John was enjoying his nap. The dreams were rather odd, but he was oh so tired, and it felt good to just slip away for a while.
There was something in the back of his mind that kept trying to peek out and make itself known, but John couldn't be bothered. For once in his life no, not true, there was that time when he was shot he gave in to the darkness.
Sherlock furrowed his brow, intensely focused on observing the goings on in the room before him.
"Whatcha doin'?" John asked Sherlock, suddenly appearing next to him in the hallway.
Sherlock frowned at him. "Isn't that from one of those... TV show things?" he finished lamely, waving a hand around.
John grinned. "Yeah, it is. But anyways... so. How are you?"
Sherlock paused, looking genuinely confused.
"I'm not sure," he said finally.
John nodded, entirely understanding what he meant, having no clue what was going on either.
"I think... I should be helping," John said, referring to the code in the room in front of them.
"They seem plenty capable," Sherlock replied. "I don't want you to leave me."
John examined Sherlock. That was not something he's normally say. Which meant that Sherlock was sick, John was sick, or this wasn't happening...
John's thoughts trailed off, realizing the horrible truth.
"Sherlock," he said quietly. "Do you remember what happened?"
"There was an explosion," he replied, matter-of-fact, eyes not straying from the well choreographed movements in the room.
"Right," John replied. "And we were hurt."
Sherlock glanced down at himself. "But I feel fine."
John nodded mournfully. Turning his head slightly, he noticed a familiar figure at the end of the hall.
"Sherlock," he muttered, poking Sherlock in the side and gesturing towards him. "What's Lestrade doing here then?"
Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, then paused as he came to the same realization that John had.
"Oh..." he said softly. "So... who's that?" He gestured towards the room they were standing outside of.
"You, I think," John replied.
Sherlock nodded. "Where are you?"
John only shrugged.
They were both silent for a minute.
"What do we do?" Sherlock whispered hoarsely.
"Go back I suppose," John mused.
"What if we can't?" Sherlock actually looked frightened, looking at John with those all seeing eyes. It was unnerving.
John shrugged. "I dunno. But... go... try?" he said, giving Sherlock a little push towards the body inside the room.
Sherlock disappeared into the mass of bodies that were scurrying around his transport.
A second later, John heard them calling 'we've got a pulse!' and was hugely relieved.
But where did that leave him?
He wandered down the hall to Lestrade, who looked awful. He was covered in dust and grime and his hands were raw and bleeding.
You dug us out with your bare hands, John realized. He felt a surge of admiration for the DI. John knew he was a good man, brave and considerate, but this was the proof that John needed to be absolutely sure.
He looked like he'd aged years since John last saw him. When was that? John couldn't remember. Not a good sign.
"Do you know where I am?" he asked Lestrade, half hoping for a response. As John suspected, there was none.
John sighed and set off back down the hall he'd just come from. He was awfully tired, but it wouldn't do to just curl up in a corner of the waiting room and have a nap. Not at all.
He paused to peer in Sherlock's room. He could actually see him now, there were fewer people milling about, and John could see the extent of the damage.
Terrible open fracture to the left leg, chest tube, no chest tubes, so broken ribs, perhaps some internal hemorrhaging, which would explain why they were prepping his for surgery, and a possible broken pelvis. This wasn't even including the numerous wounds with glass in them and the bruises that threatened to merge into one giant one.
John shook his head, knowing that Sherlock was in good hands, and moved on. He wasn't sure what was happening, but he sure as hell didn't like it.
John wasn't familiar with this A&E, and it took a few more minutes of wandering about to find himself. When he did, he didn't recognize himself at first, that's how bruised his face was.
He was intubated and completely out of it, whether that was from sedation or a head injury was unclear. Of course you're out of it, he told himself. If you weren't, you wouldn't be wandering around in the hospital while you lay there at the same time.
John shook his head. It was all rather complicated to think about and made his brain hurt. Or maybe it was the head injury that made it hurt. He groaned inwardly.
He just looked at himself for a while, wondering how exactly he was supposed to... do whatever it was. Sherlock seemed to return to his 'transport' with no problem, but that was Sherlock, and Sherlock was... special to say the least.
John finally settled for crawling into bed with himself (because he seemed to be solid, or at least able to make contact with solid objects) and tried to move as close to himself as he could. He fell asleep like that, which was probably the strangest way he'd ever fallen asleep before, and that included the time he and Sherlock were lost in Sweden... well, he didn't need to think about that. So he drifted off next to himself, hoping that when he 'woke' something would be different.
And it was. It wasn't so much waking up in the typical sense as it was realizing that he was no longer in that sedated unconscious state that was similar to sleeping.
And if it wasn't sleep, it wasn't waking up.
And it wasn't waking up, because he couldn't even do anything. Couldn't blink, couldn't twitch, couldn't breathe. Which was when he realized that he wasn't suffocating despite this little issue, so he was intubated.
He just couldn't recall how he'd gotten there. Hadn't he just been walking around a hospital? And Sherlock was there, and then he'd... gotten into bed with himself. His intubated self.
Right. So he'd somehow managed to get back into his body, which seemed to be an inconvenience, as it was rather useless.
Okay, intubated, so they likely paralyzed and sedated me. The sedation has worn off, but I'm still paralyzed from the drugs, or it could be from... no, not that. Definitely not.
Sherlock! Last time I saw him he was coding. They got him back... then he went to surgery? Is he okay? I need to go see him.
John's thoughts were racing in circles, dogs chasing theirs tails, and he felt himself getting more and more anxious.
He gradually became aware of a beeping that was growing more frequent. Heart rate, increases with stress. Hopefully someone will realize that and sedate me or... something.
Soon there were soft footsteps amidst all the other noise, and there were soft murmurings that he couldn't make out, but were reassuring nonetheless. Then there must have been drugs, because he felt himself slipping again, back into that state that wasn't sleeping, but was not awake.
As he drifted off he finally became aware of pressure on his hand, and a single thought on his mind.
But what about Sherlock...