"You look terrible." I said. My husband didn't so much as blink.
"I feel terrible." He murmured weakly. "Nice to see you, though."
"What happened?" I couldn't help but ask. My husband almost looked like a corpse, lying there. A corpse that had met with a brutal and painful end. I didn't doubt he hadn't eaten since the last time he'd been home. He was probably dehydrated, as well, from the looks of him. Not that the hospital wasn't trying to set him straight.
My husband paled, and his dark eyes flickered away from mine. His breathing suddenly quickened, and he tensed in the bed.
"You don't have to talk about it, if you don't want to." I assured him, trying to keep my voice gentle. "I was just wondering what the chances were of them letting you come home soon."
Giles sighed. "I don't know." He admitted. "They're worried about…" He trailed off, afraid to voice whatever it was that was bothering him.
"Giles, look at me." I said gently, and waited for him to meet my eyes. "Right now I am here for you. You can tell me as much or as little as you like about what happened. If you need to talk, I am more than willing to listen; if it's not something you can deal with right now, I'm not going to force you. But don't feel like you have to tell or not tell me anything, love, or that I'll feel slighted or think any less of you for it."
At last a weary smile broke through that haunted mask. "Thank you." He murmured.
I leaned forward to brush his hair back from his forehead. "I'll go talk to your doctor about how long they plan on keeping you here, okay?"
He managed a nod. "Don't get your hopes up." He muttered.
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and the boys do not belong to me.