DISCLAIMER: I own nothing! I make no profit off of this. This is solely for my enjoyment and hopefully for the enjoyment of others! ;)
T/W: This story contains mentions and descriptions of sexual assault
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John Watson pinched at his eyes, fingers drawing in towards his nose. He sniffed abruptly, dropping his hand and turning his gaze to figure lying on the bed.
He'd seen Sherlock when he was ill, he'd seen Sherlock was he was bleeding out on the pavement, he'd seen Sherlock in the throes of night terrors. But John had never seen Sherlock like this.
Sherlock was nearly as pale as the bleached hospital sheets, a stark contrast to the deep purples and blues sprinkling his arms and neck.
Even when Sherlock had been seeping blood from a bullet hole in his thigh the one time, he'd still been insulting the intelligence of doctors and nurses, protesting loudly that he could have done a better job himself if they'd just given him the tools.
It was utterly unnerving to see the usually eccentric detective so still and subdued.
It wasn't right.
"I should've been there," John whispered aloud, momentarily forgetting that there was a third figure in the room.
Lestrade ambled his way up to the bed to stand beside the doctor. He shoved his hands in his pockets and sighed heavily. "It wasn't your fault, John," he said softly, eyes never leaving the lax face of the detective on the bed. "Blaming yourself for what happened isn't going to help anything."
John was shaking his head before Lestrade even finished his sentence. "No, I should have been there," he repeated, louder and more firm than before. "Did you know that he asked me to go with him?" He asked, turning his head towards the greying man beside him but never letting his eyes leave Sherlock.
When Lestrade didn't answer, John pressed on. "He asked me to go with him that night. You know what I said? I told him that I was making a lasagne and that he was welcome to stop over after he was finished."
John let his chin drop to his chest, internally pummeling himself for being so selfish. For choosing a night in with Mary over his best friend's safety. Of course, John hadn't believed then that Sherlock had been in any danger or else he would've been at the scene in a heartbeat.
Sherlock had texted him an address and the word 'Coming?'
Oh, how John wished more than anything that he wouldn't responded with the word 'Yes.' A quote John didn't even know he'd committed to memory floated to the surface of his thoughts. "Don't dwell on what went wrong. Instead, focus on what to do next."
Forty three days. Sherlock had been missing for forty three days before he suddenly reappeared in downtown London. A stranger had found the detective's unconscious form huddled on a park bench and had called an ambulance. Whether Sherlock had escaped or been dumped, no one knew.
He'd been in and out of consciousness for two days, never quite lucid enough to answer any questions.
"You couldn't have known, mate," Lestrade was saying, snapping John's thoughts back to the present.
John opened his mouth to reply as a knock at the door sounded before it was slid open, revealing a nurse in deep blue scrubs, a small smile playing on his lips. "Hi there," he said, slipping inside and sliding the door shut behind him in one smooth motion. "Hope I'm not interrupting anything. I'm just here to check Mr. Holmes's vitals."
John and Lestrade stepped back from the bed, giving the nurse space to do his job.
John crossed his arms over his chest and watched as the nurse, Nelson, checked Sherlock's vitals and the IV line feeding into the back of Sherlock's hand. He tested reflexes and scratched notes into the chart.
The army doctor swallowed heavily as Nelson uncovered Sherlock's legs to check pedal pulses. If Sherlock's arms had looked bad, his legs were worse. Sickening bruises in the distinctive shape of hands wrapped around his thighs in different places. His knees were red and scabbing and there were a wide assortment of contusions spreading up his shins from where John could only guess he'd been kicked.
Lestrade's eyes slid shut as he turned away, one hand scrubbing down his face as he inhaled deeply to steady himself.
Nelson was quick to cover Sherlock back up, noticing the reactions from the other two men in the room. The nurse quickly typed something into the computer before signing out and informing John that the doctor would be in shortly to speak with them.
A hand found its way up into his hair as John struggled to keep his breathing even.
The physician overlooking Sherlock's care, a short red-headed woman with crow's feet that appeared whenever she spoke, had filled John in on everything that the exams had turned up. She'd informed him of all the bruises, fractured ribs and bones, and, worst of all, suspicions of sexual assault.
They'd been waiting until Sherlock was more alert to run a rape kit. But the signs were all there. It made John want to punch a wall. He couldn't help but wonder if he had been there, would things be different? Would Sherlock have been spared the trauma he'd been through?
True to Nelson's word, Dr. Davenport appeared at the door ten minutes later, clipboard in hand.
"Good morning, Dr. Watson," she said vibrantly. She inclined her head towards Lestrade. "Detective Inspector."
Lestrade flapped a hand distractedly in greeting.
"Please, have a seat," she said, crow's feet materializing as she spoke while she pulled up a stool for herself. John and Lestrade deposited themselves obediently into the two chair pressed against the wall. The physician flipped through the papers on her clipboard before finding what she was looking for.
"It seems that Mr. Holmes is recovering nicely," She said with an approving click of her tongue. John's eyes flicked past the doctor to the unmoving figure on the bed. "I've ordered an MRI scan of his brain to rule out any damage not seen on the CT. With all the lumps and bruises on his head, I'd like to make sure there aren't any bleeds that might have been missed."
John found himself nodding along as she spoke. God, he hoped there wasn't anything wrong. If Sherlock woke to find that his best asset was damaged, hell would be unleashed on earth.
"The hand x-rays from this morning showed a beautiful alignment of the fractured bones," the red-haired doctor continued. "I have no concerns there. I'll have another look at his ribs before I leave her, but Nelson said that his lungs sounded wonderful." She flipped to another page on her clipboard.
"If we cannot get Mr. Holmes aroused here in the next few hours, I'm going to recommend an NG tube be placed," she said, eyebrows pulling together in concern. "He's malnourished as it is and the fluids he's been getting isn't going to be enough to keep him sustained. However, in order to have that placed, granted he isn't orientated enough to do so himself, someone will have to sign consent for him. I have listed on his medical contact information a Mycroft Holmes. Are either you able to get in contact with him?"
John chewed the inside of his lip for a moment before responding. "Yeah, that shouldn't be a problem."
Mycroft had been contacted as soon as Sherlock was reported found. The last John had heard from the elder Holmes, the man had been out of the country trying valiantly to get back into the city to see him brother.
Truth be told, John was probably going to have a much harder time reaching Mycroft than he'd just let on.
Dr. Davenport nodded. "Very good." She let the papers fall back into place as she looked up. "Do either of you have any questions for me at this time?"
When both John and Lestrade shook their heads, she rose from her stool and donned a pair of gloves. As she was assessing Sherlock's ribs, John pulled out his phone and fired off a text to Mycroft.
Any closer to getting back to London? They want to place an NG. -JW
A startlingly quick reply came through in seconds. Give me 6 hours. -MH
"His ribs will keep him sore for a few weeks, but he should be fine," Dr. Davenport spoke up as she peeled off her gloves and tossed them in the bin by the door. "If you are too are alright, I'll go ahead and pop out. As I said earlier, try to bring him around so we can start getting some food into him."
And with that, she slid open the door and disappeared into the hall.
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Greg had headed back to the station after making John promise to text him if Sherlock did come around. That had been just over two hours ago.
John was currently sat on the edge of Sherlock's bed, his friend's hand wrapped in his own. Even though he knew Dr. Davenport was right, that Sherlock needed to wake up, he was loathe to bring the man out of rest and into a living nightmare.
John didn't have the heart to use any of the his usual methods of bringing patients around, so he'd resorted to talking instead.
He talked about anything and everything. He told Sherlock about the stray cat Mary had brought home and how she'd named it Kenny. John rattled on about a new fish and chips place who's chips tasted rather like cardboard.
He chatted about the fact that he'd lost six left socks in the past week alone and how, if this kept up, he might as well give up his left foot.
He was just getting into how expensive cat litter was when he felt an almost imperceptible pressure on his fingers. John's eyes widened marginally as he felt his heart begin to race.
"Sherlock? Can you squeeze my hand again?" John asked, lungs constricting as he peered into his friend's face, looking for some sign of awareness. The pressure on his fingers was more sure this time, though far weaker than it should've been. "That's good, Sherlock. That's great," he praised. "Do you think you can– Oh, hi!"
He'd just been about to coax Sherlock to open his eyes when the man did so without prompting. Sherlock's eyelids peeled back slowly, stopping at the halfway point. The detective's eyes slid around the room slowly, finally settling on John's face.
John smiled softly. "Hello," he said softly.
Sherlock's other hand rose off the bed, shaking as he slowly reached for John's face. The army doctor sat still, letting Sherlock's hand fall on his cheek. He could see the detective's throat working as he geared up to speak.
His mouth hung open for a second before he was finally able to form a word. "John," Sherlock said, voice barely more than a whisper.
John quickly reached up his free hand to grasp the one lying on his cheek. "Right here," he said, feeling his heart break at the look of disbelief on his friend's face.
John was absolutely horrified to see tears suddenly slipping out of the corners of Sherlock's eyes. He instantly let go of Sherlock's hands, instead slipping an arm behind his friend's back and sitting him up. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock in a hug, being mindful of his injuries.
"You're alright, you're okay," John soothed, feeling tears of his own threatening to pour over. He unconsciously began to rock back and forth, hating the way Sherlock shuddered as he cried into John's shoulder. John continued to mutter soothing words as his own eyes began to sting.
Whoever did this to Sherlock had better be far far away or else the next murder DI Lestrade was going to be solving was theirs.
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A/N: If enough of you enjoy this, I'll post the next chapter soon! I appreciate all your feedback!