When Lestrade came in two days later, John was dozing in the chair next to the hospital bed. They had moved Sherlock that morning, out of the ICU, and into a private room. He was still unconscious, but stable, and the doctors were satisfied that he was out of the woods at least as far as imminent danger was concerned.
John stirred when the door shut gently, and opened his eyes, yawning.
"Inspector," he greeted, standing and stretching his back, regretting having fallen asleep in the chair. They had given him a small cot, which reminded him of his days in the army, and he had taken an emergency leave from work.
"How is he?" Lestrade asked, stepping into the room, frowning at the unconscious figure on the bed.
"Pretty much the same," John sighed, running his hands across his face, feeling two days of stubble rasp against his hands. He needed a shower and a shave, but he wasn't about to go anywhere. One of Mycroft's seemingly endless stream of aids had come to get a key from John for his flat, and had returned with clothing, and a few other necessities, like the doctor's laptop and mobile charger.
Mycroft had visited, too, of course, and Sherlock's parents. They hadn't stayed overly long, because the ICU kept strict rules about the number of visitors, and John wasn't about to leave. They would come back, though, he knew, now that Sherlock had been moved. He just hoped they didn't insist on remaining now; the room was small enough with just the two of them in it, and John didn't want to have to contend with anyone else for long periods of time. Especially since he was a doctor. He couldn't answer all of the questions they'd wanted answered, because he wasn't the one in charge of treatment.
He felt broken.
"He hasn't woken up?"
"No, not yet," John replied, rubbing his eyes. "But he's better than he was when you found him."
Lestrade stood next to the bed.
"He looks better," he agreed. John nodded; that was true. Two days had one a lot to reduce the bruising and swelling on his face, so he was at least recognizable again, and would actually be able to open his eyes when he woke up. The bruises, although still dark and vivid, did not look so angry. When the swelling in his left hand had gone down enough, John had put Sherlock's ring back on. It was a small gesture, and probably meant nothing to the unconscious man, who could not feel it, but it had gone a long way toward making John feel better.
"Do you need anything?"
John smiled ruefully.
"Nothing you can bring me," he replied, shaking his head. "But thank you. Do you have news about the other victims?"
The detective inspector nodded.
"The other cabbie is still in the ICU. The woman in the other car and her son walked away with barely any scratches. The two passengers in the other cab didn't make it."
John nodded slowly. He remembered the woman in the waiting room, finding out.
"Do they know yet what happened?"
Lestrade sighed.
"As far as we can tell, the delivery truck lost control on a patch of black ice. It happens, especially in this kind of weather. Unfortunately, this wasn't the only one we've had in the past couple of days."
John nodded again. It was really the only one he cared about, though.
"You'll let me know when he wakes up?"
John looked up.
"Yes, of course." He paused. "One of your officers told me you found him."
Lestrade nodded in response. John let out a deep breath.
"Thank you," he said.
The inspector shook his head.
"Thank me when he wakes up, John. I'll try and stop in tomorrow."
"Right," John replied, looking back at Sherlock. Lestrade turned to go, paused, then turned back.
"Oh, they found this in the wreckage," he said, pulling something out of his pocket and passing it across the bed. John took it, then frowned.
"His phone? They found his phone?"
"In the back of the cab he was in, on what was left of the seat. Not a scratch on it. Can you believe it?"
John dropped his head and gave a small sound that may have been a desperate chuckle.
"All told, I would have preferred this had been destroyed and he'd been the one without a scratch on him," he sighed.
Lestrade nodded.
"I feel the same."
"Thanks, though."
Lestrade shrugged.
"At least it's something."
John nodded again and the inspector left, shutting the door behind him. The sounds of the hospital were never completely erased, but hushed to an acceptable level when the door was closed, at least. John drew the privacy curtain so that he wasn't visible through the door's window, then stood watching the city through the hospital window for awhile. The snow had stopped falling, but the sky was still low and close.
After a few minutes, he looked down at the phone in his hands and pushed the power button. It was dead, of course, after over two days of being on, so he fished out the adaptor for his phone and plugged it in. Then he turned it on, the tiny electronic twinkly of sound loud in the room. After a moment, it had loaded and found its network. John was about to check for voicemail when an alert popped up, telling him he had an unread message.
He frowned, and called up the text message. It was nothing but a winking emoticon. He checked the date and time and was surprised to see it had been on the day of the accident, right around that time. The last message Sherlock would have gotten – but he hadn't gotten it. John checked the number, but did not recognize it. He checked the previously received messages and his was the last before the smiley face.
John stared at his message blankly for a moment.
"Fine, but you owe me. Make it up to me tonight."
He closed his eyes. What he wouldn't give for Sherlock to have walked through the door, groceries in hand, and to spend a sleepless night with the man he loved? His lips twitched ruefully.
Not this kind of sleepless, he thought.
He closed both messages, vaguely annoyed by the artificial cheerfulness of the winking emoticon. Probably some dumb teenager texting the wrong number, or spam. He put the phone beside the bed and settled back into his chair, flipping on the telly. One of the BBC stations was playing an older episode of Coast, and he watched it without really caring, the sound off, just waiting for time to pass.
Mycroft and Sherlock's parents did come back later that day and stayed longer. They were close at hand, they assured him, if he needed anything. What he needed was Sherlock to wake up. They all needed that. Sherlock's mother had wanted to stay on as well, but his father had convinced her, eventually, that it would serve no purpose. Sherlock was unconscious, and John had sworn up and down that he would call as soon as anything changed.
Besides, Mycroft had pointed out, John wasn't just Sherlock's husband, but a doctor. John wanted to remind the man – again – that he wasn't one of the doctor's treating Sherlock, but refrained. Mycroft was trying to get his mother to agree to let John stay. John was grateful; he was exhausted as it was, and didn't need to deal with someone else staying and becoming equally as tired.
I hate hospitals, he thought, after they left.
Around dinnertime, a young nurse with her blond hair in a ponytail came in and held up a paper bag. The aroma of Chinese food immediately permeated the room and John felt his stomach rumble. He had no idea he'd been so hungry.
"Take away, Doctor John?" she asked with a grin.
"Oh my god, Sandra," John replied. "You are a life saver."
She laughed.
"That is my job," she reminded him. "Here. I thought after two days on hospital food, you may want something that didn't taste like wet cardboard."
"How much do I owe you?"
She waved it off as he took the bag.
"First one's on the house. If you want to place an order tomorrow, let me know."
"I will definitely do that," he replied. "Thank you, thank you."
"No problem. I'm starting my shift now, and Carrie and Melissa are going home. I'll be back in a few to check on Sherlock."
John nodded and Sandra left, coming back a few minutes later as promised. She checked Sherlock's vitals and IV bag with a practiced eye, pronounced everything good, then leaned over him, careful not to let her ID badge, which was hanging from her neck, fall onto him.
"I think it's about time you woke up, Sherlock," she said, smiling slightly. "Your husband has been awake almost the entire time. You could trade off, for awhile."
John chuckled. Sandra waited a moment then sighed, shaking her head.
"You'd be amazed how often that doesn't work," she commented. "I'll be back in a few hours. If you need anything, you know where to find me."
"How about a stiff drink?" John asked.
"Ha!" she said. "I'll see what I can do tomorrow." With a wink and a grin, she was gone.
John tucked into the Chinese food, which tasted like heaven after the hospital meals he had technically been stealing from Sherlock. The orderlies didn't care, nor did the nurses, and it wasn't as though the consulting detective needed them. This was so much better, though. He made a mental note to check the menu and give Sandra some money for the following day. He'd have to give her a tip if she managed to smuggle in some gin, too.
After eating, he pushed the cot as far out of the way he could, switched on the television again, the volume on low, and found another documentary to watch while doing some stretches. His time in the army had taught him to be active, but the enforced downtime here restricted that, and it chaffed. He was sore from the cot and the hospital chairs, and wished he could just go home.
Halfway through the programe, while a geologist was expounding upon glacial erratics in Wales, John heard a faint sound. He spun to see a twitch crossing Sherlock's face. The programme was forgotten instantly and he was immediately beside the bed, taking one of Sherlock's hands, stroking the other man's face very gently with the other.
"Sherlock," he whispered. "Sherlock. Can you hear me?"
A faint groan was his only reply, but John's heart soared and he felt faint with relief. A moment later, Sherlock's fingers tightened weakly on John's and the doctor let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
"Sherlock. Wake up. It's John. You're all right."
Another groan, and a flutter of eyelashes. Sherlock moved his lips and John stood, filling a small plastic cup from near the bed with some water from his water bottle. He held it to Sherlock's lips and tipped it up carefully. Sherlock swallowed, then cleared his throat. His eyes fluttered again.
"It's all right," John assured him. "You're okay."
"John?" The word came out slurred, but it sounded better than any symphony ever had. John nodded, blinking back tears.
"Yes, it's me. You're all right. You were in an accident, and you're in the hospital, but you'll be okay."
Sherlock raised his other hand, fumbling, and John grasped it. His eyes fluttered again and he managed to open them, blinking.
"Mmm," he said, more or less.
"Take it easy, take it easy," John said, trying to keep his voice steady as tears traced down his cheeks. "You need to rest. You were hurt."
"What – "
"There was a car accident. It's all right, you're safe."
"John-" Sherlock managed, turning his face toward the doctor. John nodded, carefully smoothing a hand over Sherlock's forehead. His hair was still mostly hidden by the bandages.
"I'm right here," John assured him. "Don't worry."
"No-" Sherlock mumbled.
"Shh," John said. "You need to rest. You'll be fine."
Sherlock managed to shake his head once.
"No-" he said again.
"Sherlock, you're all right. It's okay."
Sherlock swallowed, his hands tightening around John's.
"No," he said, struggling against a hoarse voice and dry mouth. "It's not. I can't see, John. I can't see."