Sherlock slowly became aware that he was still there-that he still existed. The darkness was beginning to fade from the corners of his mind as he woke up, replaced by an overwhelmingly disconcerting sensation of numbness.
No doubt he had been pumped full of medication and painkillers.
The relief they provided was extremely welcome, even if it meant he was now trapped in the exact place he hadn't wanted to be.
A hospital.
It must be...
He opened his eyes, blinking up at the fluorescent glare of the lights overhead. The fact that he couldn't manage to sit up and force himself to move, no matter how much he wanted to deny it, made him feel horribly helpless and pathetic, and completely disgusted with his useless human body for being so damn weak.
No...
He had to be able to beat this, to overcome it. He had to. He could.
But he couldn't...
"Sherlock?"
He turned his head as much as he could and glanced over at the source of the voice: John.
A quick survey told him that John hadn't slept, hadn't been home since he brought him in, judging by the state of his clothes, and was obviously in a mood of general displeasure, to say the least.
Oops.
Sherlock opened his mouth, testing his voice, and found it to be useable, if a little raspy.
"I'm okay."
"No, you're fucking not! Damn it, Sherlock-just-" John pinched the bridge of his nose, hard. "Why the fuck..."
"I could take care of it..."
"Obviously, you couldn't. You didn't tell me about your back. I knew about the wounds on your torso, but... You didn't tell me. You even let me slam you on the pavement, on your back. What the actual hell, Sherlock?"
Sherlock left the question hanging in silence, unable to find a suitable answer.
He couldn't tell him it was because he deserved it.
That it was because he had to make sure everyone saw him as strong and emotionless, so they wouldn't leave him.
That would sound too childish.
"I don't even have to know how the hell you got beat up so badly-but why wouldn't you tell me, so I could help you? The cuts needed care, Sherlock. You couldn't reach them. And now they're infected. It's made you sick. You are an idiot-"
"I know." Sherlock ignored the stunned look on John's face.
Anything to make him stop scolding.
He didn't need that.
"I know, I know. I'm sorry, forgive me, thank you, etc."
"Jesus-" John seemed to be having trouble keeping his jaw set and his expression controlled. "You really don't care, do you? You don't give a shit. You don't care about yourself, or me, or anyone else-you just-"
Sherlock frowned. "I do care about you... I couldn't function without my blogger."
"Bloody hell..."
What was that for?
Shouldn't he be pleased with what Sherlock had just said?
Flattered, even?
John took a deep breath. "I can't stand for this much more. I can't... live with you being such an arse. To yourself. I just can't. You need to start bloody caring, because I can't do it for both of us. Okay? I'm not super-human. Take some fucking care of yourself for once, because I can't do it all!"
Sherlock's full attention caught on the one underlying message John must be trying to get across, and a little twinge of cold panic ran through his veins. "I'm okay-I can do this-just... stay..."
Why the hell had he let that sound so damn pathetic?
John paused, and the look on his face was maddeningly concerned and caring.
Fuck.
"Of course I'm not leaving. I promised I wouldn't. Are you... worried about that?"
"No. Of course I'm not. I was just saying-"
"It's okay if you are , Sherlock."
He was quiet for a moment, considering. "No, it's not okay. It's not."