A/N: Update courtesy of inspiring new music, and the welcome encouragement from a conversation with a new friend. Thank you, Gameson221b. You don't know how special to me your words were, and are. I appreciate all of them! My beta, Koram852, I can never thank you enough for helping me with this chapter in such a short amount of time!
Disclaimer: Now for the saddest confession. That's right. I don't own it. I have no control of when series four will be released, either. But, by God, if I had my way...tomorrow!
Chapter Ten:
She stormed out of the flat, her last word echoing in his ears. He stared at the empty doorway, surprised by her abruptness. But sure enough, she returned with a huff of spent energy a moment later, wearing an over-sized red coat with a patterned scarf looped across her neck. "Do you know what hospital?"
"You think you're going, do you?"
"You think you're not?" She stared at him. The seconds passed, her expression maintaining the expectant tilt of her chin. She exhaled a long breath. "John Hamish Watson. Yes, by the way, I do know your middle name. Put your coat on...or don't...but you are going to the hospital."
John turned around, forgetting his tea and ignoring her. But Mary Morstan would not be ignored.
"You're being a right bastard, y'know. He's your bloody best friend... I never asked any questions when you came to my door looking for a place to stay. I wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt, seeing as how my brother trusts you. But now, I don't know what to think."
He heard her walk away. He closed his eyes, raising his left hand as his fingers closed over his eyes. He looked down, peering through his fingers at the large leather-bound notebook hanging in his right hand.
Some newspaper clippings peeked out from the closed pages. Ruffled curls. He lifted the notebook and threaded his fingers through them. In his mind, the texture of the newsprint softened, trading paper for deep brown locks of satin. The same curly mop that had laid in a pool of blood on the street, and hid beneath wraps of bandages for months of recovery...
John tucked the notebook against his chest and felt the weight of his old leather jacket settle on his shoulders.
"Get your arse out the door, Watson. I will not tell you again." Mary patted his shoulder, her voice softer than the reprimand would suggest.
The sterile waiting room was a disgusting shade of orange. John contemplated what the color resembled as he tapped his fingers against the rather stiff seating option he found himself in.
He stared across the width of the hall. Mary stared back, unperturbed by his belligerent mood.
"It'll be fine, John. I'll go talk with the nurses, get some information for you...you'll be alright."
"Unbelievable. First, you demand my coming here, and bodily force me out of the flat. Then, you leave me in this bile-colored room while you get first-hand details!"
Her face took on mild surprise. "You are joking, aren't you? John, you look...severe. Honestly, it's not like he hasn't been injured before..."
"Exactly. He has been, and he nearly died. Did you know his heart stopped during surgery? Well, it did. You think I'm acting the nervous house-wife now? You should have seen me then. It took Mycroft getting by-the-minute updates from the scrub nurses in the operating room for me to settle down." He paused. "What difference is it, anyway? My waiting at the flat for information, either from you or Mycroft, or waiting here."
Mary smirked. "Waiting at the hospital is better, believe me."
His eyes narrowed. "And why is that?"
"Sherlock is right down the hall. Breathing and conscious."
John's eyes flew to the farthest point of the hall he could see before the wall at the edge of the room cut him off.
"See. Now you're glad I made you come along."
"I would've been fine."
"You'd've been crawling the walls."
"I hate you..."
She chuckled. "No you don't. Just wait for me here. I'll be back in a bit." She smiled gently moving down the hall. He watched for a moment as Mary spoke animatedly with the nursing staff.
Patience was not really one of his strong suits. He was better than Sherlock...well, that was valid. A lot of people had better patience than the detective. He was better than Sherlock when he was dosed with mild sedatives...
John found himself standing outside the hospital room door. He stared at the wire-latticing between the glass panes, imagining having to break the detective out. He'd had to get Sherlock out of other scrapes, he admitted. And those were usually due to Sherlock shooting his mouth off about some person in authority being an imbecile.
John took a breath and opened the door, pushing against the resistance of the self-closing mechanism.
Mycroft's connections had provided Sherlock with a private room. No less for the brother of the British government.
The curtain was drawn around the bed, shielding the occupant from eyes watching through the door as he had, or the window at the far side of the room. He would say it had been Sherlock taking precautions to stay out of sight from the press, but the detective hadn't been in the attention of the media since his name had been cleared.
"Just go away. I don't want to hear it."
From the tone of voice, Sherlock was annoyed. Likely he had been asked questions all night long, questions he would consider stupid and not worth knowing the answers to... Who was prime minister. What did you consume in your last meal. What day is it... Irrelevant to the Work.
Ask him the base compounds that composed organic matter, or the sulfur content in a match head, or the amount of time it takes for a two pound severed-human foot to fall 30 meters... Those he could answer without blinking.
"Don't want to hear what?" He bit his tongue, but it was too late. The words had already passed his lips.
Sherlock flinched, curling up a bit. It was the doctor...the man with the same voice as John, but he was not John.
John heard Sherlock shift against the stiff cotton of the hospital sheets. "Oh, Doctor... I thought my brother had come back." His voice was resigned, otherwise seemingly nonplussed by hearing John's voice.
John tempered his disappointment. He should be relieved he hadn't been immediately recognized. But it was a bit disheartening.
He reasoned, it had been a few months. He couldn't expect Sherlock to identify his voice from among the thousands of sounds he cataloged in that wonderful brain of his.
"Either way. You can leave too, if you don't mind."
Sherlock turned over, shuffling the thin blanket covering him and pulled up a bit of gray t-shirt. Contraband in the hospital.
All of his personal effects had been taken captive somewhere behind the nurses' station. His coat and shoes and mobile had been tucked into a paper bag, labeled with his patient information. His clothing followed shortly after, once he had donned the hospital-issued scrub pants and top.
But this...this he had managed to tuck behind the folds of the curtain drawn around the bed while his brother had been occupied with his admittance paperwork, and the doctor had gone off to send an orderly after his lab-work.
"Sulking, are we?"
The curtain shifted slightly. Sherlock determinedly tucked his nose against the soft jersey-cotton, hiding both the t-shirt and his face behind the folds of his sheets.
John peered around the curtain, a smile perking his face. Sherlock was being his usual petulant self.
With Sherlock safely hiding his vision, forcing the notion of out-of-sight-out-of-mind, John stepped around the curtain. He took a chance and reached for the medical chart at the end of the bed.
The chart clattered against the metal basket as the doctor lifted it free. His eyes raised to see Sherlock tuck farther beneath the blanket.
The doctor sighed. "I heard about what happened... You can't tell me you haven't learned by now... You should know better than to chase criminals, especially if the police're there. It is their job. And now your concussion's been inflamed."
Sherlock heard the rustle of papers, telling him that his recent statistics entered by the nursing staff were being reviewed.
John adopted his doctor-mode and rested in the misunderstanding Sherlock had made about who he was. "Your temperature is up. White blood cell count, too. I do hope you're not catching a cold." His eyes traveled down the page to a more immediate concern. "Reduced mobility in your left arm? Let's check on that, shall we."
Sherlock heard practiced, quiet steps approach the far side of his bed. He did not turn over, he refused to face the doctor. The chart was deposited to the metal basket.
"Actually, I would prefer it if you left."
"I'm your doctor, Sherlock."
"No. You are not John." Sherlock's eyes found the doctor, and he fell silent. He didn't care if he was hallucinating. He memorized every detail available to him.
"Ms. Mary Morstan, I presume."
Mary looked up from the copy of Sherlock's chart she had talked the nursing staff into making for her. She looked over at the man beside her cautiously. He was tall, pale, and had an aristocratic air that told her plainly who he was. "Mr. Holmes, I expect. What can I do for you?"
"I heard a rumor that John Watson accompanied you to the hospital. Where might he be?"
Mary closed the manila folder and turned to face the waiting room. The empty waiting room. She shrugged. "He came with me, I won't lie to you. But I don't know where he is. Downstairs I assume."
"I don't think so. In fact, I think he is exactly where he swore to me he would never be." Mycroft stood back, his left hand in his pocket.
The complete ease of the politician provided all the information Mary needed. He wasn't concerned that John was personally visiting Sherlock... "Clearly your business is with me. What do you want?" Mary pulled the file from the counter top, holding it lightly in her hand.
His eyes followed her movements. "I am aware of your reputation, my dear. I must say...owning a pub, letting a flat...such domesticity. It doesn't suit you."
"I'm sure I don't have to tell you, family is everything."
"Yes. And how is dear William?"
"You tell me. He works for you."
"Yes," Mycroft examined the glass of his watch. "And part of that employment was an extensive background check. It seems, he has no sister. So, who are you?"
"Come on, Sherlock. Get up."
Keeping John in sight, he slid off the edge of the bed. He felt a twinge of pain from his ribs, but they had been expertly wrapped and did not hinder him. He did grimace, though, as the room spun, and leaned against back against the bed. He pressed his eyes shut for a moment and swallowed the rise of bile in his throat.
When Sherlock stood, John reached his hands out to help steady the detective. The doctor in him noticed the signs: the pinched focus of his eyes, the sensitivity to light, the habitual shifting as he tried to compensate for the weaving of his vision. He was still suffering from slight vertigo when he moved suddenly.
Sherlock felt the warmth of John's hands through the thin cotton of his shirt. It was reassuring. When he opened his eyes again and confirmed that his doctor was truly standing beside him, he let out the breath he held. He accepted John's help to stand upright, though he leaned his right hand against the bed and clenched it in the sheets to steady him.
His doctor stood behind him. He patted the outside of his arms gently.
"Alright, then. Lift slowly, press against my hands."
Sherlock sighed and did as asked. The moment the doctor applied the slightest resistance, his left shoulder buckled and he hissed a curse.
"A bit tender?" John shifted to focus on that side.
"Obviously." Sherlock responded flatly, glancing over his shoulder at the tousled ash-blonde head behind him.
A strong hand gripped his shoulder, gently twisting his arm back and around to test the range of motion. Sherlock faced forward again, tolerating the abuse, and focusing on the flex of John's fingers instead.
"As I suspected. You damaged your rotator cuff..." John released him.
Sherlock brought a hand up to his shoulder, tenderly gripping the sore muscle, and feeling the tingle on his skin. He blinked. It was no more than dissipating heat where John had held him.
The doctor moved away. "Keep better care of yourself, Sherlock, please. I can't always be here."
Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed. "Yes, John." An irrational worry enveloped him. He reached back for the t-shirt, looking away from his doctor only briefly.
When Sherlock turned back to look again at John, he had gone. He hadn't even heard the final click of the door as it caught the latch. The only proof Sherlock had that John had been there at all was in his head.
A/N: And deep breath. Thank you all for reading. I do like to know what you think, so please review if you want!
