to the bed.
Sherlock's eyes fluttered open, looking dark and sunken in her pale face and she frowned.
"I have been shot John, I am as well as can be expected," she informed him croakily, her voice tired and strained.
"Just who the bloody hell was that Sherlock?" John demanded.
Sherlock closed her eyes and breathed steadily.
"Just James,"
A few seconds later she was asleep.
John exchanged a confused look with Greg who had stood at the other side of the bed.
"James?"