November 25, 2am
Darkness. That was all John knew. There was silence, and he was aware only of the pressing black. It was quiet here. He existed in this liminal space for what could have been a millisecond, or an eternity.
At some point, though, trickles of sound started weaving their way into his consciousness. Lowered voices, just a tangle of vowel sounds. He couldn't make out the words. Maybe there were no words. A steady, intermittent beeping tone. Something like shuffling footsteps. No voices any more. Rustling fabric. Still that beeping.
After sound, touch returned. He first felt a hot ache start at his right temple, and it bloomed outwards, creeping its way over his face, over his eye and up his scalp and over his ear, it was starting to throb. Ow. As his sense of feeling returned, rolling slowly down his body, he felt another throbbing pain at his jaw, then his shoulder, fuck his shoulder really hurt, where he had been shot there was a relentless deep ache. His wrists burned, his ribs - shit, that feels fractured - and his abdominals ached. He wanted to gasp or moan or make a sound, but he couldn't find a voice, couldn't open his eyes, couldn't move. His body was too heavy. Where am I? What happened?
He tried to remember why he felt like this. Wasn't he just at work? Did something happen at the clinic? No, wait. I left the clinic. He tried to pull up the memories, but it felt like trying to remember rapidly fading dreams. Thinking too much made his head hurt more. He was walking home. Black car. Mycroft's car. I got into Mycroft's car. Did Mycroft do this to me? That didn't seem to make sense. No, wait again. Anthea hadn't been in the car. A bloke had been in the car. A bloke with a gun had been in the car. His temple throbbed particularly strongly as he remembered being struck. Ow. So that's why my head bloody hurts.
He didn't remember the car trip. He had woken hanging in the air. Wrists taking the weight, tied above head. And that explains the burn. Too high. Toes were just touching the ground. A sharp pain exploded from his fractured rib as he remembered the blow that had woken him. Ah- fuck. He had been defenceless, couldn't bring his arms down to protect himself. An unfamiliar voice had accompanied the blow. "Where's Sherlock now, John?" Sherlock. Sherlock. Jesus, where is Sherlock?
Heaviness be damned, he pulled his eyes open now. It felt like trying to pull a car with a finger, but he needed to find Sherlock. Dark, but still too bright. White and aqua blurred in front of him and the familiar sterile smell filled his nose. This is hospital. The colours hadn't yet resolved themselves into shapes when a voice sounded next to him. Brown entered the swirl of colours at the edge of his vision. Voice said something again. I know that voice. I know that word. The sound permeated his brain again, and this time it made sense.
"John."
The colours arranged themselves a bit better, and he realised he was in a bed, and the brown entity was Sherlock was standing next to his bed. Okay. This is okay. Sherlock's here. I'm in bed. In hospital. Hospital's good. And with that thought, he slipped from consciousness into the darkness again.
