Sherlock stayed in the waiting room while John was emptied. He didn't know why, because he wasn't quite sure what he was waiting for. No one would be coming back from the surgery, not alive.
He supposed it was because he didn't know what else to do.
He couldn't go back to Baker Street, not right now. Not when he remembered the experiment he did while John lay on that same operating table bleeding into his brain. And however irrational it may be, Sherlock can't help but think if he was at the hospital for the last surgery, that maybe John would have been fine.
The smallest things could often have the biggest effect.
He got to see John after. Mrs Hudson declined, sobbing into Lestrade's shirt, while he only shook his head slightly.
Sherlock was thankful. He wasn't sure if he could see John while other people were watching.
He looked peaceful, if that meant anything. He looked dead. Was death even peaceful?
The breathing tube was gone, as were all the various wires and tubes he'd had before the surgery. He was still dotted with bruises and lacerations from the explosion.
The explosion. Was it really only a few days ago? It seemed like years now.