Note: I am not a doctor, nor do I play one on TV. Things are left vague on purpose, because my point here is not the medical procedures, but Sherlock and John.
"It takes two to make an accident."
― F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby
In contrast to Sherlock's mind palace, John's consciousness is a mess. In point of fact, he is actually having a difficult time remembering why he has a tube down his throat and why his face hurts so badly. For that matter, his side is killing him, too. He feels like he's been run over by a lorry. Somewhere in the dark twisted tangle of his thoughts and faded memories, Sherlock's face appears in sudden brightness.
John can feel himself fighting against the breathing tube and he knows it is fruitless. Somehow, though, as always with them, Sherlock comprehends what John wants almost before he does. He leans forward and there is the scrape of metal against tile as he pulls the plastic chair towards the side of the bed. As his friend leans forward, a thousand emotions whirl and tumble through John's psyche: fury over the fact that since Sherlock is here, he's obviously not dead; a new pain that comes with the knowledge that he was lied to; fear that he is going mad and the dead detective's presence is merely an hallucination; finally, acceptance that what is done is done and that this really is Sherlock, here in this hospital room, in the flesh. Living, breathing, heart-beating...flesh. Those eyes, so familiar, peer deep into John's soul and he wants to touch so badly but is finding any movement so difficult.
John's hand eventually succumbs to his willpower and he reaches towards Sherlock's face. An even bigger surprise than discovering his dead best friend sitting in a hard plastic hospital chair is the stubble on the other man's face. Stubble? On a man typically so careful about his appearance? A silent sob wracks his body as he wonders what else has changed.
"It is really me, John. I am here, I promise." Sherlock's deep voice is pitched low and John finds that even as uncomfortable as he is at the moment, that sound is like warm liquid gold straight to his heart. Another sob threatens to tear him to pieces so he leans back against the pillows and tries to pull himself together. Sherlock doesn't move.
John closes his eyes against the steel-framed weight of exhaustion and plunges back into the darkness that isn't quite that dark: as he begins to fall into sleep, memories of the day begin to resurface. They bubble free of the quagmire of his mind like air trapped in liquid tar.
o-o
John found out about Colonel Moran by accident, unless he considers anything Mycroft lets slip as intentional, but right now that's just too hard to think about. Right now all John is thinking about—and he knows it's wrong, knows he shouldn't be thinking that way—but all he wants is some sort of revenge on anyone associated with Moriarty. In his reasoning, any of those people who were known to be in Moriarty's pockets are as guilty as the 'consulting criminal' of Sherlock's death. Next in line, he truly believes, is himself.
That doesn't matter now, though. What matters at this point is that John managed to track down Moran, contact him, and managed to finagle a meeting with the alleged right-hand man of one James Moriarty. After several weeks of staying under Mycroft's radar, John gets Moran where he wants him: in the sight of his gun. They are surrounded by the stench of filth and the sound of water slowly dripping in the darkness. Only one single street lamp is in the vicinity, and that is several meters from where they stand facing each other.
John knows there were words exchanged between them; he is at a complete loss know to remember what they would have been.
After that, things go horribly, horribly wrong. Moran appears out of the shadows of the run-down bridge by the river. He and John size each other up. Then there is the sound of someone else moving around near them and Moran's angry expression lets John know that Moran thinks John has set him up. Moran wheels about and takes off at a gallop. John follows.
Next thing he knows, he is facing Moran, who is trapped on three sides by walls. The sound of a second set of footsteps behind him, and for an instant John thinks it could be Sherlock—maybe, but then the fantasy is washed away and in reality, it is probably one of Mycroft's minions who finally managed to catch up to what John had been doing.
It is not Mycroft's minions, however, and the last two things John remembers well are the double intonations of gunshots and then feeling like he had been punched in the gut by the Incredible Hulk. He remembers hitting the ground then the strange sensation of a familiar, and very much missed voice, before he faded away.
o-o
A little while later, John slams back into consciousness and sees the chair beside him is empty. He panics and begins pulling at the tube in his throat in order to shout. Alarms ring out shrilly and then there are two nurses and an orderly holding his arms down, trying their best to calm him.
"Doctor Watson, please listen to us." The auburn-haired orderly says gently; his voice a direct contrast to the vise grip he's got on John's wrists.
John knows for sure his chest is going to explode. He is growing light-headed from trying to gasp about the tube and the muscles in his torso are screaming bloody murder. Sherlock was here, he was just here! He's alive! Oh my god, Sherlock! John's voice echoes inside his own head. He bucks against the orderly's hands, doing his best impression of a dying shark that's been hauled overboard; he doesn't think he can hold on much longer...if he can just get this goddamned tube out of his throat...
"John." Sherlock says softly from somewhere behind the orderly that John's brain has decided must be the Minotaur's cousin.
At once, John stops fighting but the orderly doesn't let go. The nurses step away from him, one of them holding an unused syringe.
"You can't be here sir," she tells Sherlock.
John makes another attempt at screaming, the orderly simply tightens his big fists and says, "shhh."
Sherlock's eyes cut a path through the tension in the room to focus solely on the nurse. She takes a step backward and John can imagine her dry gulp at the cold, fierce expression on the detective's face. He opens his mouth and John waits for the tongue lashing to begin. Instead, the voice he hears belongs to the eldest Holmes brother who is standing in the doorway, a dark wooden handled brolly over his arm.
"I think, Nurse Wilson, that you find that he absolutely can be," Mycroft states with no small air of authority whilst looking down his nose at the woman.
"Who are you?" Asks the orderly, loosening his hold now that John is no longer in danger of tearing up his throat.
"Mycroft Holmes," Mycroft says as he studies his fingernails.
There is a strange silence in the room for a moment then the second nurse and the orderly vanish. Mycroft nods to both of them as they scurry from the room. The nurse with the syringe draws herself up to her full height of about five foot two and gives him a curt nod as she walks past him.
"Thank you, sir." She closes the door behind her.
The three men simply stare at one another. John feels like a boy whose been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
"John Watson, I do believe you managed to evade me." Mycroft speaks softly, though his tone is heavy.
John can't talk so he simply nods, though he refuses to break eye contact.
"Leave him alone." Sherlock warns his brother, though even John can tell that his voice lacks its usual venom.
Before Mycroft can say anything else, there's a knock on the door and John's physician steps through.
"Doctor Watson, I believe we can move on to an oxygen mask now that you are awake." John gives the man a nod and when he looks up, Mycroft is gone and Sherlock is back in the chair beside his bed, giving John's doctor a critical once over. He must not be too bothered by what he sees, because he sits back a little—but just a little—so that he can step between the detective and the bed.
"I need to call in the nurse to assist me in removal of the tube, so please give me a moment," the physician tells them before he leaves the room. John sighs the best he can and leans against the pillows are tries his best to relax because he knows how bad this is going to hurt. He closes his eyes and a warm weight settles on one of his hands; he doesn't open them again until after the procedure that only takes a few minutes but hurts like hell.
When they are alone again, he turns to find Sherlock holding a cup of chipped ice out towards him. He has his head cocked to one side as if he is afraid to say anything. John works the mask off his face a little and winces when his voice croaks.
"Please."
Sherlock offers him an ice chip and as John sucks on it, starts talking. John thinks that in his life, he has never been so grateful to hear the rumble of that voice and decides then and there that if he ever complains about Sherlock's motor mouth again the rest of their lives, he is going to remember this moment. He hangs on every word until he is simply too exhausted to listen anymore.