Sherlock Holmes was sitting in an uncomfortable armchair, his knees drawn up to his chin. He had been sitting there, almost constantly, for three days. He hadn't eaten or slept, but more surprisingly, he hadn't smoked or drank anything either. He was just sitting, his already scruffy hair a tousled mess, wearing the same blood-stained clothes he had arrived at the hospital in seventy-two hours ago.
In front of him lay John. His entire torso was covered in thick bandages and his face looked ashen. He looked so vulnerable lying between the crisp hospital sheets and somehow, he looked smaller.
"He has lost a lot of blood," the doctor had said. "I'm afraid his chances of survival are rather slim. We can always hope for the best, but you should prepare yourself for the worst."
Prepare for the worst... It didn't even bear thinking about. Holmes rested his chin on his knees and stared wide-eyed at his companion. There was so much he hadn't told Watson. He was always so damn fixated on being mysterious and cryptic. Egotistical bastard, he muttered, cursing himself. He should have told Watson how much he valued him as a companion. He should have thanked him for the countless times he had saved his life. He should have been more grateful to Watson for staying with him throughout his ludicrous adventures.
Any other man would have given up on Holmes a long time ago. The amount of times he had put Watson in danger was bordering on unforgivable, yet John always came back to him.
He went to lean his head on his hand but thought better of it when a searing pain shot across his cheek. He had forgotten about the large purple and red bruises on his face. The pain reminded him horribly of the ordeal in the warehouse with Moriarty. That man really was incredibly devious. Like any good boxer, he had found Holmes's weak spot and targeted it to cause maximum pain. And in this case, his weak spot had been how deeply he cared for Watson. Moriarty had known that it would cause Holmes so much more pain to watch Watson suffer than it would if he had been the one taking the knife wounds.
Holmes barely looked up as a nurse came in to the room to check on John.
"You have dirt under your fingernails," Holmes said, his voice cracking from not being used in several days. "And you have someone else's blood spattered on your sleeve. How do you expect to help people if you don't even have a basic understanding of personal hygiene?" he spat. "Get out. And for God's sake, don't come back until you are less of an infection risk."
"I..." the nurse started, staring at her fingernails in disbelief as though she had no idea how Holmes could have noticed such minute details having barely taken his gaze off Watson. The nurse made a few incomprehensible noises before hurrying from the room, mortified.
If Watson were conscious, he would have scolded Holmes for being so harsh on the young nurse. Watson had always been the compassionate one, which was very useful considering Holmes was usually completely tactless in social situations.
Watson, Watson, Watson. Is that all you can think about? he asked himself angrily. He was used to his mind being a neatly ordered and organised sanctuary where he could unravel any conundrum but now... now his mind was in turmoil. Whenever he had slipped in to an uneasy sleep over the past three days, it was only to be jolted awake moments later by dreadful nightmares about John.
Holmes had no idea if Moriarty was dead or not, but that was of no consequence. If Watson died, Moriarty would have finally succeeded in destroying Sherlock Holmes, and he had barely needed to lay a finger on him.
A/N Thank you for reading, and thanks for the reviews so far. Please keep reviewing so I know if I'm doing alright!