A Teddy Bear
Sherlock stared at the fluffy teddy bear in his hands because he couldn't look up at John. Listening to the beep that signaled his heart beat, his slow, raspy breath coming steadily in and out, as he lay there in the hospital bed. It was too much.
So he stared at the teddy bear that he'd found abandoned in the hall outside, with its black plastic eyes and soft brown cloth fur, and he waited.
He remembered finding a bear like this in John's room once, though it was much, much older, from when John was only a child. He hadn't let go of it, teased John for not only keeping it so long but having it in the first place.
Sherlock thought that, maybe, now he could understand. It was nice having something there to keep him company that didn't expect him to say anything, or do anything, or even just. Look where he couldn't. He supposed that even though he couldn't have his skull, the bear was just as good.