Boom!
Explosions were going up around him. Every new deafening blast send a shockwave through the ground, trembling the body from head to foot. Dust cascaded around them. John felt his throat tighten, his breathing slow down as a reflex. He didn't need to breathe in any of that foreign matter. None of them did, but it was imperative that he didn't, most of all.
Boomboom!
More mind numbing echoes were followed by the rapid string of gunfire. John could hear people calling his name.
Watson!
There were wounded men that needed his help. More booming in the distance. More gunfire.
John!
With every new sound, there was a new rush of adrenaline. Adrenaline was the only thing that kept him going. His regiment hadn't stopped for days. They hadn't had food, they hadn't had water, they hadn't had rest. Most of them were just running on adrenaline. The other few were running on hope. And a fair few of them were running on both of those things combined. Not that it would get that that far. But John had to hope that they would make it out of here. If the Doctor didn't have hope, who would ever survive?
"John!"
John awoke with a gasp, sitting bolt upright. His heart was pounding frantically in his chest, echoing in his ears. There was a loud boom, something that was not his heartbeat. John flinched hard, panic overtaking his senses.
"No, no, no, no, no, you're all right. It's okay, it's just thunder."
John paused, looking towards the voice. Sherlock stared back at him, worry visible in his eyes. John thought that he was still asleep because of that. Sherlock Holmes didn't worry.
"Sherlock...?"
The detective looked infinitely relieved. "Oh, good... Nurse!" he called, turning away.
John blinked hard, flinching again when the resounding booming hit his eardrums. Sherlock's gaze was back on him like a shot, eyes critical and careful.
"John, it's just a thunderstorm. You're at the hospital."
"Right..." He slumped back against the pillows, exhausted, as he rubbed his eyes.
He noticed a female nurse come in, heard Sherlock and her talking in whispers about fever and consciousness and something about his PTSD that made John flash a look through his fingers at Sherlock. Of course Sherlock could tell that John was near having an anxiety attack because the thunder sometimes reminded him of explosions.
He'd be fine. Onto more pressing matters.
He cleared his throat, attracting the pair's attention.
"I have no idea how long I've been asleep, or frankly why I'm here in a bed and he's not," because he remembered Sherlock overdosing; of course he remembered that, "but I need the loo." There was a time and place for tact, and this wasn't one of them. He had been a doctor too long; he just said what he needed and, from the look Sherlock was giving him, it wasn't something someone usually came out with. "I am sorry, Sherlock, that I have to take a leak."
Sherlock's frown increased before he looked at the nurse. "What medicine do you have him on?"
The nurse joined John at his bedside. "He's just a bit woozy. You would be, too, if you had his temperature." Addressing John, "Would you be more comfortable having your friend assist you?"
"Uh, sure. That's fine. Right?" He glanced at Sherlock.
"Fine."
"He's my colleague, though. He doesn't believe in friends. He thinks he's too good for them," John added to the nurse. He was rambling. He could tell.
The nurse smiled sympathetically. "I don't think 'colleagues' sit by a sick man's bedside for almost twenty four hours."
John was too stunned by her statement to respond. Twenty four- twenty four hours? He'd been unconscious that long? And Sherlock hadn't left his side? He didn't know which was more impressive. (He was too shocked to properly respond to the semi-allusive euphemism in the nurse's statement.)
"Up you go. Mr. Holmes will help you. The bathroom is just there. And take it easy."
She left them to an uncomfortable silence.
"So, well... Come on, then." Sherlock offered a hand.
John took it gratefully. "Get that thing, will you?" he asked, motioning towards the IV stand. "It's transportable."
"Obviously," Sherlock replied. John watched with mild interest as Sherlock gave it an experimental push.
"I feel," he grumbled, as Sherlock helped him to the adjoining bathroom, "like a crippled old man."
"Close enough."
Silence ensued again. And John soon found that a) he wasn't accustomed to having a live audience in the bathroom and b) awkward silence with only breathing over it didn't help to relax him at all.
He heard Sherlock's short huff and he about to return with his own biting remark, when Sherlock stretched the short distance to turn the faucet on.
John didn't know if it was really as funny as he made it or if his medicine just blew it all out of proportion. He was still snickering when Sherlock helped him back into bed. In his defense, Sherlock was smirking, too.
"Ah, Sherlock, what has happened to me?"
"You passed out from a high fever. Well, first you experienced cough syncope after I realized that your symptoms added up to pneumonia. From there, I was absent a few hours. I showed up to your room to find you unconscious from a very high fever. You have been awake periodically for the past day, but never coherent." Sherlock paused. "You haven't needed me to turn on the water faucet until now, so is there any chance that you suffer from paruresis?"
John had been experimenting taking a drink of the water in the cup by his bed. As it seemed, he had most unfortunate timing. He spat the water out at Sherlock's words.
Sherlock's eyes followed the water as it splashed to the ground.
"P-paruresis? Of course not!"
"Well, I should think not, considering all of the time that you spent having to use facilities or even terrain with other men in the war, but-"
"No," John interrupted, shaking his head. "No. Definitely not. I just found it uncomfortable with you breathing down my neck."
"I was not breathing down your neck."
"Sherlock, in a small bathroom that reeks of disinfectant, absolutely no noise and you at my side... All I could hear was you breathing, and all I could feel was awkward."
"Why would you feel awkward? It's only me. We're both anatomically similar. The only thing in males that would result in any sort of bodily difference would be the size of a man's-"
"No," was John's quick interruption. "That's why it's awkward."
"But I wasn't comparing," Sherlock responded hotly.
"Of course you were! You notice everything!"
"I might notice everything but it doesn't mean that I catalogue it all!"
"Right."
"Why would I care?" Sherlock replied, sinking low into the nearby chair. "It doesn't affect me. It doesn't even matter in the long run, for any male."
"And this is why I question your sexuality," John replied.
Sherlock frowned. "It doesn't affect me," he repeated. "Why on earth would I care?"
"I don't know, Sherlock, why does anyone compare the size of their penis?"
"That sounds like too much medicine for him," came a voice at the door.
Feeling a flush grace his cheeks, John glanced up to meet Lestrade's amused gaze.
"Bad time?" Greg continued.
"Not at all," Sherlock replied before John could. He stood, drawing his coat around him. "I'm popping out. John will need lunch soon. Remind his nurse." Without so much as a goodbye, he had swept from the room with ease.
John rolled his eyes, looking back to the ceiling. Sherlock was absurd.
"He's an ass. But he's a loyal ass."
John looked back to Greg. "Yeah, right, was he really here the past day?"
"Sure as gold, he was. Sat right there," Greg pointed at the chair, "and never moved. Sometimes I thought he was asleep. I've only ever seen him do that on a case."
"I'm just another case to him," John responded simply. It made sense, didn't it? Sherlock hated anything except the work. Sherlock didn't hate him, or, at least John didn't think Sherlock hated him. So, it made sense that all Sherlock saw John as was an experiment. Another scientific study, just one that lived with him.
"Oh, I don't know about that." Greg sank into the chair. "Who knows about Sherlock Holmes? But I daresay that he might just think of you as more than that."
John stared at Lestrade for a moment, frowning. Through all of everyone's coy remarks about their partnership, Sherlock and John's, John could always hear the suggestive meaning. But when Greg spoke, John didn't hear it.
And he began to wonder...
... did Sherlock see him as a friend, too?
John turned back to the ceiling.
Chapter's a bit barmy, but I think it's the freakin' humour we've been needing. xD John's on some very potent medication at the moment. Nevertheless, he realizes something in this chapter. Revelations for John, just as Sherlock has had his own.
Technical terms: Cough syncope- Fainting occuring due to cough
Technical terms: Paruresis- "Shy bladder syndrome"
Reviews are Sherlock-taking-care-of-John! One more chapter, folks. And an epilogue. I'm telling you, I was assailed with sadness when I typed the last sentence. Thank you!