"What're these bruises around his neck?" The anaesthetist, a pleasant-looking, fiftyish man named Andrew Quist, pulled the collar of Sherlock's hospital gown slightly with one finger. Sherlock, hazing in and out of lucidity, did not do anything to stop him. "Nasty scratch on the face, as well."
"Long story." John was watching the process of rigging up the IV tubing as if he didn't quite trust that the man was doing it correctly. They were in one of the surgery preparation rooms by this time, so at least the state Sherlock was in wasn't visible to everyone who happened to walk by. "Let's just say they're probably unrelated to the problem at hand, and the police are aware of it." Really should call Greg at a decent hour. Wonder how Molly's doing?
"John -"
"It's okay, Sherlock."
"Where's Mycroft -?"
"He's back in the waiting room. You'll see him again when you're out of surgery."
"Mycroft?" Quist asked pleasantly.
"His brother."
"And you're his... partner?" Quist faltered, evidently searching around for the correct terminology. John smiled wryly and held up his left hand.
"His extremely co-dependent friend," he said. "Well, actually, not really sure which one of us is the co-dependent one, me or him. But if I need to be his next of kin to stay with him... sure. I'm his partner."
Quist smiled. "Won't say anything."
"Thanks." John watched as the milky propofol solution slid along the intravenous tubing. "General anaesthetic's going in now, Sherlock... you'll be out in ten seconds. Or probably twenty, because you're you. I'd tell you to count backwards, but patients over the age of six usually don't need that..."
"Anaesthetist as well?" Quist asked him.
"Army doctor." John was rubbing his eyes again, noting gratefully that Sherlock's expression had relaxed and breathing had just deepened and slowed. "Propofol's used in the field, but I never wanted to muck around with it more than I had to."
"Ah well. At least we're not chloroforming people, like they used to do in the old days."
"That's true. And... he's out like a light. Honestly, knowing him, I thought you were going to have a lot more trouble putting him under."
John sounded more relaxed than he had in hours; things were happening at last, and they were happening because of Mycroft. The man may have been a pain in the arse, but he was a useful one; he could and just had wandered over to the nurse's station and declared that if the hospital didn't want the Department of Health investigating every aspect of the ward's performance for the past five years straight, they'd better get an anaesthetist on the case immediately. When at last Sherlock was wheeled into the operating theatre, John went back out and found him sitting on one of the bench seats in the waiting area, phone in hand.
"Are you supposed to have that on in here?" he asked.
"Oh, for God's sake. You know as well as I do that my texting someone isn't going to cause someone's life support to malfunction," was the cross response. "How is he?"
"They've just taken him now. Hard to say, but he's no worse, and they didn't have any trouble putting him under." John paused. "Who are you texting?" he ventured, glancing at his watch. It was five past four in the morning.
"Despite the fact that they did comply with my orders, I'm having this department investigated anyhow," Mycroft muttered with a sort of grim, vindictive glee. "That it took my intervention for him to be taken into surgery at all is completely unacceptable. I'll have Stephen call Lord Winbourne when it's a decent hour..."
"Stephen," John said.
Mycroft glanced up at him. "Yes, my... my personal assistant."
John nodded. "Your PA. Okay. But you just called him 'Stephen.' Last month you were calling him 'Hassell.'"
"I note that my brother calls you 'John,'" Mycroft retorted, putting his phone back in his pocket.
"And so do you, unless you're trying to annoy me." John smiled; Mycroft rarely walked into a punchline that obvious. Poor bastard was obviously in knots about his brother and too proud to say so. "Look, I'm just saying it's been noted, that's all. Considering you still call Molly 'Mrs Watson' most of the time. And it's fine, Mycroft. Everyone knows and nobody cares."
Mycroft folded his arms. "Then why are you pointing it out?"
"'Cause I want you to know that everyone knows and nobody cares - except Stephen, I hope. Even Sherlock hasn't been a dick about it, and you know what he's like, any excuse to take a low shot."
"Well, I'm glad you're amusing yourself, in any case."
"You know damn well I'm just making conversation 'cause I have to, so don't give me that." John sank into the moulded plastic chair two down from Mycroft, who was now looking at him with... Jesus, was that sympathy?
"Young Charlotte being difficult, I hear?" Mycroft offered stiffly.
"Uh, yes. Yeah, you could say that." John put his face in his hands for a few seconds, then looked across at Mycroft. "Have you ever wanted to have children?"
Mycroft pursed his lips. "I've considered it once or twice," he admitted. "After it became clear that my brother wasn't going to marry the girl of his dreams and raise a family. There's been a Holmes in the service of the British Government since 1720, John. When you're raised to value tradition, it's a sad thing to see let slip."
Charlie was, at present, the last of the Watsons; if the years to come didn't bring her any brothers, it was entirely likely that the family name would die out altogether. John nodded. "Yeah, I can see it. Still, I wouldn't, you know, regret too much."
"I don't."
"Good."
There was a very awkward silence for a few moments.
"Perhaps it might be best if you get some sleep," Mycroft finally suggested. "I can arrange a private room for you."
"No," John said. "There aren't enough resources as it is without me commandeering a room for a nap." He stood up, a little stiffly. "I'm going out to that other waiting area near the lifts. The chairs there are slightly more comfortable. Have someone wake me up if... um... something happens."
~~oo~~oo~~oo~~
"Dr. Watson...?"
John opened his eyes. He was slumped over the armrest between two chairs; the first thing that hit him was the harsh fluorescent light, and then the raging headache he now had. Sitting up, he looked up at the nurse who had just woken him.
"What's happening?" he asked sleepily.
"Sherlock's in recovery," she said. "We can't find his brother, but he left instructions left that you were to be woken up when he came out and that you're able to go in and see him."
John was already on his feet by this time. Trust Mycroft to not be around when he's needed. Again. "How is he?"
"Physically, he came through well, and his doctor hasn't identified any immediate complications. But, um. He's having a bit of an adverse reaction to the anaesthetic..."
Dammit. John knew exactly what that meant, and was not in the least looking forward to it. Sherlock's worst nightmare was not being in charge of his own faculties, and John had seen far too many recovery-room meltdowns than he cared to remember. "And I assume they found out what was wrong with him?" he asked.
"Yes. His surgeon's going to be in there in a minute to explain."
~~oo~~oo~~oo~~
John entered the recovery room as furtively as a cat-burglar, but that was soon forgotten when he was hit by two sounds: Sherlock, incoherent, upset, muffled under a ventilator mask; and a nurse, loud, calm and imperious. "Mr. Holmes, you've had your appendix out and you're in recovery. You're all right, calm down..."
Looking across, John found the trolley stationed near the window; he hurried over. "He's had his what?" he blurted out. The nurse - possibly the head nurse on duty, based on her uniform - gave him a rather chilly glance.
"Who are you?" she asked.
"I'm John Watson," he said. "I'm..."
"Oh, you're his partner?"
John paused. He realised he'd instinctively gone for Sherlock's hand again.
"Sure," he said cheerfully. "I'm his partner. I'm also a doctor. He's had his what out?"
"His appendix. It's quite common -"
"Not this time, it isn't... hey, Sherlock, come on," he said. "Come on, calm down... and I'm wasting my breath when he's drugged up to the eyeballs, aren't I? Do me a favour and tell me what side that incision is on, please, Susan." He'd taken a stealth glance at her name tag.
Susan pulled Sherlock's blanket back slightly. "Well of course, it's on his r-"
She stopped.
"Bloody hell," she exclaimed. "Why's it on the wrong side?"
John was struck by a memory – Sherlock telling him how common it is to see but not observe, and how likely it was that Susan honestly saw the wound dressings on Sherlock's right side until she was forced to observe that they weren't. Greg had once or twice said the same thing - something about how many witnesses he'd dealt with who "saw" things that never happened.
"I don't know," he said. "But the delay in diagnosis could've killed him, so I'd like his surgeon to hurry up and explain it... Sherlock, are you... oh, hell." He looked up at Susan again. "Is he in pain?"
"He shouldn't be. It's just the -"
"Doctor," John reminded her. "I know. Do you think we could take the mask off and see if he can breathe on his own? If he's delirious, having something over his mouth and nose might be making him more distressed." Without permission, John slid the ventilator mask off Sherlock's face, watching in concern as he took a few hitched breaths.
Yep. Completely off his head and not happy about it.
"Sherlock," he said, lightly holding his chin to get his attention. "Hey. Open your eyes."
Sherlock's wet eyelashes twitched and his eyes opened for a few seconds.
"Okay, that's a good start... Sherlock, listen. You've had surgery and you're freaking out because of the anaesthetic. It's normal. You're going to be fine, okay?"
~~oo~~oo~~oo
Mycroft, who had slipped out for a much-needed cigarette while John had been sleeping, arrived back ten minutes later and found John was now nowhere to be seen. He was just making enquiries at the administration desk as to the status of his brother's surgery when he heard his name called. He turned his head; John had just come back from the east wing and was making his way over.
"John -"
"In recovery." John spoke on the exhale and sat down in the nearest chair, forcing the great lazy Mycroft Holmes to go over to him. "He's not really conscious yet - in and out. Shivering a lot... bit distressed."
"Distressed?" Oh, God, don't be pitiful, Mycroft. If there was something really wrong John would look -
"Just the anaesthetic... it'll wear off. He was asleep, last I saw - I just came out to see if you were around. I should go back before he misses me."
Mycroft gave John three more seconds.
"John, are you delaying telling me what's wrong with him on purpose?"
John smiled grimly. "Maybe," he said. "It's a good one, Mycroft. Not even you and Sherlock combined ever thought it was going to be something like this. Were neither of you aware that he's got a birth defect called Situs Inversus?"
Mycroft frowned. "I'm... not familiar with the term," he conceded. "What is it?"
"It's rare - nobody who operated had ever seen it in real life before. His internal organs are all flipped," John explained. "Spleen's on the right, liver's on the left, and so on. And something else was on the left. His appendix."
Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "Good Lord. Are they... sure?"
"Pretty sure, because it ruptured and he's now got localised peritonitis. He's lucky to be alive. And his CT scans are probably going to be framed and put up in the Dean of Medicine's office."
"I can only conclude from your tone that he's not in any danger."
"He's expected to make a full recovery." John smiled wryly. "Still, not in a good way. They're concerned about complications, so he'll be in here for a week or so, and he won't be doing any detecting for a good six weeks. God, he'll be absolutely thrilled about that." He chuckled, silly with relief and sleep deprivation. "Your bloody brother, Mycroft. He can't even get sick like an ordinary person."
~~oo~~oo~~oo~~
At first there was just a torrent of babbling voices around him. Sherlock opened his eyes; the room spun so violently that he shut them again and swallowed down on the urge to vomit.
Where the hell... what...
He flicked his tongue over his dry, cracked lips; it didn't help, since the inside of his mouth felt just as parched as the outside. He planted his palms into the mattress and tried to sit up; pain flamed up in his left side and forced him down again. He drew in a sharp breath.
"I'm right here, Sherlock." John was on his left; since that side was closest to the window and not the door, Sherlock confusedly had to conclude he'd been there in the room the whole time.
"John -"
"Nope, no talking. You're not going to make much sense anyway. Just rest. You'll be in your own room in half an hour or so."
"But what -"
"The surgery went well, and you're going to be fine. Now go back to sleep."
"What was wrong with me?" he slurred.
"Oh, you'll like it. Something worthy of one of your investigations, and something I will tell you all about when you wake up again and you're back in your own room. I'll be here the whole time, Sherlock. Sleep."
Sherlock, fighting a losing battle, gave up. As he sank down into what felt like a current of warm water, he was lucid enough to reflect one thing: John's "you're going to be fine" was the first time in all this mess so far that he'd sounded as if he meant it.