Sorry this one is kind of short. Didn't have much inspiration today.
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Sherlock sat in the waiting room eager to hear news of John's condition. He had been at the hospital three days straight, no sleep, and no food. On some occasions he was allowed to see John. When he did he couldn't stay in the room for long seeing the tubes running out his nose and mouth.
The bullet had gone into his side and through a couple of rather important organs. The doctors had to cut him open to retrieve the bullet, leaving some cuts that would definitely scar. Some had come by to check on him, mostly Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. They would both beg Sherlock to leave and get some rest, but every time he simply declined with a silent shake of his head, and would go back to staring blankly at the hospital T.V.
"Mr. Holmes? I'm Dr. Yena." An Indian man approached him and Sherlock stood quickly. "Yes, how is he?" Managing to keep a professional edge to his voice he kept his eyes locked with the doctor's.
"We can release him today. He'll need to be on bed rest for the next three weeks. No running off to do cases or any of those sorts." The Doctor had a serious air to him and Sherlock just nodded. "I'll make sure that happens. Can I go see him?" Sherlock didn't care what the Doctor had just said, he needed to see John. With Sherlock, seeing was believing.
John opened his eyes to see Sherlock coming into the room. He could finally talk since they removed the tube from his mouth and nose. "Sherlock." He said with a smile. It made him feel slightly better to his lo- no his friend.
Sherlock had to tighten his posture to keep from breaking down and sobbing over his companion. "You look awful." He said with a tortured laugh. The tubes that were down John's throat just a matter of hours ago now lay dispensed in a biohazard trash bin. Sherlock thanked whatever god there might be on this planet for that. "They told me you can come home today, but you have to be on bed rest for three weeks." Sherlock took a seat next to his bed.
Rolling his eyes John sighed, annoyed. "I keep telling them I'm fine. I've endured worse than this in a battlefield." He said referring to the bullet that was once lodged into his shoulder. He had to fight off many people with that wound and did just fine. The Doctors said that this one was a little more severe, that it had damaged several organs that they had to replace. John continued to look at them as if they were insane, but he complied with their wishes.
"Well, the sooner I can get to the flat the better. I hate hospitals." John said. His mind reverted back to when Sherlock had jump from St. Bart's. Sherlock looked at the pained expression on John's face, knowing what he was thinking. Instinctively Sherlock grabbed the army doctor's hand squeezing it tight. "You have no reason to hate them now. I didn't die." He said. In a way Sherlock knew that would be a little like rubbing salt in the wound.
John just looked at him seeing tears form in the corner of his eyes. "Sherlock…you...You're crying." He stated in disbelief. Sherlock looked up at him and wiped his eyes. "Allergies John." He said looking at him. Sherlock wished he could be truthful to John, his loyal blogger, but if he did things might change. Then again…hadn't they already?