A/N: Finished watching Third Star last night. Oh man, you guys, if anyone likes getting your heart torn out by movies, this is the one for you. I was literally crying out loud. Lucky I was alone and no one was milling round the house thinking what a weirdo I was. Also sorry these chapters are so short. I'll grind them out quickly though! Then maybe someday compile them into longer ones. Anyhow, here's next. Don't worry, Sherlock's coming back soon… He's just waiting for the right moment. :) Enjoy! And review! I like to read reviews…
Please, I need an ambulance. Everything was a mess of pain and confusion. Please, quickly. 221B Baker Street. Any semblance of consciousness was agony, but there was something, some reason he was holding on. That voice...
John opened his eyes. For a moment, he was unsure of where he was. Then he understood, taking in the quiet beeping of a monitor and the long, clear tube descending from a drip bag hung on a metal hook. He took a deep breath. Footsteps approached, and then a face came into view. "He's come round." More faces.
One doctor checked John's eyes briefly with a small hand light. Another, holding a clipboard, smiled at him. "How are you feeling?" she asked briskly. John thought a moment before answering. "Alright." The doctor made a brief mark on the clipboard. "Can you answer some questions for me?" She glanced briefly at him before continuing. "Can you tell me your name and place of residence?"
John swallowed. "John Watson. 221B Baker Street, London, England." he replied. She smiled. "Do you know today's date?" A concussion. John thought. He himself had asked these same questions on numerous occasions of bleary soldiers. "I think it's the sixth, isn't it?" The doctor made a note on her clipboard.
"Do you remember what happened?" she asked after a minute. John glanced at her name badge. It was difficult to read at the angle it hung at, but he squinting managed made out the name "Gemma Jones" printed in block letters across it. Remembering her question, John said, "Yeah- er- I was shot."
John was lost for a moment thinking about it. If he'd stayed sitting down, the bullet would have hit him in the chest, or abdomen at least. As it was... "I must have fallen and hit my head on the coffee table." He paused for a moment, then remembered something else. "Hey, do you know who made the ambulance call?" Doctor Jones frowned slightly. "Not offhand, but I can check for you a bit later." John smiled. "Thanks." He told her.
There was a quiet moment in which the three medical personnel who surrounded John's bed conferred, then two left, leaving John alone with Doctor Jones. She put down her clipboard and came to stand slightly closer. "Well, you've done very well, Mr. Watson. As you said, you were shot. You've had surgery to remove a bullet from your right hip. You also have a mild concussion, so it's possible that you'll experience some gaps or inconsistencies in your memory, or-"
John nodded impatiently. "I'm a doctor," he said briefly. Doctor Jones' expression changed slightly. "Oh," she said, then, adopting a slightly more professional tone, she continued, "Well, your concussion is mild. The leg injury is a bit more complex. There's some major muscle damage, though it's been stitched as well as we can do. You may have some lasting damage from it, but the majority of the injury should heal over time."
John's thoughts flicked back to the aluminium cane, wondering if it was still leaning in that same place on the arm rest of the old stuffed chair. He gave a small, ironic smile. Doctor Jones looked curious, but did not inquire further. "By the way," she said, "Today's the seventh. You've been out because of surgery."
John inhaled sharply. The seventh. Six months. Doctor Jones was looking at him inquisitively. "Is there something on your mind?" She asked. John shook his head. "No. It's nothing." She looked at him for a moment, then nodded. "Alright. Is there anything you need? Something to eat? Now that you're up, we can take you off the drip." John took a deep breath. "Yeah, something to eat would be great, thanks."
A nurse came into his room about half an hour later with a tray of food. The doctor had allowed John to raise up the back of the bed slightly so he could look around and had brought him a magazine. The nurse that came in now snapped the tray onto the bed and placed a plastic fork beside it. John grimaced at the hospital fare before him, but ate anyway.
Later that day Doctor Jones came back to check in on him. He asked her about payment- it occurred to him that the private room in which he was staying could not be a cheap one- and she nodded. "Yes, it's been paid for, a Mr.-" she'd squinted in disbelief at the name, "Mycroft Holmes."
Doctor Jones brought with her another dose of pain meds and a cup of orange juice. "By the way," she said, "the police will be wanting to talk to you tonight or tomorrow. You had a Kevlar vest on when you came in, do you remember?" she looked troubled. "Were you expecting someone to be shooting at you?" she asked, perplexedly.
Then Doctor Jones frowned. "No, you don't need to answer that. That's police business, not mine." She turned to go, then, almost to the door, turned back. "I almost forgot. I looked up the ambulance call." her frown deepened. "It was you that made it."
She stayed frowning at him for a moment, then shrugged. "Probably just the concussion messing about with you." She concluded, and exited, leaving John to puzzle over the cloudy memory of the voice he'd heard in 221B