The hospital was silent. The only noise was the heels of John's shoes tapping on the linoleum. He stood outside the door to Sherlock's room, watching Lestrade read the paper and thinking about not going back in. Someone else walked down the hall and stopped right next to John.
"How's the freak?" It was Sally.
"Please. Don't." John didn't look at her. He couldn't look at her. There was a moment of silence.
"I didn't— I didn't mean it like that." More silence. John knew Sally didn't mean to be cruel, but he couldn't take her sarcasm. Not now. But he did turn around to look her in the face. She wasn't crying, but there was a softness in her face he had never seen before. It softened his heart.
"I know." He rubbed his hand over his face and sighed. "I'm sorry. I don't— I haven't— I don't know what to do with myself. Without—" he indicated the door behind him.
"Without your freak—" John made a start as if to comment, but Sally cut him off. "Sorry! I mean, without Sherlock. I don't like him. You know that. He's crazy. You're not, though. Well, maybe a little for hanging around with that guy, but mostly all right." John laughed, first time in days.
"Mmhmm." He wiped his eyes; between exhaustion and sadness, he was always on the brink of tears these days. "I am a little crazy." They stood and looked through the window into the cold room with its cold inhabitants. "Are you here for Lestrade?"
"Yeah. We need him." Sally looked at her shoes. She hadn't come for the DI, but for the doctor. Since he had been around, Sherlock hadn't been as—well—Sherlocky. Less obnoxious and arrogant. She still called him "Freak" and mocked him at every turn, but not as much behind his back as she used to.
"Well, I'm back so he can go. Thanks for lending him to me for a while."
"Of course." John opened the door and Lestrade looked up from his paper.
"Ah, John. You're looking much better. Hello, Donovan."
"Thanks Lestrade. You had an, uneventful, visit I take it?"
"Yeah." Lestrade pursed his lips slightly as he stood and folded his paper. "I'm glad I could help." He shook John's hand while John turned to look again at Sherlock. Somehow, though the bandages hadn't been touched since he left, his husband looked just a little better for the time away. Maybe in his mind he had exaggerated the burns and bruises. That would be like John. Imagine worse than it was.
"Thanks." John nodded at Lestrade and Sally as they said goodbye and walked out the door, leaving him alone in the quiet room with his silent husband.
He sat down in his chair next to the bed and put his bag of books and other pastimes on the floor. He folded his hands in his lap and just looked, thinking about Lestrade and Sally and Molly—even Anderson. All the people who had known Sherlock before he had. He was jealous. Jealous of those days and years they had had with him that John had not. Jealous of the conversations and the jobs. Everything they had that he didn't.
"Why did it take so long to find you, Sherlock?" He shook his head and turned away, not ready to look into those closed eyes, that closed mouth. Those eyes that had watched him, had really seen him for the first time. Those eyes that knew everything: the things he wouldn't say. The things no one ever knew. That mouth he had kissed, he knew not how often. Long and slow in a cab after a case solved, hard and fast in their room after a row about milk—thinking about that just made John laugh. But the laughter dissolved when he thought about never kissing those lips again.
What if that happened? What if he didn't wake up? John thinks about running away, far away. Being in London had helped him forget Afghanistan. Sherlock had helped him forget Afghanistan. Maybe going far away would help him forget this?
How did you go about forgetting the best of yourself?
"I don't know what I was before you, Sherlock. I was a doctor, just like everyone else. I was an army man, just like all the others. With you I was—one of a kind. You, the consulting detective, and me, your doctor. Your blogger. Your friend. Your lover." John was realizing that every part of himself was defined in line with every part of his other, the closed-off man lying in the bed.
John stood and walked to the window, looking out at the sun and the people walking down the street. People who didn't define themselves by this man. People who weren't disintegrating in his absence.
He sat at a table and pulled a book out of his bag, reading to distract himself, reading to forget. Forget that the best of himself might never return.
A/N Thanks to everyone who's favorited this story; it means a lot to me! I'd love it if you would leave some more reviews so I can make sure I'm not the only one enjoying the experience!