John awoke the next morning alone in his own bed. He groaned a nasally snarl and pulled himself up in the bed. He leaned forward and bunched the covers under his chin in an effort to conceal the small amount of heat his tired body was capable of producing. He turned to the clock on his night stand:
10:49am
He had slept 1 hour and 46 minutes.
He crashed his palms into his eye sockets in a feeble attempt to clear his thought, or better still, knock some sense into his weary brain.
He hadn't felt like staying at Greg's again last night and after the way he had left Baker street, he felt it was necessary to bring his stuff back and put the house in order before Sherlock returned.
He had stayed up and roughly cleaned the flat in his tired haze of consciousness. It was foolish to think that tidying a few petri dishes and fast food containers away from the counter top would counteract the fight they had or the conversation in the hospital room which had followed.
John shuck his head keeping his bloodshot eyes closed, hidden away from the stark light of day.
What did he want to tell me that was so important that he couldn't wait until he was better to say it, yet it wasn't urgent enough to say it in front of Greg?
John rattled his brain for an answer to the question Sherlock had left open ended in the hospital room, to the proclamation that had been rolling around in the strange depths of his lucid dreaming:
'I think I…'
John hummed subconsciously to himself trying to piece together all the ambiguous clues he had been given, but all he could think about was the sadness in Sherlock's dark eyes when John had left the hospital room and the warm touch of his hand before Greg had barged in. A sharp chilled ran down the length of John's spine at the memory.
He had to know. He just had to know what Sherlock was going to ask.
John jolted out of the bed and threw on various articles of clothing. Grabbing his essentials, John stalked beady-eyed towards the front door. He stopped suddenly remembering what Sherlock had said about the laptop. With a minute groan John retraced his steps and walked into Sherlock's bedroom. His eyes scanned the small neat room searching for the item in question. A small gasp escaped John's lips and his hands fly instinctively towards his mouth.
His woollen jumper. The one he had tied into knots and thrown at the bottom of his wardrobe was folded into a neat, untangled parcel beside Sherlock's pillow. John advanced towards the pillow with a slight air of trepidation in his step, like the object was something to be feared. Without touching the perfectly straightened sheets, John grabbed the mass of cloth off the bed and watched as it unfolded in his grasp. A small piece of paper twisted in rapid pirouettes and gracefully landed on the bed face-up.
John held the jumper to his face and inhaled. It smelled like Sherlock; sweet and musty with a hint of aftershave and shampoo. John decided that Sherlock must have held the item long enough for a scent to transfer which means he held in tightly for a long period of time. John clenched his hands into tight fists and his eyes wandered to the small note glaring up at him from the bed. In that instant, John felt all the blood drain and trickle down his body and large, fat tears carved canals into his cheeks:
You arrogant dickhead
What have a done?
John recalled the anger he had vented into his pen the night he scribed that note. He could feel the venom building in the back of his throat, but this time it wasn't from Sherlock's callousness, or the indifference in his voice after verbally humiliating his two closest friends that had once fuelled the rage; right now the venom was all John's. He felt anger tighten in his chest and he felt humiliated for being so blind, so foolish. John Watson wept in utter dejection and confusion.
John picked up the note and scanned it with watery dark-red bloodshot eyes. What must Sherlock have thought of this?
He tried to glue the pieces together, but after 15 minutes of faulted concentration, he exhaled a large lungful of air. It was no use. He would just have to talk to Sherlock, and fast.
John gathered himself, wiping his eyes coarsely with the back of his sleeve. He straightened to his full height and rocked his head back and forth, relieving imaginary tensions in his neck. He took a deep breath through his nose and held it, his entire face contorted in a grimace, urging his eyes to hold back the tears. At one he opened his eyes and he became the perfected image of militarised self-control.
He made his way to the front door throwing his jumper back into his room and pocketing the note. He held Sherlock's laptop case under his arm.
Just before he passed through the door, John spied a dark mass from the corner of his eye.
A scarf, Sherlock's scarf.
With a weak smile, John grabbed the scarf and carefully entwined the material around his neck, imitating the slick manner Sherlock managed to wear it, before passing into the bitter chill of London in winter.
John followed the yellow brick road to Sherlock. And by road the meant corridor. And by brick they meant paint.
He stared at the various colour-coordinated guiding lines as this feet passed over them. The markers painted onto the hospital floor ran along the corridors, stemming off at various intersections from the lobby right through the hospital. The yellow line led to the Psychiatry department, where Sherlock was being help for an eating disorder.
He doesn't have a disorder, but if they keep him in here for much longer, he will be the cause of much disorder.
John laughed silently to himself, watching as the long twining network of corridors lead off into various wards of the hospital.
John's lips moved in unison with the rehearsed words he had recycled from various rom-com's was was 'forced' to sit through. He had formulated a plan in the taxi on the way to the hospital, trying to find the perfect address to Sherlock's question.
In his own Mind Palace, John would stride purposefully into Sherlock's room. He would pull the thin curtain back and Sherlock would glow with delight at his arrival. Sherlock would crawl from his bed, rip off his paper gown and jump into John's open arms and when they kissed, their hair would blow majestically in the breeze with desire and Hollywood glamour and expectations.
He passed by rooms with large black numbers painted on the doors
51, 52, 53, 54, 55…
I have been thinking about what you said and now I know that you have very strong feels for me.
56, 57, 58, 59 60…
Within the limits of my power I will try and make you the happiest man I can possibly make you.
No. wait…
61, 62, 63, 64…
I want to have your babies. We will have short hobbit children but they will be beautiful with your dark hair and cheekbones.
No wait. That's not it either.
John stood between rooms 64 and 65 with an amusing level of perplexed concentration written cross his features.
The young student nurse brushed past him and did a double take, "Hello again sir. You're 'friend' was raving on about you last night. You'd be lucky to have him," the young woman smirked before continuing on her way.
John stared as the young nurse continued walking down the corridor, her papery scrubs moving rigidly with her.
John started into a hurried dash.
6566676869…
70
The large wooden door were closed and as far as John could tell, it was very unlikely that there would be anyone else in visiting him. Sherlock had only been admitted yesterday and had begged John not to concern his family, particularly Mycroft. Although, it was very unlikely that Mycroft didn't know about Sherlock's fainting spell at this stage. Mycroft probably knew exactly when Sherlock ate last and what that meal consisted of.
John braced himself against the wood and heaved both doors open. The gesture was over dramatic and he knew it. There was no time for rethinking his style of entrance or what he might say to coax the information out of the bedded man. He had everything planned and it was going to run as smooth as honey in his favour. If he had to climb on top of his bed and straddle the information out of Sherlock, he would.
With that image in his mind, John shuck his head and promised himself some well-deserved sleep after this.
With the room still in silence and the large curtain around Sherlock's bed, John choked.
His brain began to pulse and every bone in his body screamed at him to stop, before it was too late to back out. In the end he chickened out of making his grand entrance and instead crept on tip-toe, trying to make as little noise as possible. His heart was racing in his ears but a small light switched on in his brain. He couldn't just jump out of the darkness! He would scare the big man sized baby into a coma. Instead he feebly made his presence known.
"Hello?" John whispered to the curtain.
Silence.
"I'm back, and I brought your laptop. Although I don't know how much use it will be considering there is no Wifi in the building. But I suppose you can improve your Spider Solitaire skills." John chuckled at his own outdated reference.
"Look, I wanted to talk to you about what you saaaaaaaaiiiiiiiiiii…"
John's heart just about stopped as he pulled back the gossamer curtain and spotted a very naked Sherlock stretching in front of the window, in plain view of London's skyline. "Christ, Sherlock. Would you put some clothes on?"
"Do you mind? I'm trying to … relax… or something. The nurse said it would be beneficial to do so naked, to release my 'spiritual energy' from its 'earthly bonds'. I don't know what these student nurses are smoking but I think I might acquire it, because it seems to be working. If not on me, then definitely on you. You're practically drooling at my behind."
Sherlock turned his head around and looked at the doctor, who [ lol accident] stood ogling at the marvel of Sherlock's body with an undeniable bittersweetness.
His shoulders and upper back were toned and defined in bulges and ridges of muscle, yet when he stretched up on his toes, John could count every rib in his back. His pelvic bones were protruding through his skin and his long arms seemed breakable thin. He had never noticed his friend wither way, especially in contrast to the incident at Buckingham palace. Beneath the bulk of his thick flowing coat, Sherlock stood like a porcelain doll; pale, weak and so very fragile.
However, he did still have a delectably plump behind and John hated that he had made it so obvious.
"You'll freeze out here. Heard it's going to hit the minus numbers tonight."
Sherlock reached down to touch his toes and John involuntarily looked away at the further exposure his exhibitionist of a flatmate was endeavouring to him.
"And are you going to help keep me warm in this horrid weather, doctor?"
"No he's going to keep me warm." A deep voice loomed from behind the thin paper curtain with a laugh.
Both men jumped at the intrusion and Greg Lestrade's large form came into view. Sherlock cupped his genitalia.
"Nice to see you up and about, nature boy. Now if you wouldn't mind putting some clothes on, I need to give you some information on the case." Greg's voice was suddenly shrill and slightly menacing. Sherlock wordlessly obliged and proceeded to sit down on the small metal bed facing the two men. John had remained silent the entire time, feeling like a child who had been caught doing something he shouldn't have been doing with someone he shouldn't have been doing it with in a place he shouldn't have been.
Greg turned and looked lovingly at the tired, slumped form of his other, who had returned to his chair where he had dozed only hours before.
"Did you get any sleep, John? To be honest, you don't look like you did. No excuses, you're coming back with me now and you're going to get a proper amount of sleep in before tonight."
John looked up at Greg and his contagious smile.
"Why? What's happening tonight?" John asked inquisitively.
At this, Sherlock cocked his head, a gentle impulsive smirk played across his lips.
"I just thought we'd… you know… do something tonight… together… I mean… or something… you know… you can decide" Greg fumbled through the sentence, turning slightly away from Sherlock penetrative gaze with the grace of an elephant, scratching the back of his head with his hand nervously.
John could feel a rush of heat enter his chest and his heart leap at the thoughts of spending a night out, a proper night out with Greg, maybe the cinema, or a romantic dinner, or just movies in front of the TV, but immediately after this, his heart sank because less than half an hour ago he wanted nothing more than to have Sherlock's babies.
The ex-soldier could feel an unnerving tension building up in his chest, like his heart was being stretched apart, with Sherlock holding one half and Greg holding the other.
He closed his eyes and drew in one long deep breath and exhaled it through his nose.
He didn't want to hurt Greg's feeling by rejecting going on their date but at the same time he didn't want to hurt Sherlock, his best friend who has helped him through so much. But that's just it. He's John's best 'friend', but a friend nonetheless. John didn't know what Sherlock was thinking. He remembered Mrs. Hudson's comment about Sherlock after The Women had faked her death,
How will we ever know what goes on in that funny old head?
How will anyone ever know? And how could anyone trust the words that fall from his lips? He manipulates and lies to get what he wants, and right now he wanted John's affections, maybe his love.
What does Sherlock know about love besides? John mused.
He might love me one minute and toss me aside when he gets bored of me, like he did with Lenny.
Sherlock had taken to call the severed head in the fridge by his real-life nickname, which unsettle the heebee geebee's out of John.
A sudden pang of ache caught in his chest and he reached his hand up to sooth the pain. John gasped lightly as a large strong hand gently messaged small circles in the back of his neck. With a long drawn sigh, John relaxed into the movement and he smiled uncontrollably.
"It's ok, love. We'll be leaving soon." Greg cooed into his ear, like a hummingbird suckling a Bleeding Heart. *
John groaned his response and smiled again.
Greg stood straight and readjusted his shirt collar, a devilish grin spread across his lips.
"Now, sunshine-" Greg gestured to Sherlock, his face black with conflicting emotion. "- the victim was…"
"24, a UK size 10, not a natural blonde and had broken up from a frivolous engaged only in the last month."
Greg groaned his annoyance.
"We're not looking for gossip or speculation, Sherlock. Only hard facts."
Sherlock turned his penetrative gaze once more to the detective.
"If you wanted 'Hard evidence' you should have stayed at the crime scene."
Greg groaned again and looked to john for support.
John looked up and shrugged his shoulders.
"He's all yours, love."
John stiffened slighted at how natural the endearing remark slipped out and Greg Squeezed John's neck muscles gleefully in response.
With a large cheesy grin on his face, Greg turned back to Sherlock.
"Go on so, enlighten me."
On the side-line, Sherlock had watched the scene unfold and he carefully clamped his hand against his chest for support, trying to keep his lax mouth shut.
"It wasn't he ex-fiancés, nor was it the string of lovers she is currently seeing. Was seeing, I mean." Both John and Greg grunt in unison at Sherlock's insensitivity.
"This is business related and… and that's all I can tell you for now."
Greg and John looked at Sherlock inquisitively. "C'mon Sherlock, don't hold back on us now. This isn't a bloody game you know the answers too but are too thick to tell us any of the clues. This is serious. A woman died. It's not a secret we're not allowed to know anything about. Christ, Sherlock." Greg ranted on, a dark blue vein pulsed in his neck.
Sherlock looked small and humble in the bed, his two feet were tucked under his chin and his pointed chin rested heavily on his knees. "I-I didn't get a proper chance to see her, or the scene before I- I…"
John stood up and reached over to Sherlock's trembling form. "It's ok, it's ok. We can do this again. Get some sleep and see if you can remember anything then, ok?"
John hushed the whimpering man who simply nodded his head in response.
"There's no point us staying. This is obviously too much for him. We'll come back tomorrow and see what he says."
Greg sighed and nodded in reluctant agreement. "Ok, we'll come back."
"Call us if you need anything." John said, smiling warmly at Sherlock's hunched frame.
"Ok" Sherlock responded weakly.
The two men left the ward and followed the yellow brick road back to the car park.
When John and Greg left the room, Sherlock uncoiled his body and grunted, stretching out his neck muscles and returning to his strong, limber form. He pulled the laptop off the floor and called the screen to life.
After a moment's silence John asked, "So what are these plans you have in mind for tonight?
Greg chuckled and entwined his long fingers into John's, "You'll have to wait and see, won't you?"
John smirked and the two men peaked their lips together.
"Hope your friend is ok" a voice called from behind them.
The young nurse stood staring at the two men, a grey clipboard in her hand.
John shuffled from foot to foot and replied, a twinge of nervousness in his voice.
"He'll be fine, I'm sure."
Her lips smiled, but her eyes spoke volumes of disapproval and shot between their hands and John's face.
"W-we'll be back tomorrow, t-to see him again."
"He'll be looking forward to that I'm sure." She spat before turning away.
Greg looked at John with an inquisitive look, but John simply shrugged it off, like he didn't understand her hidden meanings, and they headed back towards the front door.
It's a flower. Trust me. I used google.