Waking up in hospital was never a pleasant experience.
It seemed hours before he could string a coherent thought together. In reality, it was likely only one at most before he was cognizant, but it seemed he had lingered forever in the twilight of tasting painkiller and sedative in the back of his dry throat, refusing to cooperate with anyone, and just wanting to go back to sleep. But the idiots kept shoving ice cubes at him and insisting he stay awake. "You need to be awake before we let anyone in to see you, after all!" an overly chipper nurse with badly dyed hair had told him.
Why would he want to see anyone right now? It wasn't as if he had much to say. They were going to want statements, and to talk, mostly about what had happened, and he...he had nothing to give them.
This was the point in any investigation where the victim was interviewed; and while he knew, he remembered, the general circumstances that led him to this bed, he did not recall any of the details. And details were everything.
Confrontations with serial killers were usually the best part of what he did. As much as they enjoyed showing their work, displaying their victims as if they were art, showcasing their brilliance in the face of an inept police force... Sherlock enjoyed showcasing his. That was the point of all this, wasn't it? It kept the mind numbing boredom at bay, and it enabled him to watch when it clicked that he knew, that it was over, that he'd picked out all the tiny, insignificant details that had eluded everyone else and he'd won.
As confrontations go, even though he'd technically won, this wasn't ever going to rank as anything other than a total failure.
He never thought he'd be one of those victims, the type he despised, who'd lost most of the event of their injury in the slick slide of drugs and trauma. Useless. He was supposed to be above all of that, he was supposed to remember everything in perfect detail. It bothered him that there were gaps, and what was most recalled were scents and feelings and pressure and not details. The whole night came to him in fits and starts; the initial exploration of the building fading in and out, greying detail on John's shout that ended in a sudden clatter. The edges of memory blurred and the colour faded to pale smoke during his initial unconcern about finding a gun aimed at his face by an unremarkable man. The bright silver of panic as the gun was then levelled at John instead and he was ordered to cuff himself across the table. The sting and slow burn of the injection, the subsequent struggle against the drug and the cuffs lost in acrid taste of fear as the man drug John from the room.
He honestly couldn't recall what the man looked like. He couldn't remember the exact circumstances that lead to him waking to find 57 stitches etched around his middle. He was sure he'd later be able to build a detailed explanation from the angle of the wound and the way it wrapped around his ribcage and edged toward his navel, but he couldn't remember actually receiving it, and that bothered him.
What he did remember of the actual attack was useless, of course. The hammering of his heart, the taste of blood in his mouth, pain as his voice shredded his throat. Clawing nausea and the stink of sweat and musk. The metallic gleam of the cuffs in front of him, the cracks in the wall behind. The knife that was suddenly in his hand, and the way the flesh of the other man's throat had parted like butter before it. Irritation at the blood on his mobile as he messaged Lestrade. The deep gashes in the floor around the table. Sally's hands and the crumbs caught in the edges of her sleeve showing how she'd eaten from the vending machine before heading this way. The brilliance of the the cuffs as she snapped one around his wrist. John appearing and dislodging the tightness that at set up shop in his chest since he'd vanished. The bright edge of his fury.
Every bit of it, useless. It couldn't be filed away neatly, categorized carefully and looked at objectively. They were going to want details, to be put in a report, and instead he was going to give them nothing, and they were going to nod understandingly while inwardly grinding their teeth as he'd seen happen so many times before.
He'd been alone for several minutes, caught in a vicious cycle of trying to remember what the man had looked like and getting stuck over and over again on those god forsaken cracks in the wall, when the door slid open.
He wasn't ready, and he was near to opening his mouth to shout them all from the room when he noticed that it was only John, who silently closed the door behind him, and approached the bed. John and no one else, no Lestrade or Sally to beg for details.
John who hadn't slept in nearly 24 hours, who hadn't eaten since he arrived, who had washed up in the hospital sink but failed to get all the blood from underneath his fingernails. He watched, fascinated as the crystalline edge of worry melted slightly from John's face as he watched Sherlock look him over.
"Feeling better then?" John asked softly, pulling the plastic chair beside the bed closer with a horrendous noise that fractured Sherlock's concentration for a moment. He must have startled or shied from the sound, because worry started to seep back into John's expression. It was too important, right now, to make sure that there were no signs of trauma on John or in the way he carried his frame. He remembered blood...
"You were bleeding; why were you bleeding? Have you been checked?"
"Yes, Sherlock, I've been checked, I'm fine." More softness entered the lines around the doctor's eyes. He reached out, wanting perhaps to provide comfort but unable to push himself to do so, and instead smoothed the sheets against the bed near Sherlock's hand. "I've spoken with your doctors. You should make a full recovery, though the scarring might be a bit dramatic for a while. Tonight, hopefully when the swelling goes down, you'll get your hand in a cast. Few days, and you'll be going home."
Sherlock made a face, twitching the fingers of his hand near where John was obsessively smoothing. "I assume you called Mycroft?" He knew his brother wouldn't set foot near him in this state, not yet. He knew better.
"I didn't have to, actually. The nurses are already gossiping about the gift baskets they've received, apparently for their continued patience with you. I am not sure if I am amused or insulted on your behalf." he chuckled a bit, then sobered. "But he did call yes. He was...concerned, to say the least."
"No doubt trying to get me transferred to a private clinic where he could control every step of the process."
"He deferred to me, actually. Bit surprising, all things considered."
Sherlock swallowed down the sudden gratitude he felt. "And Lestrade? I trust he will be in shortly for a..statement?"
John shook his head and moved closer to the bed, and after an abortive attempt, actually grabbed his hand this time when Sherlock didn't twitch away. "No, no statements, not yet. Not for you. I'm due in a few hours, there's no need for more just yet. Not like we are worried about more bodies showing up at this point. The others, they just want you to get better."
Sherlock found himself unable to look away from their intertwined fingers.
"I can't remember enough for a statement." he blurted, and John gripped his hand tighter as he was betrayed by the blasted machine counting out his heart rate.
"It doesn't matter right now, Sherlock. It was the drug, I'd wager. It'd have to be some seriously powerful stuff to knock you for six. And we'd both be dead if you weren't the most stubborn, ridiculous man I've ever met."
He was oddly grateful that John didn't spit platitudes like the nurses had, that it was a blessing he couldn't remember, that he should count himself lucky.
"I was...afraid he'd killed you." Sherlock sighed, exhaustion catching up with him, making him sentimental, making his head sink back into the pillow.
"Likewise." John squeezed his hand again as his eyes fluttered closed. He expected the grip to vanish shortly thereafter, but it didn't.
He lingered there, allowing the pain medication to wrap him in a comfortable fog, listening to John breathe.
When he finally began to drift off, it was to the odd but welcome feeling of John's fingers running softly through his curls.