Chapter 12
Sherlock's POV
I sat uneasily and uncomfortably in the plastic hospital chair propped next to John's hospital bed.
The nurses had patched him up and he was laying unconscious against the white bed sheets. He looked extremely pale and his breathing was shallow. They said he was in critical condition and that he might not fully recover.
I was hunched over, resting my head in my hands, pulling harshly at my hair. How could I have let this happen to John? I should have been shot, not him.
I peered over at him, watching his chest rise and then fall slowly. The nurses need to change the gauze soon, as the blood was already seeping through the thin fabric. The bullet was severed into five pieces, lodged in different places. It took them hours to get them all out and the entire time, John was unconscious and unaware of what was happening. In the end, they managed to locate the pieces and pluck them out.
The creaking of an opening door was what snapped me out of my thoughts. The young doctor, probably in her early thirties, walked in the room and closed the door behind her. She walked towards the edge of John's bed, staring down at her clipboard.
She looked up. "The police will come by shortly and John's parents are going to be here as well."
I nodded. I wondered why they didn't call them sooner.
"Would you like me to call your parents and let them know where you are?" She queried.
I shook my head. "That won't be necessary."
"All right." She said, uneasily.
A few moments went by, and she was still standing on the edge of John's bed. She stared at the heart monitor, as if to look busy.
"You know," She said, after a while. She walked towards me and stood a meter away. "he'll be fine."
I ruffled my hair, irritated and stared up at her. "I know."
"So, don't stress." She suggested. "I can tell you're frustrated."
I sighed. There was no point in arguing. I was in no mood for arguing.
Probably assuming that I wasn't going to respond, she shook her head and left the room. I sighed loudly, annoyed and worried at the same time. Not only will I have to deal with John's parents, but I also have to figure out who the hell shot him.
I stared at John, wondering what must be going through his mind as his heart race increased slightly and his breathing hitched. Behind his closed eyelids, I could see his eyes moving rapidly back and forth. Frowning, I lightly touched John's arm, reassuring him that if he was awake, he could open his eyes.
As if on cue, his eyes shot open and he was gasping for air. I stood up from the plastic chair quickly and went to his side as he scratched at the respirator. I lifted it from his place, not bothering to touch the tubes that went into his nose. He gasped and it took him a while to calm down.
"John, you're all right." I assured him, examining his expression. He seemed a bit shaken, confused and worried.
"What am I doing here?" I was relieved that he was able to speak.
I sighed in relief. "You've been shot, don't you remember?"
He nodded his head quickly, pushing himself to sit upright, but cringing as he felt the pain shoot through his body. His hand immediately swung to his abdomen, where the old gauze was positioned. He looked down at himself, noticing the light pink color oozing from the gauze and he winced.
"Oh, no..." He wailed, his lower lip quivering.
"Don't worry, you'll be fine." I told him again, but he shook his head.
"No, Sherlock, that's not what I'm worried abou-"
"This is your fault!" An short, blonde, angry woman scolded as she entered the room, followed by a man a few inches taller than she. He looked stressed and worried but the shorter woman looked furious. Assuming by the height, hair color and bone structure of these two adults, I assumed them to be John's parents.
"Mum...!" John shrieked, but John's mum wasn't fazed.
She stomped towards me, throwing her purse to the ground as she glared at me. "You did this to him! You had him shot, didn't you?! I always knew you and your family were nothing but trouble. Look what you've done!"
I wasn't appalled nor was I offended by these indirect insults. Years of taunting and torture guaranteed the immunity of feeling anything besides contempt for people who decide to insult my existence.
"Mum, Sherlock didn't do this!" John tried to defend me, but to no avail. She continued to glare at me, pointing an accusing finger in my face. I didn't fight the urge to roll my eyes at her behavior.
"And how did you come up with such a conclusion?" I challenged her. She flinched at my sudden retaliation.
"You made my son sneak out of the house when he was under strict curfew! And I will not be spoken to in that tone!" She shouted at me.
"Calm down." John's father lamely attempted to tame his wife.
I heard John groan. "Mum, please! This wasn't his fault. It was an accident."
"An accident!" She snorted, throwing her arms up in the air in exasperation. "Tripping on a step is an accident, John, but being shot? I don't know what to think." She shook her head and I quietly sighed.
John's mother and father situated themselves in a corner of the room, talking amongst themselves as John's mother shot disgusted scowls and glares at me. John laid back down onto the pillows. I felt him observing me critically.
"I'm sorry about her, Sherlock." John apologized, his heart rate increasing once again.
I half-grinned at him. "Don't worry yourself."
John yawned, as he stared up at the ceiling. "I wonder who shot me."
Suddenly, an inexplicably uncomfortable sensation rippled within my core. It felt hot and twisted, washing me with a surprising wave of nausea. I stared at John, knowing very well that this feeling is what he would have labelled as 'guilt'. I felt guilty. I felt guilty that I had let this happen to John. This is certainly my fault. If I was being more attentive-
"Sherlock?" John queried, interrupting my thoughts.
"Yes?"
"This isn't your fault." He mumbled, before drifting to sleep. And I sat there astonished, and quite frankly for the first time ever, I felt myself in a bit of an enigma.
