Everything was fuzzy to John.
Everything passed in a blur that was interrupted by sharp jolts of cold adrenaline when the paramedics moved Sherlock into an ambulance, and then again when he seemed to fade slightly before they were able to bring him back from the edge.
That black, freezing edge.
A jolt.
The edge of terror to John.
He thought his own heart would give out before they reached the hospital, and even though it didn't it still felt as though it were wrapped in wreaths of razor-wire that tightened every time Sherlock's breaths seemed to take longer and longer in between.
Hold on...
Please...
Dawn came and the sun rose, just like any other day.
The halls of the hospital bustled with day nurses coming in to work and night nurses ending their shifts, just like any other day.
The hours would pass, the clocks would tick, and the world would go on just the same as it always had if Sherlock Holmes were gone.
Just like any other day.
For everybody but a select few, that is.
For those privileged yet cursed people, the world would not go on. Life would not ever be the same. It had been that way before.
Normal would come to a screeching halt, like a train that's lost its wheels and subsequently flipped over and over several times, crumpling and shedding ripped metal and broken glass in a shower of deadly confetti and eventually tumbling head over heels off a cliff and into the depths of the sea.
And unfortunately everybody on-board would live.
Live to feel the agony of the shattered end of normal.
Those privileged people.
Just like any other day.
But today, this morning, John could only focus on just how relieved he was not to have to be a part of that train-wreck.
The one everybody had so narrowly dodged.
The wheels would stay on, because Sherlock Holmes was too stubborn to die that easily. And of course by saying 'easily' John would really not be saying the whole truth, because in reality Sherlock had died in that ambulance. His heart had paused.
Ten seconds...
Twenty seconds...
Thirty...
Dare John even remember forty...?
And then the wheels had come back.
That black, freezing edge would not yet claim this train.
Not tonight.
"He somehow crawled a few feet from where he'd been shot, and managed to text you."
Yes, thank you Anderson.
We knew that already.
Neither John nor Greg voiced this, though, instead nodding and glancing at the consulting detective between them, laid out on a hospital bed.
"I could stay, maybe, if-"
"Yeah, I don't think Sherlock would like that much." Greg stubbornly ignored the fact that Sherlock was currently knocked out on a heavy dose of painkillers and other medications, and was in no condition to care about much of anything.
Still wouldn't like it.
Too much stupid is bad for recovery.
Anderson scowled like a little kid kicked out of a funeral because he doesn't really understand what it is. Once he'd left a relative quiet reigned in the room, broken only by the soft beeping of the heart monitor and the sound of the two men's breathing.
"He's... em... gonna be alright, you know." Greg obviously wished he sounded more sincere, but it was too late for that.
John sighed. "Yeah. Yeah, I know. He's..."
"An idiot."
John almost couldn't stop himself from breaking into an uncomfortable chuckle. "He is. Really, really stupid. The crazy, reckless, stubborn..."
Too reckless to care about himself.
Too stubborn to die.
He trailed off into silence again, glancing up at the monitor screen, watching it spike with each heartbeat, every intake of breath...
God Sherlock, why do you have to do this...
A sudden beeping made him jump, and immediately his eyes searched the screens for any change-and then Greg shook his head and held up his mobile, checking the caller ID first.
"Well... I should be getting back to work. I hate to go, but I'll be back. I promise. Tell me if he wakes up."
"I will. Course." John nodded quickly as Greg stood.
If he wakes up.