* slams head on keyboard * Sorry to have kept you waiting.
Benedict Cumberbatch in 'The War Horse' and Martin Freeman in 'The Hobbit'? I think I just exploded from the prospect :D
I'm also toying with the idea of giving these chapters title names, what would you think?
I now realise I made a horrible mistake in an earlier chapter of mistaking Martin Freeman's eyes for brown, they are in fact deep blue. Stupid me. Well, seeing as I found out my error halfway through writing this, I will not correct myself (wouldn't make much sense would it?) so, for this story, John's eyes are brown. Can you forgive me?
...
The world was black, and the left side ached horribly. There was absolutely nothing but a still, silent void. He felt content, almost peaceful here, his only concern was how to stop the faint noises that broke the silence occasionally.
John Watson! It's me, Sherlock! John I'm here!
Poor man. He would gladly tell the voice that there wasn't anyone here but him, but nothing in his power could make his eyes open or mouth move. The voice seemed to take the hint though; it faded away.
Sirens.
Couldn't the noise go away? It was really irritating, a high pitched wailing ruining his perfect void. After a short while, after a small lifting sensation, he heard a clunk and all the noises ceased.
For a long time there was nothing, then he heard another voice. A different voice, it sounded like a woman's.
Where is he? John! I want to see my brother!
That's two. Two people looking for John, he must be a popular bloke, if all these people want him.
...Needs emergency surgery.
Surgery? Did he need surgery? Oh god he hoped they wouldn't take off his hands...he needed them...he was a sculptor...
Everything faded,nothing reigned once more.
...
Sherlock, deep deep down, loathed hospitals. Ever since John had been rushed into surgery to try and save his ruined eye Sherlock had to endure a distraught and hysterical Harry (who later stormed off, claiming she 'needed a drink'), two hours of pacing, a very uncomfortable attempt to comfort a sobbing Sarah and was now staring moodily at a poster telling him to floss. A few orderlies aside, very few people walked down the little corridor, and the silence made Sherlock feel oddly abandoned.
John was still in the operating theatre, Sherlock didn't want to ponder about what sort of poking, prodding and scraping his friend was being subjected to. His mind ticked along like well oiled clockwork, deciding how best to find Markin now.
'Coffee?' came a familiar voice, and a styrofoam cup was shoved under his nose. Sherlock took it, but didn't answer as the voice's owner sat a few seats to his left.
'He'll live' Mycroft said, twirling his umbrella with his hand. 'I've secured him a private room for recovery and there's a therapist ready and waiting should he recquire one.'
'You don't hang about do you?' Sherlock croaked, still staring at the dental health poster.
'What can I say?, it's a trait we share.'
Sherlock tore his gaze away from the wall and looked at his brother. Mycroft was sat nonchalantly, one leg resting on the other. He seemed to have lost a bit of weight since Sherlock last saw him, probably a result of his yo-yoing weight problem.
'Why're you here Mycroft?' he asked cooly, 'Don't you have some third world country to bully?'
Mycroft pulled a face, it was his 'Shut up or I'll tell Mummy you boiled the cat' look. He cleared his throat and made himself more comfortable in the plastic seating.
'He's strong you know,' Mycroft began after a while, 'John. A soldier remember? He's going to pull through. Besides, you didn't think I wouldn't secure the best doctors did you?'
Sherlock honestly didn't, however much he disliked his brother, he did respect his influence over the working world.
'Why?' he asked, only to fill the readful silence he had been sitting in for the best part of an hour.
'Because, contrary to poular belief, I know you care about him. I also care for John Watson, he's a good man to you.'
Sherlock was at a loss as to why his brother was saying these things, it wasn't going to make anyone feel any better. Here where two fully grown men stumbling through a conversation that would be awkward for any normal man, but they were the Holmes brothers, which just made this seven and a half times worse.
'When I first met him I offered him money to spy on you, you know?' Mycroft told him, dusting off his already immaculate lapel.
Sherlock nodded in acknowledgement, 'Let's be honest, it's not the first time you've tried.'
'Hmm, quite. He refused of course, completely refused outright. Claimed he wasn't interested.'
Sherlock swallowed and shakily sipped his coffee, black with two sugars, just the way he liked it. It was a bog standard vending machine coffee, not the rich, slightly nutty sort John sometimes made for him. Although, he supposed this was Mycroft trying to be a supportive elder brother. Not the best attempt perhaps, but Sherlock felt glad of the company.
'That took courage Sherlock,' Mycroft continued, watching his brother carefully, 'There's not many who would turn down a sum like that. He didn't even consider taking it. He's loyal, Sherlock. I had a theory that he could either be the making of you, or make you worse than ever.'
Sherlock still didn't reply, but shot a poisonous look at his brother, who had now taken up Sherlock's job of staring at the poster.
Mycroft smiled slightly, 'He managed to do both. Very clever.'
'How do you mean?' Sherlock interrupted, gripping the coffee cup with one hand, feeling the heat burn his hand.
'I mean,' Mycroft sighed, with the air of an exasperated nanny, 'That he pulls the best and worst out of you. You would never make friends before, John awakened you emotionally. But look at you, he's hurt and it makes you paranoid and dare I say, a little afraid?'
There were some glorious times when Sherlock could have really given his brother a right hook to the face, this was one of those times. Were it not for the fact Mycroft could ban him from the ward, he would have done. Sherlock settled for glaring at Mycroft, who carefully ignored him.
'We've caught a whiff of Moriarty in Venice, if you're still interested.' Mycroft said, twirling his umbrella again. Sherlock twitched his head slightly at Moriarty's name, and he stored the information in a mental file titled THE SECOND ROUND. The psychopathic Irishman had certainly been getting around in the months since the bombing, Mycroft's people had been catching little glimpses and hearing little rumours from around the entire globe. This could be interesting.
'Thank you, but not really my main concern right now.' Sherlock answered.
Mycroft shrugged and continued his umbrella-twirling, which was really starting to piss Sherlock off. He sipped the coffee again, savouring the bitter aftertaste.
A portly, middle aged doctor rounded the corner and stopped when he reached both men. Sweat was shining on his balding head and his red cheeks were puffed out as he exhaled.
'Ah, Mr Holmes, I'm Dr Hardwicke.' He said, glancing at them from his clipboard, Sherlock instantly stood up, as did Mycroft. The doctor blinked, piggy eyes peering at Sherlock's worried expression.
'How is he?' The question was soft, the deep voice trembled slightly. Hardwicke had heard the question so many times over the years, this was no different. Concern, fear and grief made everyone sound like that.
'He'll be alright.' he said, seeing the young man's entire form relax, like some great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Reading off the sheet, he told the two men of the patient's state;
'We managed to salvage the left eyelid, but we couldn't save the eye, he's very lucky the blade hadn't gone deeper, it could have penetrated his brain. One broken arm and a shattered kneecap, he may need a wheelchair for a while. A small infection where he'd been lying in the dirt, nothing a few antibiotics can't handle. There are 107 cuts on his back, we've stitched up the worst. The cuts on his chest will leave permanent scarring, nothing we can do about that. There's a few cracked ribs, so he's strapped up for that. Lots of cuts and bruises, he's been beaten up, pretty badly too. We had to stitch up the lower lip, he'll most likely have a scar there too. He's badly dehydrated, and starvation's made his stomach shrink. He's being fed through IV. There's a needle mark on his neck, but we can't find any major toxin in his blood. Right now, he's in a light coma, he probably won't wake for a few days.'
Sherlock listened to the diagnosis with rapt attention, catalouging John's injuries. All the more reason to hunt down Markin. One of John's eyes was missing, one of his warm brown eyes, so full of life and comfort, was gone. Now Sherlock could only look into one.
'I—I want to see him.' he choked, taking a few deep breaths. Hardwicke nodded and Sherlock heard Mycroft turn on his heel.
'I'll be in touch Sherlock.' Mycroft called, striding away.
Hardwicke beckoned at Sherlock to follow him, Sherlock followed numbly.
...
He still floated in the dark, but it was a different darkness to the last, it was more comfotable and warmer. There was a dull pain everywhere, but it wasn't unendurable. It was drowned out, an echo of pain. He could hear a steady beeping, a heart monitor?
A coma you say?
There was that voice again. He quite liked the sound, it was deep and almost melodious. It sounded of scratchy violins, of exasperation, of running about in the night, it sounded of no food and science and tea and home. That voice could warble on about absolute shit for hours and he'd be more than happy to listen.
Hang on. Coma? Who was in a coma? Was HE in a coma? No it couldn't be, was this a coma? It was way to noisy... Surely they meant someone else.
He heard a distorted voice reply, most noises in this world were distorted, so it was a relief when he heard the nice voice mumble back.
He was struggling to stay, he could feel a presence pulling back to the depths. That was slightly disappointing, he wanted to stay with the voice.
John?
The voice was asking for John, but it seemed to be next to him. Who was he? Who was John?
I am John.
John Watson, I'm a doctor, I'm a soldier, I've just been through Hell. That means that voice...it's...
No good. He faded away.
...
Four days passed with no improvement from John. Aside from going to the lavatory or to refill his coffee cup, Sherlock barely left the room.
It was a decent private room (thank you Mycroft), a spacious room with a small television in the corner, venetian blinds and a bedside table.
Sherlock had been told by the nurses to talk to John, that maybe it would incite him to wake up. Sherlock scoffed and rolled his eyes. John wouldn't hear him, he might as well talk to the skirting board for all the good it would do. Neverless, he found himself speaking to the sleeping John, telling him about current events, ranting about Anderson and telling him not to worry. There was never any response from the other man. Sherlock studied him, looking past the bandages and the plaster casts. He saw John. For once, he saw the hardships of life etched all over his face. John looked tiny, fragile, and old. A small tube was placed under his nostrils, helping him to breathe.
More than once, just to fill the empty silence, Sherlock asked John to wake up, to no avail of course. Sherlock then tried demanding, cajoling, threatening, pleading and bargaining, none of which was able to gain any sort of response. The heart monitor created a high pitched metronome that filled Sherlock's head. He pushed the boredom to the back of his mind, feeling that it'd be a tad insulting to find an unconsious person boring.
Sitting next to John he saw the man's hand, resting upon the bed sheets. The fingers were curled slightly, like John was about to grasp a pen. The fingernails -typical of John- were cut to a sensible length but there was still blood and dirt caked under them. Sherlock saw callouses on the man's fingers, fingers dextrous enough to stitch someone up but not enough to use chopsticks properly. It was a workman's hand, steady and sure.
And just the right size for mine.
Sherlock physically started. The thought came unbidden into his mind, cutting through his observations. He looked down at his own hand, plae like the rest of him with slightly tapered fingers. He'd never really thought about his hands before, there were just useful things on the end of his arms. But...now he thought about it, they seemed itching to hold the older man's hand. His hand was slightly bigger than John's, but surely he could entwine their fingers and make it more of a match?
Well...this is new...Oh of course it's not, don't be an idiot. But really, this long to figure it all out? Tut tut Sherlock, you're losing you're touch.
'Oh shut it.' he said aloud. Well, theory was just theory, why not put it into practice?
Tentitavely, Sherlock edged his hand towards John's, which hadn't moved a was very, very surprised to see his hand shaking slightly, like it was telling him to hurry the hell up. Just a few more millimetres, and their fingertips would be touching.
You're not Sarah.
For a small while he kept his hand there, hovering so close to John's. All it would take was a miniscule movement, and he could grasp his friend's hand...it felt natural, like it should have happened long ago. But would John welcome such a touch? John was straight after all.
Sherlock withdrew his hand. Oh hell.
...
Oh for the love of Conan Doyle! Why can't Sherlock just stop thinking for two seconds?
Brownie points will go to anyone who discovers the fun trivia behind John's doctor's name :)
Next chapter: Lestrade proves he's not as oblivious as Sherlock thinks he is. Will John ever come around?
See you soon gorgeous people xx
