Time passed too slowly.
It crawled along, inch by inch, tick by tick, day by day, as if it knew the pains it caused and purposefully pushed itself slower and slower, merely to prolong the agony.
The doctors said Sherlock had woken up.
John hadn't been there.
He'd missed it.
It had only been a little while, before they had him drugged again to let him sleep through the pain.
And in that little while, John hadn't been there for him.
He had chosen just that little while to get up and get a breath of fresh air, since he'd been sitting by the detective's bedside for twenty-four straight hours.
He cursed himself for not having lasted twenty-five.
Greg told him not to blame himself, but the DI's own visits were getting farther in between. It wasn't Greg's fault-he had a lot on his plate, what with work and all-and John tried not to let it bother him, but on some subconscious level it felt as if yet another person was abandoning Sherlock.
Or maybe it was just that without Greg there, everything was quiet.
Sherlock, clearly, was not a big talker at the moment.
Perhaps next time.
John would catch him next time he woke up, he decided.
He wouldn't leave again.
No matter how long it took.
He would not abandon Sherlock Holmes.
John's head jerked upright, his eyes springing open, and he blinked dazedly in the dull hospital room lighting.
Something had woken him.
He knew exactly what it was-but he preferred to just call it 'something.' That was a lot better name than 'flashbacks of blood and death and falling off buildings' would be.
Sometimes they came back to him.
Some times like this.
He sat there for a moment, listening to the quiet beeping of various monitors, looking at nothing in particular. For now, that was the easiest thing to do. Finally he drew a soft breath and sat back in his chair, letting his eyes drift across to the window, and then back to the detective's bed. And then he sat bolt upright again.
Sherlock's eyes were open.
He had been staring up at the ceiling, but now he was looking right at John, watching him, and he hadn't even said a word.
John quickly leaned forward, trying to keep quiet despite all the various emotions that had just crashed over his head in a frothy, white-crested tidal wave. "Sherlock? Can you hear me?"
Sherlock just looked back at him for a few seconds before nodding quietly.
John felt as if he should reach out, do something-but he wasn't quite sure what. "Are you okay? I mean, I know that's... Stupid question-how are you feeling? Do I need to ask for more morphine or anything?"
Sherlock's eyes narrowed slightly, like they did when he was thinking, analysing something. His voice was a little raspy, which wasn't unexpected considering all he'd just been through. "Are you alright?"
"Me? Sherlock, you're..." John searched his face for a hint as to what he could possibly be thinking, but there was none to be found. "Don't worry about me. You're the one in hospital."
Who was this man, and what had he done with Sherlock Holmes?
Since when did Sherlock care about anybody else?
Least of all right off the bat, like this?
It was a little bit... nice.
And a little bit worrying, considering.
"Don't be stupid, I only asked because you looked tired." Sherlock looked as if he were contemplating trying to push himself up to a sitting position, but John put a careful restraining hand on his arm, avoiding the stitches.
John didn't say it, but he was thinking it.
'That's a load of rubbish. Since when have you cared if I was tired or not?'
"No, stay down. You got yourself all beat up. Again." John sighed and pursed his lips. "Sherlock... what happened in there? Where we found you. It was... I mean, Moriarty... and..."
"He just wanted a little chat."
"And then to shoot you in the back."
"Well, yes, but that came later... after it got boring."