John woke with a jerk, expecting to be struggling against the water, needing to breathe. He found himself restrained in a new way, his arms held at his sides. He opened his eyes, pulling backward, wondering what the hell Mike had shoved in his throat to make it hurt so badly. Something sharp pricked his hand.
An alarm started, blaring nearby him. John looked down to see broken I.V. tape flapping up on the back of his hand, only one half still adhered.
Right. He was dehydrated. That was smart.
John hesitated at the thought, taking stock of his surroundings. A scared-looking nurse was holding up both his hands in what looked like either submission or very ineffective self defense.
"Hospital, you're in a hospital," he promised. John glanced around, confirming it. He was in a private room, kept sitting upright by a pair of back supports avoiding his burns. His leg was bandaged, though he couldn't remember it being damaged. His throat felt like it'd been torn out; he'd been put under, kept on oxygen. His lungs felt stiff, damaged. Pneumonia, probably. He'd ripped out his I.V and its machine was screaming.
"Yes. Pardon," John croaked out and collapsed back into sleep.
~~/~~
He woke up with the I.V back in his right hand and the machines mercifully quiet. His right hand was bandaged, his arms pinned to his side by his elbows and he was unusually happy, for a tortured, mournful man. Opiates.
Right. John stared at his bandaged hand, remembering the parking garage.
What the fuck did I just live through? His biceps were restrained to his side by two restrictive slings, pinning him like a mental patient. He had a strap around his middle, attached with Velcro ties to keep his forearms pinned to his belly. Two dislocated shoulders, at the least. From hanging. John wanted to pull away from the thought and felt his bandages tug against him. He tried to keep his breathing even. He couldn't move his arms. He could hear his heart monitor picking up. He didn't know how to slow it down. He couldn't move and his leg was bandaged over his knee, keeping it from bending. He fought the shoulder restraints.
He was worsening whatever damage there was in his shoulders. He didn't care. He was going to kill whoever decided to strap him down.
No. Not going to kill them. John breathed in through his mouth and choked as his lungs protested. He coughed and bent over himself, trying not to choke. A nurse rushed in, looking concerned.
Hospital, he was in a hospital. He had to stop panicking.
"Tranq me," he coughed out, but the nurse was already pushing a syringe into his I.V tube.
A warm feeling flooded his brain. John focused on it, continuing to cough, until his lungs calmed and the nurse helped him lie back. Exhausted, John slept.
~~/~~
The pain in his back and arms was a dull, distant feeling filtered from his brain by heavy pain killers, leaving him wanting nothing so much as to sleep again. The nursing staff tried and failed to get him to eat something and kept him propped up on the back supports. He was plugged in to a IV fluid and alimentation drip that woke him up beeping frantically every time he shifted, which he didn't bother to tell the nurses about because he'd never met one of those machines that wasn't faulty. They had reset buttons within easy reach for a reason.
The opiates kept him floating above the pain. His head felt heavy when they kicked in, and he knew from experience not to fight it. He let his head drop and focused on the sounds of the hospital to keep himself out of his fear. Sherlock would no doubt know the details of every patient around him. He tried to ignore that.
He knew it was morning from the light coming in from the window and the sounds of a nurse's shift changing with its usual exchange of patient information and gossip. Lestrade was sure to find him soon, if he'd been on the case at all. So far he'd escaped any official debriefing of his injuries by being in surgery and then through the assistance of one very protective nurse practitioner. But if Lestrade were on the case, John wouldn't have the heart to send him away without at least reassuring him. Lestrade had lost enough in the last few years. John had never found out if he'd ever gotten his position in the force restored. But if Lestrade had gotten Mike's photographs in the mail? John sighed, staring at the door that led to the hospital hallway. He wouldn't have the heart to turn him away.
And if it was Sherlock? John closed his eyes, exhausted by the notion. He dreaded their remeeting. Sherlock Holmes, truly alive, the most likely recipient of the photographs.
Why do you scream for Sherlock Holmes?
Because he'd always find me . John lifted his arm, wanting to rub at his face, and felt the I.V tug in his arm.
He didn't know what he was feeling. Half of his brain was taken up with processing just how nauseated the antibiotics were making him. But he dreaded seeing Sherlock Holmes.
He'd idolized Sherlock. John hated admitting it. He'd hero-worshipped that man and everyone he'd known had seen it. His bloody tormentor had seen it. And he didn't want the brilliant, pristine prick to see him brought so low, tortured with very little reason behind it, marked with his name, and dropped back into the broken life he'd never managed to pull back together. After that very same arrogant prick's thoughtless, thoughtless death.
A nurse came in to poke at him, her eyes haunted from checking out his injuries. John did his best to smile at her. He felt like his head was floating, pulled away from his neck. Pain medication. He hated it.
He didn't want Sherlock to see him strong either. To see Mike's dangling corpse and the carpark full of blood and to come here to see John already sitting up, nausea or no. Anger fizzled through his chest at the thought of Sherlock thinking he was healed, done grieving and 'fine now'.
"How do the burns look?" he murmured and the nurse returned his smile tightly, looking sick at she checked the monitors.
"You're doing fine," she replied meaninglessly and John felt his teeth clench and released them purposefully. More than anything, he decided, he didn't want to deal with it. He was too tired to be frustrated; he wanted to sleep.
~~/~~
Sherlock strode into St. Barts, feeling panic lick at him. He wanted to scream and tear around the place but he made himself approach the front desk. It was fastest to follow their idiotic policies.
"Unidentified person, age approximately thirty five to forty, signs of possible torture including burns and lacerations, concentrated on his back. We're here to identify," Sherlock ordered. The woman behind the desk gaped at him, like he'd broken some social code. "Quickly," he demanded. She nodded and glanced back at her computer – she was used to such scenes, apparently.
She typed like John, pecking at the keyboard with her index fingers. Sherlock wanted to break her.
"Room 87, down the hall and to the right, visiting hours are until 6:00 PM except for family," the nurse answered and Sherlock felt himself suck breath into his lungs – symptom of relief. John was here. And alive, then.
Sherlock strode for the room, knowing the building plan. Room 87 was one of the smaller ones, further away from the nurse's break room; Mycroft did not know John was here either. Donovan and Lestrade followed him.
Sherlock stopped, irrationally, outside of John's door, before the windows that would let the man see him.
John had mourned him for a year.
Not good.
He'd known, back then, how he'd feel thinking John dead. John had lived that for a year. He would never forgive him. Sherlock was probably the last man John would want to see, now.
So don't do it to him. Walk away.
"It'll be okay," Donovan said meaninglessly. Incanting – the common attempt to make a situation better by stating that it was. Useless.
"We'll wait out here," Lestrade said, likely thinking that was the reason he'd paused. Sherlock hesitated, thinking to accept, but what did it matter what Lestrade and Donovan saw of John's reaction to him? He had no pride left. And he was too selfish to walk away, not without ascertaining what chance he had of regaining John's affections.
"There's no need," he replied and walked into the room.
~~/~~
John heard the ruckus in the hallway and knew Sherlock had come. He shifted on the bed, uncomfortable, feeling trapped with his arms immobilized in their slings and his leg still bandaged over the knee. The door handle turned and John forced himself to exhale. A reunion was inevitable, that was obvious. He watched Sherlock step into his hospital room, looking for all the world like a man going to his funeral. His eyes were bloodshot, his skin sallow and wrong – god when was the last time he'd slept? Eaten?
Sherlock stared at him, looking lost. John felt something unclench in his stomach, and nodded at Sherlock to enter the room. Sherlock waited for a moment before moving to the end of John's bed. He stood with his hands pushed into the pockets of his worn leather jacket, the disguise hanging limply on him but his posture eerily familiar.
God, Sherlock Holmes stood before him, tall and handsome and whole. John forced his body to stay still, when he wanted to run his hands over the man, feel him firm, his skull whole and unaltered.
Fuck, he wanted to cry. He'd known Sherlock was alive, he'd seen the postmortems, but this..This was Sherlock Holmes, flesh and blood before him, not a memory, not a theory lost somewhere in the world where John would never find him. The same body, thin and tall and pale as porcelain. The same black hair and gray eyes, the same expression of anguish as when he'd said 'Alone is what I have. Alone protects me' and let him leave. It hurt to look at him. John inhaled sharply, the sound whistling in his lungs. He was too tired for this. He felt sleep tug at him.
"John," Sherlock choked out. His deep voice grated. The silence stretched horribly and John waited for Lestrade to interrupt them, demand a statement, but the room was quiet. John considered holding his breath so the code blue alarm would sound, but he couldn't be so juvenile. Lestrade and Donovan snuck in behind Sherlock, their expressions grim. Donovan stood by the door and clasped her hands, her face blank. Professional. Lestrade closed the door and moved to sit down in one of the chairs lining the opposite side of the room beneath the window. He kept running his hand down his face, staring at John's bandaged, restrained shoulders.
"You knew," Sherlock concluded aloud, sounding shocked. John dragged his eyes back to him. Of course Sherlock would be able to tell such a thing, with heart monitors and John's face bare before him. John closed his eyes, not wanting to face it.
He waited for the explanation, the attempt to validate it all, but Sherlock stayed silent. No one spoke and at last John realized no one was going to, everyone but Sherlock likely thinking him asleep. He was too tired to open his eyes again. Finally, his exhaustion took over and dragged him from his consciousness again.
~~/~~
"I'll come back," Greg promised, pushing himself up from the hospital chair. Sherlock glanced away from John's body to study the man.
Dark eyes. Deepened wrinkles. Heavy scent of dried sweat. He was keeping his arms tight to his sides - aware of his body odor. Currently thinking about it - likely going to shower. Why was he waiting, then?
"I'm glad you're back," Lestrade commented, clopping a hand on his shoulder. Warmth seeped through Sherlock's thin shirt. Sherlock frowned up at him. They'd established that nine days ago, before the search. What had changed? "Too many unsolved murders, without you."
Sherlock kept his eyes away from his ex-partner, prone on the hospital bed. He never should have jumped. Knowledge of that was evident in Lestrade's dropped shoulders, his grimace, like he was expecting pain and resigned to it. Sympathy tinged with the idea that it was Sherlock's own fault. Greg's gaze shifted to John, confirming his thoughts.
"I know it's my fault," Sherlock snapped, glaring at the man. Greg blinked, obviously confused. Could he not see his own pity? Sherlock snarled. Greg patted him on the shoulder again, his gaze locked on John's bruised face. Something like sympathy, again.
"Do you think he will forgive you?" he asked. Sherlock swallowed and stood up, hoping it would encourage the man to leave. Greg nodded, apparently taking that for an answer.
"It is good to see him again," he said, straightening his filthy uniform and making his way out of the room. He hesitated by the door. "Let me know.. If anything changes," he said, glancing at John.
"He'll live," Sherlock replied. Lestrade nodded, looking relieved, apparently trusting in his medical predictions over the doctor's concerns. He left.
~~/~~
John woke up, aware he wasn't alone. His lower back ached with returning pain. He could feel his wounds scrape against his bandages every time he shifted. He needed more drugs. He opened his eyes in a tight squint to see Sherlock in a chair beneath the window, his fingers pitched before his lips in his thinking pose. His eyes shot to John's for an instant than looked away.
John didn't know what to say. He pressed on the button for more drugs, but it would't compress. He'd taken them too recently. The silence pulled between them again. Sherlock stared at something near John's foot and said nothing.
He looked ill. Sherlock's hair was weighed down by grease and dirt. His cheek bones were sharp and hollowed out with hunger.
"When was the last time you ate?" John asked, his voice rough from screaming. Sherlock's head jerked up and he stared at John, baffled.
That was the first thing I said? John thought, blushing. He opened his mouth to add..something.. but he didn't want to talk about pain. And he didn't want to pretend that the last year had not happened at all.
Keep your eyes fixed on me.
John closed his eyes, disgusted.
"Tuesday," Sherlock answered. John fought his eyes open to see Sherlock looking rather confused with himself, like his mouth had gone and spoken with no permission from his brain.
Sherlock swallowed and his eyes scanned over John's blankets as if he could see down to the bandages beneath, inspecting every detail but avoiding his gaze. John stared back at him, unsure how to react.
He'd never thought he'd be the target of that captivated stare again. He'd thought he'd give anything for it back, once.
Don't. Be. Dead.
He hadn't realized that would entail sacrificing everything they'd been. Knowing that Sherlock had betrayed everything they'd been.
Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, can you do that for me?
A farce. What did Sherlock see, looking at him now? The helpless fool he'd failed to protect?
I killed those assassins, Sherlock, John wanted to say, but he had no doubt the genius had already figured that out. Perhaps he'd predicted that, too.
"Excuse me," Sherlock said, his voice sincere, and looked away. John expected him to get up and leave but Sherlock didn't move. What was John meant to excuse, then? The stare? Sherlock had never apologized for it before.
His hand was starting to ache in its bandage, threatening to cramp. He stretched it out slowly, hissing through his teeth as the infected wounds pulled on his skin. A rope burn, cut deep into his hand. They'd had to pick out the fibers, John was sure, glad he'd been unconscious. Sherlock watched him, looking pained.
You're not empathetic, John wanted to say, but even in his head it came out like an accusation.
Friends protect people.
You… machine.
John heard the words raging between them. He was grateful for the opiates, keeping his emotions vague. He stopped fighting the sleep dragging at him. They weren't going to say anything anyway.
~~/~~
Sherlock watched John's breathing slow, not any less shallow as he slipped back into sleep. Pneumonia, anemia from extreme protracted bloodloss, two dislocated shoulders, rope torn hands, and a skin graft from his leg to cover the newer burns on his back. There was nothing to be done but antibiotic salve and bandages for the later ones.
He would live.
And if he's dead, what will you do?
Irrelevant, now. But Sherlock couldn't keep from spinning the question around in his brain while he watched John breathe. John Watson. A phenomenal man - and incredible soldier. Moriarty had vastly underestimated him. Sherlock wanted to scoff in the consulting criminal's face. And watch his teeth blown through his brain again. Moriarty had taken John to be nothing but a waiting victim. Moriarty's man had made the same mistake. John Watson's greatest asset, to be so wholly unthreatening. And Sherlock had forgotten that as well. He wanted to read his file, now, but John wouldn't like it. A trained killer hiding in woolen jumpers.
And if he's dead, what will you do?
Irrelevant. Sherlock tried to push the idea aside. There was a more troubling question to consider. What would he do now that they both lived?
I could have brought him with me.
He had underestimated John. Surely, John would forgive that, when it was his greatest strength to be so overlooked? Sherlock snarled at himself. He was lying to himself and poorly. Molly had said, before he'd jumped, that John would never forgive him. He hadn't doubted her. He'd depended on John's stupidity, not his strength. What would they be now, with so much broken pride between them?
Sherlock pitched his fingers beneath his chin, ignoring the nurse who'd come in to check on John. The hospital wing was named for his grandmother; they'd not bother him with visiting hours.
~~/~~
When he woke Sherlock was back to his thinking pose. Perhaps trying harder than he to figure out what to say, John thought, anger streaking through him for a moment, lying on his stomach while a female nurse painstakingly covered his back with antiseptic. He decided to leave it to Sherlock and concentrating on keeping still. His back burned and itched and stole his attention. His drugs were wearing off.
"You're being very brave," the nurse complimented him, drawing Sherlock's attention.
"Thank you," John replied. Sherlock's eyes widened at the sound. His voice was no better than it'd sounded before.
"Of course, you were a soldier, weren't you?" the nurse said, putting a gentle hand on the back of John's neck, where the dogtag's chain rested.
So, you were a soldier, Mike asked. John felt the man's fingers brushing at the chain on his neck and swallowed, fighting the fear away.
I am a soldier, he wanted to protest, feeling his wounds sting harsher as the cream began to evaporate. The nurse began to wrap him up again, pulling the bandages around his chest without his help. John couldn't see how much had changed from the army when he'd just spent a week? -more, less? He needed to ask. He didn't know how long he'd been in hospital either, when he'd spent so much of it asleep. John struggled to remember what he'd been thinking about. The nurse strapped his arms back in place, careful with his joints though he could not feel them.
In Afghanistan he'd had a crew and a use other than killing. He'd gotten orders and followed them, gotten injured and ignored it for the sake of his patients and his men. For a moment John could smell the sand dust and coriander and he inhaled sharply, only to cough on the dry, bleach-infused smell of a hospital. Sherlock watched him. John wished he would go.
"Still coughing?" the nurse asked idly, taking out his chart to make a note.
"It's not painful," John replied, knowing that didn't mean much with the amount of drugs he had in his system. The nurse nodded, noting that, and finished with his back. She left, dropping them into silence again.
Sherlock leaned forward and for a moment John was scared that he was going to leave with her. He could imagine that from Sherlock Holmes, waiting with him in silence, trying to fathom what more there was to say between them, only to determine that no words were sufficient and thereby disappearing again without a trace. Or perhaps Sherlock was not trying to figure him out, perhaps he had no regard for John at all anymore, or very little, and was waiting only for John to recover enough to give him more information on Moriarty's men.
Mike is dead, the assassins are dead, there is no one else I can kill for you, John thought angrily. Sherlock sat back in his chair, looking thoughtful, and John relaxed.
Sherlock would have noticed that, would have seen how unwilling he was to have Sherlock go. In an instant John was angry, the emotion cutting through his drugged haze. Who was Sherlock Holmes, to cause so much pain only to think John wanted him there, watching him recover? Who was he to think John so dependent?
Fuck you then, Sherlock, John wanted to say, but he could not form the words. He watched Sherlock slowly settle back into his chair, and he wanted to punch him. But he could not move his arms. There were words left unspoken between them, that was all. That didn't mean John wanted anything from him. John closed his eyes, trying to think about anything else. His back still burned. He thought he could feel a twinge in his shoulders now that they were strapped in place.
"You think I miscalculated," Sherlock announced. John opened his eyes to see Sherlock sitting at the front of his chair, watching what effect his words would have. John had a feeling he'd fallen asleep, because the room was darker than it'd been, what felt like moments before.
"What?" John croaked out.
"Moriarty. You are angry, ergo you believe I made a mistake. Where do you think my mistake lies: in jumping from Saint Bartholomew Hospital or in not protecting you from his contingency plan afterward? Or perhaps simply in not rescuing you fast enough?" he continued. John felt the words like a kick to the chest. Of course. He shook his head.
Do you know how close I came to suicide?
He didn't know what he was angry about. Was he angry at all? He was tired. John glanced over his damaged legs, not wanting to think of all he'd lost.
No, really, just between us, why Sherlock Holmes? He could smell burning flesh. His throat constricted.
He killed himself. Do you feel like he betrayed you?
He felt sick. Too tired to fight, John closed his eyes and slept.
~~/~~
"John. John Watson, I need you to wake up,"
Greg's voice.
John dragged himself out of sleep and slitted his eyes open to see Lestrade leaning over him.
"Lestrade," John croaked out, closing his eyes again.
"I need you to tell me what happened, John. Then I'll get out of your hair," he said. John fought an eye open and saw Sherlock standing beneath the window, looking furious at the proceedings.
"Do you?" John asked, considering refusing. Greg held his hands up, signaling helplessness and John nodded. Paperwork. No doubt Lestrade's career was in no position to be brushing aside due diligence in a case including prolonged torture and a homicide. Multiple homicides. He'd killed that guy in the ally, however long ago it'd been.
"How long?" John asked, swallowing. Greg frowned, looking concerned.
"Nine days, including capture and escape. Five days since then," Sherlock recited. John blinked. Five days? How much was he sleeping? He couldn't afford this much time in hospital.
"Just tell me what happened," Greg repeated softly. John blinked. Right. He'd forgotten about that.
"I was tortured by an American who called himself Mike, no last name. He carried no I.D in his wallet. He said he was fulfilling a past contract and read multiple statements from Jim Moriarty-" John hesitated but Lestrade nodded, no doubt in his eyes.
"We found the letters at the crime scene," Greg added, glancing at Sherlock, who would no doubt want to read them. John ignored it, deciding he didn't much care if Sherlock read that long winded idiocy, as long as he never chose to do so aloud.
"At the first opportunity, I escaped, killed him, and called an ambulance," John finished, his voice a damaged croak. He'd screamed too much. He hadn't spoken this much since he'd escaped. Greg frowned, clearly wanting the missing details there.
"Did you feel you could escape without killing your tormentor?" Lestrade asked.
"No," John lied. Lestrade looked up from his notebook, his eyebrows high on his forehead and Sherlock smirked. "I feared for my life," John recited and Sherlock grinned outright.
"Right," Lestrade said, shutting his notepad. "Thank you, John. The EMS released your wallet. I.D is gone," he added, throwing the folded leather onto the table beside John, next to his tray of congealing half-eaten food.
It was going to be dumped with your body, John heard, seeing the two detectives exchange a grim look.
John nodded, more comfortable with his wallet near him. He could get a cab out of here, when the time came.
"We should grab a pint, after you recover," Greg offered. John nodded cautiously. He'd wanted nothing to do with that while Sherlock was dead. Now?
"We'll do that," he agreed. Lestrade's eyes lit up, his relief clear, and sat down. John hoped he was not staying for a social visit. He needed to go back to sleep again.
~~/~~
A/N: Well, that was certainly not the fluff reunion y'all were calling for. Thoughts? Flames?