Chapter 4- Alone
John knew he was being unreasonable, so he really didn't need an orderly to tell him that.
Yes, he could acknowledge in his head, that it was probably a good idea to immobilize Sherlock's wings against his body. The injured man could suddenly wake up startled by some noise or pain, throw out his enormous appendages and bash some heads together, not to mention smash all the delicate instruments in the room, before he realized where he was.
It was just so...
wrong?
humiliating?
disgusting?
John breathed in deeply, realising he was projecting his own fears and insecurities on the situation in front of him.
He had been working through an army appointed therapist for a while to get a handle on his injury. Sometimes it seemed to be working; other times he just couldn't be bothered to get out of bed.
With some effort, the ex-army doctor lowered his wings from its attack posture, and shuffled around to stand at Sherlock's head. As a comprise, John suggested that he would keep a firm hold of Sherlock's shoulder to restrain him if needed, while the rest of them finished their tasks.
Of course, the nurses refused.
With a bright blush of mortification, John then fluffed up his feathers and smiled coyly to one and all.
At that moment, John wanted nothing more than to die of embarrassment, but he didn't know what else to do, and this had worked in the past; both on men and women. Sure enough, Sherlock's restraints were whisked out of sight, as John allowed some of the staff to come closer and touch his wings.
John forced himself not to shudder too visibly at the rapturous exclamations of 'you're so beautiful! It's so soft! Can I have a feather?'
It wasn't painful as much as it was invasive and humiliating. Would you let a prefect stranger walk up to you, and gently stroke your hair?
John closed his eyes with a sigh. Cheese on toast, this was bloody uncomfortable!
Sherlock owed him at least a dinner for this. Something nice, where there were waiters and menus, and a bloke with a guitar and keyboard in the corner.
Thankfully, they were soon done and Sherlock, exhausted from the pain of his attack, had mercifully slumbered on through all the x-rays.
However, as they were wheeling Sherlock into a recovery room, John was scratching his head, wondering why all these tests were necessary. Did Sherlock have some sort of medical condition that could be a complication?
He snuck a quick peek at the man's chart when no one was looking, and was relieved that the numbers all seemed fine.
Walking along the busy corridors, John thought that it was right odd how close he felt to the stranger at his side. Perhaps he was turning into a recluse, without realizing it. Perhaps he should really make an effort to try to interact more with the other vets, when there were activities at the hostel. Just as he was considering how deeply depressing that might be, John stopped with a start, when a pretty young lady ushered them all into Sherlock's room, and asked him if he wanted something to eat.
The small man gawked at the sheer opulence of his surroundings! He didn't even know that such recovery suites existed. Perhaps, it was converted in the eventuality that one of the royals or dignitaries needed to be cared for.
As Sherlock was wheeled into place and connected to the monitors, John walked around the richly appointed facilities; trying not to look like a clueless tourist.
The room was designed like a huge apartment studio; complete with its own five piece luxury wash room, huge plasma HD television, comfortable looking leather chairs, a well stocked fridge and a welcome basket of gourmet snacks. There was even a wide balcony with a garden of flowers and bistro set; perfect for if any winged visitors wanted to drop by.
Sherlock was either definitely someone important or rich. Most likely both John mused, as one of the orderlies hung up Sherlock's damaged suit and scarf on a hook in the closet, and lined up his designer shoes at the side of the bed.
In the end, John accepted a beer from the hostess and sat in a corner; deciding to wait for Sherlock's family to arrive.
She had been disappointed by this, and he had to promise faithfully that he would press her call buzzer if he changed his mind about dinner. The idea made John squirm a bit. He didn't know Sherlock that well, and didn't want to trespass on the man's hospitality. And besides, John was getting the distinct impression that most everyone was walking away with the notion that he and Sherlock were a lot 'closer' than just acquaintances. He had seen the way the paramedics had looked at each other, and exchange knowing grins.
As the woman walked out the room, Sherlock's policeman friend walked in to take his statement and necessary particulars.
When he was leaving, Inspector Lestrade had shook his head over Sherlock's battered body in annoyance, even as he gently patted his shoulder in a fatherly sort of way. According to the grizzled Scotland yard detective, Sherlock was a handful and it had been just a matter of time before this happened. With a sigh, the older man walked away, promising to keep them informed.
After another half hour had passed as John waited, he took a fresh beer from the fridge just to have something to do with his hands. About an hour later, John helped himself to some crisps from the welcome basket, and turned on the telly.
The laugh track from the late night show, jolted John to full awareness, and with a soft cry of alarm he looked at his watch.
He was astounded that three hours had passed and no one had come!
Concerned and distressed by this turn of events, John walked over to Sherlock's bed and looked down at the man lying there. The bruises on his face were starting to blossom in earnest now, and to put it mildly, he looked like a side of hamburger meat.
Gently, he pulled up Sherlock's expensive Egyptian cotton sheets to cover his bare, bruised shoulders.
'Don't you have anyone?' he whispered quietly.
Of course Sherlock didn't reply, but the evidence was quite clear. Even though Sherlock was young, rich and good looking; there was no one in London who cared to come sit with him.
'Alone, just like me,' John murmured sadly.