John walked into the hospital over the next few days not looking much like himself. He wasn't wearing the crisply ironed slacks and button up shirts the other employees were used to, but jeans and t-shirts, thick sweaters and sweatshirts. His hair stuck up in odd places and his eyes were always rimmed in red.
He didn't walk through the doors very often because he didn't often leave Sherlock's side. The hospital room had become John's makeshift apartment, with clothes and books scattered on every horizontal surface. The nurses had put up a cot by the window that he would use if he could ever stop holding Sherlock's hand long enough to sleep. Mostly he just passed out with his forehead resting on the blanket, not being jarred awake until a doctor or nurse came to check on Sherlock.
"John." There was a hand shaking his shoulder, waking him from his most recent nap. Lestrade.
"Hey."
"You need to go home. Shower. Sleep." John sat up quickly, rubbing his eyes so they would open the rest of the way.
"No. I'm fine. I'm not going anywhere." The DI put his hand back on John's shoulder.
"John, you're a mess. I'll stay with him for a few hours. He'll be fine." John looked at Sherlock, who hadn't even blinked open his eyes in the days John had been sitting at his bedside. He nodded slowly.
"You're right. But I'll be back in a few hours, okay?"
"I don't doubt it." The two men shook hands and John put on his coat and walked out, glancing back as Lestrade sat in the vacated chair and started talking softly to his favorite consulting detective, quiet for once.
John walked out of the hospital and blinked in the sun, adjusting his coat. He did up the buttons and started walking toward 221b. The walk wasn't short, but he needed to breathe the clean air. Clean, but not sterilized like the air he'd been breathing the last few days. He walked with his head down and his hands in his pockets. He didn't want to see other people so he just stared at the pavement.
When he got to the apartment, he went up the stairs quickly, not wanting to be cornered by Mrs. Hudson. He opened the door and looked around the messy apartment. It was all Sherlock—the violin leaned haphazardly against the chair, the stack of old newspapers on the end table, the handgun under the couch, the body parts John knew were in the freezer.
He went into the bathroom and showered. He stood under the hot stream, letting the water scald his back and run down his skin. He braced himself against the wall, his exhaustion not allowing him to stand any longer.
Once he was clean and brushed his teeth and hair, he walked into his and Sherlock's bedroom, thinking he was going to finally sleep. He ran his fingers over the clothes Sherlock had left strewn all over the floor and picked up a pair of particularly worn pyjama bottoms. He pulled on the soft flannel and crawled into bed.
The room felt emptier and the bed felt lopsided, missing the long body lying on the other side. John tossed and turned and slept on and off, not being able to settle into the vacant bed. It had been years since he'd slept without one arm slung over Sherlock's middle, his head on Sherlock's shoulder.
Eventually, John decided he had gotten as much sleep as he was going to and got up. He dressed himself in more comfortable clothes and got ready to set off for the hospital again. Lestrade had been sitting vigil long enough. But as he locked the apartment door, he heard a cough on the stairs behind him.
"Mr. Hudson."
"John." There was a pause as Mrs. Hudson took in the unkempt man standing before her. "John, how is he?" John rubbed his eyes and turned to fully face her.
"He's not great. He's been unconscious the whole time. They were able to tell that his organs were fine for the most part, no internal bleeding. That's good." John played with the keys in his hands, not wanting to look into Mrs. Hudson's eyes, knowing the pity he'd see there.
"Is he going to wake up?"
"I don't know. We're just waiting now." The older woman climbed the stairs and wrapped her thin arms around John. He rested his head on her shoulder and returned the hug. They separated and John smiled a little.
"You'll tell me if you need anything, right?"
"Of course. I should probably—"
"Get back to the hospital. Yes. Give him my best." John could sense her reluctance to speak his name, he felt the same way. Somehow saying it aloud would make it real in a way that seeing him lying vulnerable in that hospital bed had not. John nodded and turned to leave, ready to return to his post at Sherlock's side, as always.