(I'm glad to see the story is being followed. That's why I'm giving you the next chapter already. Please excuse typos or misspelling- english is my second language. Enjoy!)

Chapter 3

"John!"

"Wha- yes, yes I hear you! Christ Sherlock!" John jumped in his seat. He was currently seated on the edge of a hospital bed. He had refused to lie down, convincing the nurses he was perfectly capable of holding himself up. They were reluctant, but Sherlock scared them away eventually. "You were quiet," Sherlock defended himself.

"Yes, well, that happens sometimes!"
Sherlock didn't reply.

"Are you dead?"

Sherlock sputtered, "Why would you ask such a thing? Obviously I'm not!" Was that a pout? Yes, he was absolutely pouting. John allowed himself to laugh.

"Because you were quiet! And that doesn't happen- not with you."

Sherlock mumbled something John couldn't hear.

"I does. When I think," he grumbled.

"Well, yeah, I'll give you that one. Unless you are trying to tell me that I don't think often enough, because then you're wrong."
Sherlock huffed. "Perfect logic, doctor Watson."
"As always," John said simply.

Sherlock shifted in his chair, making creak loudly. John took a moment to relish in the low rumble of Sherlock's voice as he mumbled to himself, letting it smooth out the worried lines in his face. He was still tense, slightly shaking but concealing it well, and of course blind. All this added up made him jumpy. He sat stiffly, both hands clutching the sheets of the bed not to move a muscle. He irrationally feared that the slightest movement would cause him strong pain. You know, in case there was a knife sticking out of the bed, and everyone just forgot to tell him. Even though John couldn't think of any other scenarios that could get him hurt from simply moving around the hospital bed, he sat stiffly, staring into the blackness.

A scolding hot hand gently pried his fingers from the sheets. John stifled a gasp of surprise and heard Sherlock speak close to his ear. He would never get used to having him so close so suddenly. "John? They want you to wear some stupid gauze on your eyes. Shall I allow them?"
'They' must be the doctors and nurses, John deduced. And the gauze must be to shield his healing eyes from unwanted light. Yes, that could be good for the healing process.

"Yes Sherlock, we'll listen to the medical staff, okay? And when did they say this? Are they here?" Again Sherlock spoke right beside his ear.

"Yes, they've been here for a few moments. They will apply the gauze now," Sherlock explained. As John felt the rough material of the gauze, he mentally willed himself not to swat at what he expected to be a nurse, as he was still on his toes.

John was hovering precariously between handling the shock, and being thrown into his own personal Afghanistan. Sherlock had thought of it immediately of course, after the first bombing he asked if John had experience with bombs. Well, not bombs exactly, their victims more likely. And yes, he had. And all he could think of, and what he tried his very best not to think of, was if he looked like those victims himself. He had counted his fingers, let a hand slide over his face and every now and then he would stretch his back. Everything hurt, but he still had ten fingers, a somewhat bloody but whole face and his back would move by his command. At least he wasn't dying. He briefly wondered if Sherlock knew of chaos John was trying to contain in his head. Maybe he had been very quiet? Speaking of quiet- why was no one talking? The nurse was done with his gauze, so- "Have they left?" John asked whoever would happen to be close to him. Sherlock answered him right away.

"Yes, but only just. Would you like to get out of here?"
John quirked an eyebrow; "Am I allowed?"

Sherlock groaned, "As if we care! My sedative is finally wearing off, and I can get you into a cab by myself perfectly fine!"
"Okay well- wait. Sedative? So you were hurt!" John tried to grabble into the darkness searching for Sherlock maybe hoping to somehow go over the other mans injuries himself.
"No, I'm perfectly fine. I just- I suppose I got slightly… upset when you were unresponsive in the ambulance. So I was given a sedative- much against my will I'll like to say- and it made me all…" John swore he heard Sherlock frowning. I shouldn't be possible, but this was Sherlock after all, "giddy," he ended.

John was quiet for a moment. "Giddy? You? Is that why you were giggling at me when I smacked that poor medic?"

"I wasn't giggling." He said venomously.

"Ha! Yes you were! I was there, and I heard it!"
"You were deaf! Obviously you were either sedated yourself or the shock must have-"
"Shut up, Sherlock, you were giggling and you know it. If you promise not to tell I punched that doctor I wont tell you were giggling."
Sherlock huffed, and shifted in his chair. "Who would we tell anyway? It's not like anyone's interested."
"Sally sure loves to gossip about us, but yeah." John fell silent before continuing with uncertainty in his voice, "Were you really- I mean, were you-?"
"What?" Sherlock demanded. John sighed and that asked more firmly, "were you really so scared for my health that they had to sedate you?"

Now Sherlock fell silent. Then said casually "Obviously."

John smiled. That felt good, knowing Sherlock cared. Even if that meant he would freak out in an ambulance and turn into a giddy giggling mess to prevent him from hurting himself or others. Yeah, it still feels good.

"What?" Sherlock demanded impatiently. "What are you smiling about?"
"I'm just happy, that's why," John answered, knowing very well that Sherlock didn't like him smiling after confessing anything remotely emotional. "So are you ready to break me out of this place?"

"Indeed," Sherlock said quickly and John heard the rushed ruffle of clothes as Sherlock jumped out of his chair and took a hold of Johns arm and lead him out the door.

John had to admire Sherlock's talent at slipping unseen and unnoticed out of busy hospitals. It was only around noon, which meant there would be several nurses patrolling every hallway. But John chose not to ponder on it. How, he wasn't sure, but they made into a cab eventually. John didn't know he had had an iron grip on Sherlock's rough coat until he asked him to let go so that he could get him into the cab. John mumbled his excuses and climbed into the cab precariously. He silently thanked Sherlock for being his stern solid self, not fussing over him and practically forcing him to go home before he was permitted. The last thing John needed was the careful words of nurses and doctors ensuring him 'everything thing will be just fine'. It screamed to the heavens that they had just as much of an idea what would happen as John did. And that was very much less than helpful. At least John knew he would be entertained if he went back to Baker Street with Sherlock. Whether that is good or bad, only time will show. Speaking of Baker Street, "Where are we even going? Baker Street must be in ruins? God, is our flat even still there?"
"Don't worry I got a text from Lestrade explaining that it was only our staircase that was affected. We might need an alternate point of entrance but I'm sure we'll make it."
"Sherlock if you haven't noticed, I'm sort of not up for any parkour today."
"We've got some stairs in the backyard. We'll use them."
"… some stairs? What do you mean?"
"I had them installed when the yard had me under surveillance some time ago. Makes it easy to slip in and out unnoticed," Sherlock explained casually, though a smirk was evident in his voice.

"Oh. Well, of course. Of course you did."