CHAPTER TWO
John's eyelids flew open; he gasped for breath.
"John? What happened?" He heard footsteps coming towards him.
"M- Molly? Oh, yes." John paused as he thought of the contents of his dreams. "I see him jump every time."
Molly shuffled awkwardly, her eyes moving to the floor. "You have been asleep for three days." She decided not to mention the fact that he spoke in his sleep, or rather spoke Sherlock's name.
"That is fitting. I haven't slept more than an hour in the past week. 'T is good," John paused, his eyes filled with sorrow- and something else Molly couldn't put her finger on. "I can't believe this happened. In his last moments, he said that he was a fake, and that he made it all up. He lied, I know it, but there was something else. I don't understand." John sputtered the words as he felt his eyes squeeze closed and his hand come up to rub his forehead. Molly walked to his side and placed her hand over his shoulder.
"None of us understand."
Her attempt at consoling him was useless; he only placed his hand over Sherlock's and squeezed his sleeve in a fist. Molly looked over with a quizzical brow, wondering if John missed Sherlock more than she understood.
Although his eyes remained closed, Sherlock's eyes rolled around in his head so violently John's eyes flew to him and Sherlock took hold of John's hand and let out a throaty groan.
"Hold still, Sherlock," Molly said firmly, "Don't move or you will mess it up!"
"What?" John was filled with loud noises he could barely contain. His eyes were wide and his voice shaky. "Is he better? What will he mess up? Has this happened before while I was sleeping?" John's medical degree practically flew out the window when he saw Sherlock thrashing about on the makeshift hospital bed.
"No. This hasn't happened before. He should be waking up, but I've patched him up so extensively that I don't want him ruining my handiwork and ripping anything. He has such bad bruising, John."
"He will be ok." John stated with a new found conviction but Molly could still hear how the tender words were lined in worry.
"Yes. He will be ok."
Sherlock's eyes flew open. His breath hoarse and his hand gripping to John's, he spat out the words, " I- I- I nee- I need water."
Molly gasped, something about Sherlock waking changed her from what John had seen: a strong woman who did her job well, and back into that nervous, seemingly smaller girl. She ran into the other room and struggled to get water into a small cup. Were her hands shaking? John thought with confusion. He knew she cared for Sherlock, but he thought she was over the nervous girl phase. Something about her broke when he was around, or conscious. He cut through her confidence like it was butter. Just as he thought, she scampered back to Sherlock and gave the cup to John. She was too nervous to give him water. John thought it too pathetic. She was stronger than this, but he gladly took the cup from her unsteady hands.
John placed his hand gently behind Sherlock's head, his face seemed contorted with pain. John held in a gasp as he saw that Sherlock showed even more pain when he was pulled up into a less reclined position. Molly was chewing her fingernails like a hungry chipmunk. I shouldn't be this nervous. I was in the fucking profession! I am used to people crying out in pain and dead bodies. I should be able to handle myself with a recovering friend! He knew deep down why he couldn't handle himself with Sherlock in pain. He pushed the feeling deep down. He couldn't handle that, not now.
He slowly poured the cool water into Sherlock's dry mouth. His lips were glistening as the water ran over them. John couldn't stop looking at them. Once the cup was empty, Sherlock sighed with relief and sunk back down into the makeshift stretcher. Looking up at John, he whispered, "Hello John."
John had to hold back from letting his eyes glaze over, all of the sudden, a fierce anger took him over and he began yelling, "Why Sherlock? That was bloody awful of you! And on top of that, lying! You lie to me, and then jump off the side of a fucking bloody building." John had no filter now; he couldn't stop his anger. "You liar." His voice broke at that moment and he fell back into his chair. John lifted a hand up to his eyes and began breathing in and out in time with a patting foot.
"Yes. I lied." Sherlock said matter-of-factly, as if he had not jumped to his death only days before. "I lied but the truth will come very soon. Now let me sleep. The wounds I have sustained have hardly left me my life." Sherlock shut his eyes and John looked up to see his lips moving with great speeds of silent words and his eyes moving much under his eyelids. This kept on for several minutes, John watched silently until they finally slowed to a halt.
"I am going out for a bit. Need to get more food, yeah? Of course." Molly feigned happy ignorance and left. She knew more about the men across the room than they knew themselves.
Once the door closed, John began to cry. He was alone, and he couldn't hold the great stress he had been holding in for days. John looked up at Sherlock, sleeping on the makeshift stretcher; he gently grasped his hand, and fell asleep.
Sherlock awoke several hours later to the feeling of something on top of him. His vision was blurry. He saw a blob of green on his lap, that blob of green cleared up to be John, holding his hand, with his upper body resting over Sherlock's lower while sitting in the chair pulled up close. Sherlock drew back the smile as soon as it escaped his muscles. He quickly observed the 3 bags of groceries and didn't need to deduce that Molly dropped them there. She must have been startled by the way she had walked in on the strangely romantic position the men were in. Judging from the crinkled bottom of the paper bags he did however deduce that she had more dropped them than placed them down in a hurry to leave immediately. Sherlock laughed inwardly and looked back at John. Strange that he does this. I don't understand. Does he have feeling for me? He shouldn't. That woman he has been seeing. He has been dressing so nice lately. For her, it must be. How could he have feelings for her if he had feelings for me? He wouldn't be looking so nice lately if it weren't for her. This was the first problem Sherlock couldn't figure. He laid back and receded to his mind palace, trying to understand the most complicated problem he had faced. Feelings.