His room was bathed in near-total darkness. It took Watson a moment of standing just inside the closed door to adjust to the low, flickering light. Thick quilts hung along the walls, buffering the patient from excess noise.

Watson approached the bedside as silently as possible.

It could have been any man in that bed, really. Sherlock's visage was lost beneath swollen, bruised flesh and thick linen bandages. Only a few tufts of wild black hair peaked out from beneath the dressings at his forehead. Tears and fluids crusted his eyelid. The corner of his mouth -where that brute had stamped him so ruthlessly- was greatly swollen. Congealing blood set atop a gash striking across both upper and lower lip.

Watson's knuckles went white on his cane.

Holmes' hands were suspended in a position of macabre surprise; all ten fingers slayed open and held in suspension. It was an innovative way to repair severely fractured digits, letting gravity align the mangled bones. Only three of his ten nails remained; the detective's beautiful hands now a purple, oozing mess.

Guilt slashed through his gut, wrenching an audible gasp from the doctor. The room tilted on end and John stumbled, fortunately catching the side of an armchair on his way to the floor. His chin fell to chest as his heart tried to beat through his ribs. He swallowed as his stomach heaved, exhaling slowly through pursed lips. His chest clenched around one silent, wrenching sob. He pressed a trembling fist hard against his mouth, stifling the sound and savoring the distracting pinch of lips against teeth, screwing his eyes shut against reality.

It took nearly five minutes to regain himself. Angrily he dashed his fist across his eyes. He would not afford himself this weakness when Holmes would need his strength...should he not cast him out entirely as Watson felt he so rightfully deserved.

Slowly the thundering rush of blood in his ears calmed, along with his pulse. His focus shifted to the sound of falling water, similar to that of a tap not quite turned completely. He blinked in the low light, attempting to focus.

The dripping became a short and sudden rush of fluid, quickly resuming its former slow, random cadence. Slowly his eyes adjusted to the lighting conditions. Then he saw it, in the flicker of flame as another drop fell and bent the light. The bucket beneath the bed, collecting the fluids that drained from Sherlock's broken chest. The realization made him feel dizzy and weak.

Had he killed Holmes? Had he destroyed the most incredible mind he'd ever met with a poor roll of the dice?

It would be nothing but the end of his service revolver for him if he had.

This wasn't about him right now though, and he had to get off the bleeding floor lest Holmes suddenly come round. He gripped the arm of the chair and braced his cane, dragging his tall frame up to its full height. Slowly he approached Holmes from the right, needing to see that his friend was indeed still there under all that destruction. The area around the tube in Holmes side lay exposed to the air, the blankets carefully clipped back in a wedge behind the rubber. Watson leaned in close to size-up the work. The stitching holding the tube in place was well done and the skin surrounding the incision nice and pink.

A sudden humming in his ear made him turn his head towards Holmes' hands, which were trembling against the suspension and making the thing vibrate. His breath began to whistle through his damaged nose as his breathing became more rapid. Watson's heart sank as he watch Holmes' face pinch into a grimace of pain, made all the worse by the long-cast shadows of the room. The detective's brow knit together and his lips drew slowly back from his damaged teeth. The light glinted off the wiring holding his mangled jaw closed.

John stepped back and snatched the chart from the foot of the bed, speeding through the doctor's notes. The nurse was late by nearly twenty minutes for his narcotic.

Watson would have heads for this.

"Blast," he mumbled, turning for the medicine cabinet. The morphine was there, already prepared in its syringe. Holmes made a sort of raw, keening sound at the back of his throat. Watson flicked the air from the glass tube and snatched an alcohol-soaked cotton. His cane tapped on the floor as he made for the bed. Holmes immediately turned his head towards the sound, the wind violently whistling though his wired teeth.

"Holmes, you're in hospital," Watson explained, closing the gap between them, "please try to be still, don't move, good fellow."

Holmes' chest rose and fell in harsh stutters; the trembling that began at his fingers now running the length of his body. Watson gently touched his undamaged shoulder.

"Here, Holmes, I've your morphine, only a moment longer now," he was cooing at the poor man, John realized, but he could not restrain his tongue.

"I've gone and let you get into a right state, I'm sorry, old cock." He whispered gently as he slowly depressed the plunger. It took only seconds for some measure of relief to wash over his straining features. Holmes' eyes locked to his, wild and child-like with pain. His nostrils flared with every inhalation. The doctor could see Holmes wanted nothing more than to open his mouth wide and pull at the air. He was panicking.

Watson's eyes flicked to the door and back before he drew his hand from Holmes' shoulder,opting instead to slide his fingers through damp, curly hair behind the man's ear with his palm resting gently against the curve of Sherlock's jaw. He leaned in close to calm is friend.

"Steady Sherlock, you've made it through. It's supposed to hurt I'm afraid, dear fellow. Steady on."

Sherlock panted against the other-worldly agony flowing like acid and fire through his entire being. He'd not believed himself a stranger to pain, having endured much unpleasantness in his often bitter existence. He knew better of it now. This timeless agony set heavily atop his chest and held him in a vice, his limbs trembling with the sheer force of the pain blooming like fire in his chest.

His eye flew open, desperately seeking the distraction of visual input when it slowly occurred to him that someone had been speaking to him for some time. The familiar warm comfort of morphine slid up his arm and across his chest, muffling the screaming agony to a steady hum.

Watson.

His eyes found familiar watery-blue above him, calm and sad and brilliant. Sherlock was sure he'd never been more glad to see anything in his entire life. He moved to reach for his dear doctor when a tug and showering sparks reminded him of his restrained position. Sweat prickled along his brow as the pain broke through the narcotic's shield. He was panting with the force of it, his broken nose and wired teeth failing to provide adequate air delivery.

It wasn't until John's agile fingers slid though his hair that Sherlock questioned his senses. When he felt Watson's thumb stroke lazily across his jaw he gave it up as hallucination.

The morphine settled over him, wrapping him in muffled comfort as he slid into unconsciousness once again.

o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o.o