"What you lose in blindness is the space around you, the place where you are, and without that you might not exist. You could be nowhere at all." - Barbara Kingsolver
There was no rest following that. John had thought he'd reached the point of exhaustion, but realized, slowly, that he'd only began to plumb its demanding depths. There was a doctor there within minutes, testing Sherlock's pupils' light response. A knot formed in John's stomach at the doctor's expression; he didn't need to be told they were not responding properly. The information was delivered regardless. What did Sherlock see, the doctor had asked. John could see his husband struggling with the question, not for words, but for the energy to answer. He needed to sleep, but could not, not yet.
"Grey," the consulting detective finally replied.
"Is it solid grey?" the doctor asked.
Sherlock closed his eyes, and John crossed the room to sit beside him, taking his hand. The doctor moved to stand right over the injured man, blocking the lights from the ceiling.
"Open your eyes, Sherlock. I need you to tell me if it's solid grey."
With effort, Sherlock complied.
"Darker here," he murmured, holding a hand in front of his face. The doctor pulled away.
"Now?"
"Lighter," Sherlock said. The doctors exchanged a look, relief passing through them.
"That's good," he said. "This may be temporary. You suffered head trauma in the accident. If you can see some light differences, it's a promising sign. This could get better as you do, but I want to get you in for an MRI. I'll be back."
More waiting. When the doctor left, John ran a hand across his face.
"John?" Sherlock asked.
"I'm right here."
"Yes, I know, you're holding my hand. What did he look like?"
"What do you think he looked like?"
There were a few minutes of silence and John thought Sherlock had fallen asleep again until he replied.
"Your height. Older. Thinning hair, turning grey. Doesn't eat enough."
Somehow, John managed a ghost of a smile.
"You shouldn't be to do that on morphine," he said. Sherlock didn't respond and John waited a moment, then rose to turn the light off for himself.
"No," murmured Sherlock, fingers tightening weakly against John's hand.
"I'm not going anywhere," John assured him. "Just turning off the light."
He did so, drawing the privacy curtain closed again. By the time he stepped back toward the bed, Sherlock had fallen asleep. With a groan, John realized he had to call Mycroft and his parents. He picked up his phone and sat down beside the bed, staring at the mobile for several long minutes. Then, wearily, he rang his brother-in-law's number.
An emergency MRI at 3:30 in the morning. Sherlock had slept through it, but John hadn't, waiting, exhausted, in the room for his husband to be returned. When the orderlies wheeled him in, John sat down on his cot, rubbing his face. Sandra followed them in to check Sherlock's vitals and medication, then crouched down next to the doctor when they left.
"John, you should get some sleep," she said gently. "You need to wait for the results from the MRI anyway."
John chuckled unhappily.
"I have a hard time sleeping alone now," he muttered. Sandra paused, then gave his hand a squeeze and stood.
"Help me here," she ordered and John looked up. "Come on, this isn't the first time I've done this. If you're very careful, and if you can sleep on your side, there's room enough for you. It isn't exactly comfortable, though."
It could have been bricks; John didn't care. He helped her shift Sherlock to the left, so that his broken leg was near the edge of the bed. Sandra double-checked the IV line to make sure it hadn't gotten tangled, and tucked the nurse buzzer behind the head of the bed. Carefully, she eased Sherlock's right arm up and onto his stomach, then patted the bed beside him gently.
"Up you get," she said to John, moving across the room to scoop the blankets from his cot. Gingerly, John climbed onto the bed next to the sleeping Sherlock and lay down on his side facing the other man. With even more care, he covered Sherlock's right hand with his own, careful not to disturb the vitals monitor covering his index finger. Sandra spread his blankets over him, then patted his shoulder.
"You are by far the best nurse I've ever met," John murmured sleepily. He heard her chuckle in reply.
"Make sure you tell my boss," she commented.
"You'll wake me when they get the results?" John asked, fighting off sleep for a few precious more minutes.
"I'll probably be gone, but one of the others will, I promise. Don't worry, John. We have a saying around here: the specialists only come out with the sun."
John managed a smile and heard the door click shut quietly behind the nurse as she left. Despite everything, the simple sensation of Sherlock's warm body next to his was enough to let him fall, mercifully, asleep.
It felt as though he'd just closed his eyes when he was being awoken again by one of the day nurses, Carrie, a younger black woman with her dark hair pulled back in a loose braid. She gave him a sympathetic smile when John groaned and opened his eyes. Sherlock was still asleep.
"The radiologist called up to say he'd be here in about fifteen minutes," she said quietly. "I thought you might want a few minutes to get ready."
John squeezed his eyes shut, trying to shake off the fatigue, then opened them again and nodded. "Thanks," he said.
"Sure," she replied, then did her quick, routine check of Sherlock's condition before slipping out. John rose carefully and went into the private room's small bathroom, regarding himself unhappily in the mirror. He looked like hell – privately, he thought he'd never looked this bad following any kind of combat response. But maybe after his shoulder had been injured.
He checked the time on his watch. It was only seven, which explained why he felt he hadn't slept. He sighed, then turned on the cold water in the sink, splashing his face. It helped, but not much. John rubbed his chin; he hadn't shaved in several days now, and what had been stubble was turning into a full-on beard.
Maybe I'll just let it grow in, he thought. But Sherlock would complain; he wouldn't like the way it looked.
A wave of nausea washed through John and he gripped the sides of the sink to steady himself.
Sherlock couldn't see how he looked.
John sat down on the toilet, head in his hands, taking several deep breaths. The night before, he hadn't thought of it, because he had been reacting to everything and nothing more. Now, he realized that if Sherlock couldn't see, he couldn't work.
Everything the other man was, it was locked up in his extraordinary ability to perceive things no one else could, with a speed that still startled John, even after all this time. If he lost that, what would remain? What would he do?
The doctor wilfully slowed his breathing, counting to ten on each inhale and exhale until the nausea had passed. The doctor the previous day had said it may be temporary and John had, in fact, seen this sort of thing before in soldiers with head injuries following explosions or, yes, vehicle accidents. He clung to that, reminding himself also that he was more than short on sleep and inclined to be less rational.
It didn't help.
John forced himself to take a short shower – having been moved to a private room had it's perks, and it was the first thing he'd done after Sherlock had been moved, when his family had come. Feeling somewhat better, at least physically, John dressed in a change of clothing and moved his blankets from Sherlock's bed back to his cot. An orderly came with breakfast, which John accepted, but a moment later, the radiologist was letting himself into the room. With the sound of the door, Sherlock stirred, and John settled himself into the chair next to the bed, taking one of Sherlock's hands.
"Good morning," the doctor said quietly. "Doctor John Merith."
John smiled slightly.
"Doctor John Watson," he replied, and Merith smiled as well, extending a hand, which John shook. Merith looked like one of the old guard; his hair was grey, and his eyes the same.
Beside John, Sherlock sighed, and his eyes fluttered open.
"Who's here?" he murmured. John stood to get some water for his husband.
"The radiologist, Doctor Merith."
"Did I have a CT scan, or an MRI?"
Privately, John wanted to roll his eyes, but in a good way. Anyone else would be asking what was happening. Even on morphine and muddled as John knew he must be, Sherlock was able to either remember what had been said the day before, or deduce that he'd had an imaging scan, not an x-ray, for his eyes. Even though he'd slept through it all.
"MRI," Merith replied. "Which showed swelling in your optic nerves. This isn't surprising, given the extent of your injuries, and the fact that you had some swelling in your occipital when you were first admitted, but I'm going to have you seen by neurology and ophthalmology for further tests. Doctor Davidson indicates some sensitivity to light, which is good news. This is probably temporary."
Two, John thought without intending to. He wondered how many more times they would hear that.
Sherlock nodded, looking weary behind the bruises and healing cuts on his face. John could tell how much he was struggling. He himself was having a hard time concentrating, in the face of so much lost sleep, but it was worse for the detective.
"You'll be in neurology around noon. In the meantime, sleep. It's the best thing you can do for yourself right now."
John doubted Sherlock had even heard those last words. He himself stood, shaking Merith's hand again and thanking him.
"You're welcome. We have him scheduled for another MRI two days from now, same time as before, to see if there are any changes. I don't expect much between today and tomorrow, because he's still in pretty bad shape, but I think within two days, we should start seeing something. We'll see what neurology and ophthalmology have to say, as well."
"Of course," John agreed, feeling drained inside. Merith gave him a sympathetic half-smile.
"Always harder for doctors, isn't it?" he asked.
John managed a faint smile of his own in return.
"You're telling me," he said.
"I'll see you again, John. Take care of yourself, too."
John nodded as the other man left, then stood in the middle of the room for a moment, at a loss for what to do. Eventually, he lay down on his cot and stared at the ceiling for a few minutes, waiting for sleep.
Mycroft forced him to go home that afternoon when Sherlock was in neurology. The injured man had slept the whole morning, thankfully, and had been unhappily revived before being wheeled out. With nothing to do but wait, once again, John had been rounded up by Mycroft and one of his aids, who had driven him home. Sherlock's brother had stayed behind at the hospital, promising to call if anything came up. John wasn't certain what he would do at home that he wouldn't at the hospital, but it was nice to get a break, however brief.
At first, he wandered around the flat, at a loss, then realized he was still wearing his coat, shoes, and scarf. He unwound the scarf and tossed it over a chair, kicked his shoes into a corner, and shrugged off the trench coat. Before hanging it with the scarf, he fished in the pocket for his phone and came up with Sherlock's as well, which he had slipped in the night before, prior to Sherlock waking.
John gazed at in surprise for a moment, and was about to put it back before he remembered about the emoticon text message. He called it up again and displayed the number, then pulled out his own phone and sent it via email to Lestrade. John put Sherlock's phone back in his pocket to return to the hospital, and rang the inspector.
"John, good afternoon," Lestrade greeted. "What news?"
Briefly, John filled Lestrade in on the events of that morning. The inspector seemed somewhat displeased, which John understood, but also somewhat heartened by the discussion with the radiologist that John relayed.
"Listen, I just emailed you a number. Can you check it for me?"
"Of course, one moment. Let me pull it up. What is it?"
"I'm not sure," John replied. "Sherlock got a text message right around the time of the accident, but I'm not sure who sent it."
"What did it say?"
"Nothing, just a winking emoticon."
Lestrade snorted.
"Sounds like a teenager. Maybe he has some adolescent admirers?"
Despite everything, John smiled to himself.
"Probably a wrong number, but I'm curious."
"Understandable. Let me run it here, just wait." There was a pause and John waited patiently, sinking himself onto the couch.
"John," Lestrade said after a few minutes, and his tone had changed, becoming harder, suspicious. "When exactly was the message sent?"
"Um," John said, pushing himself quickly to his feet. "Let me check." He pulled out Sherlock's mobile again, balancing his own precariously between his ear and shoulder, and called up the message. "Five-seventeen. Why?"
There was another pause and John frowned.
"All the time-frame information we have puts that three minutes after the accident," Lestrade said.
"All right," John replied. "So?"
"The number you gave me is registered to the delivery company the truck driver worked for. It was his work mobile, John. And he died on impact."