The monotonous drum of the rain outside had long since lulled John to sleep in his chair.
Sherlock lay awake, watching the little blue light on one of the machines blinking on and off in the near darkness. It was cool out, but he had somehow convinced John to open the window a crack, complaining that the atmosphere in the hospital room was far too oppressive.
He was expecting the night nurse any time now, though he wasn't looking forward to her arrival.
Irritating beyond belief...
Just being here was humiliating. To be weak and feeble and pathetic, and fawned over uselessly by a bunch of doctors... It made him want to die.
Not literally, of course, but...
How could he have failed so incredibly at the most simple of duties: keeping himself stoic? Taking care of himself, so other people didn't think they had to?
Lying in a hospital bed, he was nothing more than a burden. He couldn't solve anything with an IV in his arm, and it certainly wasn't doing any good for his reputation. John would call him shallow.
But that reputation was all he had.
Not that he cared what people thought of him in the same way John probably thought he did, but... just... in order to be more acceptable to others in the long run—in order to be needed—he had to be strong enough for himself.
Nobody wants a high-maintenance bastard. Nobody wants damaged goods.
And now he was all of the above, and more. All because of some stupid injuries on his back.
Damn it...
He glanced over at the morphine drip, watching it slowly feeding into his veins and numbing that dull ache on his back.
He didn't need that.
He didn't deserve that.
He was strong enough to do without.
At least that strong.
At least.
When John finally blinked awake he found that his neck was uncomfortably stiff. He groaned, massaging it and looking about the room.
The sun was up, probably around 8 or nine o'clock in the morning.
He got to his feet and stretched, trying to work some of the soreness out of his shoulders and legs. Sherlock appeared to be asleep, but he couldn't be sure.
Typical consulting detective.
"…Hm?" John's brow furrowed as he finally caught sight of the levels on the morphine drip.
Turned all the way down to zero.
Why?
Who could have done that, and how long had it been off? All night?
He stepped over and carefully pushed it back up to an acceptable level, glancing at the unresponsive detective on the bed.
There.
That ought to be better.
Hurt a bit less now.
He was sure none of the nurses would have done that. So… John pursed his lips and shook his head.
Sherlock…
[2 June 2011, www. JohnWatson'sblog .com]
Just an update
I know it's been ages since I last posted anything, but I've been a little… preoccupied. And I know that this blog is really just about the cases, but we haven't really had one in the last few months or so. But I felt bad about just leaving it alone, so I've decided I might as well give you all a little update, at least.
It's possible you've all heard that the Great Sherlock Holmes was hospitalised. Could have been because of a case, maybe not—I don't know for sure. But what I do know is that he is a bloody idiot. I'm not going to say anything more there.
Anyway… we're home, now. Sherlock's playing his violin and sulking by the window, as usual. I think he's composing. Sounds alright, if a little dark. Again, bloody idiot.
Sometimes I'm just really surprised by everything he doesn't understand. For how clever he is, he can be spectacularly ignorant, too. And not just because he doesn't know a damn thing about the solar system, either. I don't know if he really understands the concept of friends. What that means. I'm not going to go into specifics, since this blog is public, but he's completely clueless.
It kind of makes me sad, sometimes.
Oh well...
Oh, he's stopped playing now. He wanted to see what I was typing. Twat… He can wait until I post this, at least. I'm probably going to get a lot of grief for all that stuff I said before. Maybe I should go back and edit that out…
Nah. It needed to be said.
Sherlock's healing. Slowly, but he's getting there. For all the time he spends complaining about how bored he is, or how stupid everyone else is, or how useless the Yard can be, he really doesn't say very much about the physical pain. I'm a doctor; I can guess what that stuff feels like. But I actually have to remind him to take his painkillers sometimes. Can you imagine that? It's odd, really. Complaining is half of what he does, on a good day. Why is that different?
Sorry, didn't mean to go off on a tangent there. Probably going to get even more grief from him for that.
On a different note: just so you all know, if you haven't already guessed, we're probably not going to be doing all that many cases for a little while. At least not until Sherlock's fully healed. I'm going to have to put my foot down on this one; as a doctor, I can't have him running about London like that, catching a cold that would more than likely leave him flattened.
His immune system is shite at the moment, thanks to that infection.
Bloody idiot.
Until next time,
John W.
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Comments on this post:
What's wrong with Sherlock? –Kittylover411
John, take this down immediately. –SherlockHolmes
No. It's my blog. –JohnHW
Bastard. This is slander. –SherlockHolmes
Yeah, a little bit. I'm sorry. But half of it's true and you know it. –JohnHW
Then take half of it down. –SherlockHolmes
No. –JohnHW
Fine, then. I'll do it myself. –SherlockHolmes
Sherlock, NO. –JohnHW