Authors Note!

So I am still here, I'm just an awfully slow writer. I honestly can't remember when was the last time I updated this, but here is another chapter. The story is coming to a close now, so you shouldn't have to put up with my awful updating skills for too much longer! I really am sorry about the wait though, I didn't leave it at a very nice place for you either. Anyway, I really hope you enjoy this chapter after such a long wait,

Bumblie Bee

Chapter 11

Sherlock was sitting up in bed when John entered room, his long legs crossed beneath the duvet and his right arm heavily bandaged and lying in his lap. He held his phone in his left hand, the IV line trailing over the bedclothes and the phone's keys clicking loudly in the silent room as he typed. Or tried to type, for his frustrated expression suggested that even Sherlock found texting on a BlackBerry with only his less dextrous hand a bit of a challenge. He didn't look up as John entered, his eyes remaining fixed on the phone, but the clicking slowed for just a fraction of a second as if he was mentally debating whether to look up or not.

John waited briefly, deciding what to do, and then cleared his throat, moving to sit in the chair beside Sherlock's bed. He picked up the medical board sitting on the bedside table, it wasn't normally stored there, and especially not when a patient was awake. There were no rules saying a patient couldn't read his notes but it always seen to be best if they didn't, everything that they needed to know they would be told anyway. Sherlock must have been reading his, it was the sort of thing he would want to see and wouldn't see the problem in doing.

The notes from Sherlock's surgery were short and yet easily detailed enough for John to get a decent understanding of what had gone on during his friend's operation. The pieces of metal that were still in the arm had been removed as best as possible and the bone had been fixed with new plates and screws and; the whole procedure had been done with practically no complications. They had checked his nerves during the surgery too, and from what was written in the notes it seemed that once the pressure had been removed and the bones returned to their correct position the responses of Sherlock's nerves had improved considerably, although they had still not returned to what was considered normal. Sherlock could be called lucky to still have such responsive nerves after everything that had happened the evening before, not many people had such an improvement in their nerves once they had been damaged.

John looked up to notice Sherlock's phone was resting on the bed covers, his left hand picking uselessly at the bandages covering his arm. It was usual for patients who had had surgery to not have a cast at first as the bandage allowed easier access to the incisions. It was likely to be replaced with a harder and more supportive cast later, either that or a plastic splint to hold the arm stiff whilst still being easily removable. A splint was probably a better idea as it was waterproof and washable and Heaven knows what Sherlock would be doing in the next however many weeks it would be that he would have to wear the cast for. The only problem was that a splint would be much more easily removable when Sherlock decided he had had enough of the restricted arm movement, which was something John knew he was bound to have problems with.

"You were lucky," he said, his voice catching as he tried to force lightness into it and failing considerably. Sherlock's eyes flicked up, meeting John's for the merest of seconds as he let out a choked laugh. It wasn't really a laugh at all, it was more of a huff of breath spat out that stuck in his throat along the way, and John knew that despite Sherlock's ability to giggle at the most inappropriate situations he was not finding this at all funny. His eyes had now returned to the bandages on his arm, his left hand picking ever more violently at the medical tape holding them fastened.

"Sherlock…," His eyes flashed up then without a pause followed John's deliberate gaze back to his arm where the tape had begun to peel away, leaving a grey sticky stipe on the white bandage below. He pulled his left hand away, noticing for the first time the tacky adhesive now caught under the edge of his thumbnail. Sighing, he picked up his phone again and flopped back against the pillows. The browser had still been open from the night before when he had opened it, still on the website about paint toxicity he had been on when John had started to ask about his arm. It seemed so long ago that John had first broached the subject, and somehow so short at the same time too, as if time had been warping and changing since John had started that stupid conversation. Forcing his mind back to the tiny screen of the phone he tried to continue reading, but it was hard to concentrate when his thoughts kept wandering and straying from the page.

"When can I go?" he asked a minute later, letting the phone fall back onto the bed with a light thump. There was no emotion is Sherlock's tone at all, it was a question to get an answer and simply that, not an invitation small talk in the slightest. John looked up from the medical file he was holding in his hands, skipping back through the earlier entries.

"When your doctor says you can, he'll come and see you in a bit now you're awake, I expect." John replied, letting the medical board fall flat on his knees when Sherlock simply huffed in reply. He lifted a hand rubbed the back of his neck, rolling his shoulders a little to try and force away the oncoming headache. It felt so long since he had got a proper night's sleep and his head was beginning to complain. Sherlock noticed his discomfort and glanced up, his grey eyes hard.

"You can go home if you want to, there's nothing holding you here,' he said, his tone icy and the 'you' ever so slightly louder as if to force the point that although John could go home he was still unable to leave. John didn't reply, he knew by Sherlock's tone that it wouldn't help. He picked up the file on his knees and tried to continue reading but although his eyes followed the lines left to right across the sheet from the top of the writing to the bottom they took none of it in, the words forgotten as soon as his eyes had moved on. He was aware of Sherlock's eyes burning into him and that the clicking had stopped too but he tried to ignore it.

"You blame yourself, don't you? It's why you're still here." Sherlock said quietly a couple of minutes later, his voice so much softer than before, icy and cold and all too smooth like the calm before the storm. John looked up at his friend, sitting in the hospital bed only a meter or so away from him and able to read him as easily as he had read the many books that sat on his shelves in their flat. Their eyes locked for a moment, grey boring their way into brown before John pulled away with a sigh.

"Sherlock, I was trying to help you," he said simply, not knowing what else to say because it was true, he did blame himself for what had happened even though he knew in the logical part of his mind that he had done the right thing, the sensible doctor-like thing that he had been taught to do so many years ago before the army. Sherlock huffed a laugh, his eyes were cold and yet burning with anger and his face was set hard in fury. Even sat in bed wearing a hospital gown with one arm encased in bandages and the other held by wires he looked somehow dangerous.

"But I didn't want your help, John." Sherlock hissed, "I was fine before you interfered, but you always have to do that, don't you?" He paused, his cold eyes darting up and down, glancing over John like a client before he smirked and his eyes fixed at last. "It's because of your sister isn't it? You can't help her so you go round forcing that help upon everybody else whether they have asked for it or not, you save them because you can't save her, to try and make up for how little you could do for her." John wasn't sure if what Sherlock was saying about him was a true deduction or if it was just a product of his sudden anger but it sounded right now that he thought about it. Harry had started drinking before he made his decision to be a doctor, but he had always put it down to how his parents had never been saved when a car had swerved in front of them on the way home from the theatre. Not that there was a huge difference really, Harry wouldn't have ended up such a mess if their parents had come home that night. John tried to keep his expression blank but he was never any good at acting and knew the second Sherlock's suddenly furious expression settled into a smirk that he had failed, and in his friends eyes proved his deduction was right.

"I didn't know you would react like that," replied John after a beat, his voice forced calm as he ignored what his flatmate had deduced and thought back to the moment when he had first told Sherlock to go to the hospital all those days ago. It was true, he hadn't expected Sherlock to have been avoiding a hospital trip for a reason other than him thinking it was in the right position and being lazy about it, he had never shown any signs of fearing the hospital before. Although it wasn't really the hospital he had feared at all, it was the memories of his childhood that the whole situation had freed that were hurting him.

"How did you think I would react? I'm a freak, remember? He all but yelled, the words harsh and furious. It was only a second of silence later that his shoulders suddenly dropped, their defensiveness gone. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, and then suddenly kicked the covers back and in one shaky yet strong movement stood up, turning away from John and taking the few unsteady steps between his bed and the window. He stood there in silence, his back to the room and his right arm tucked close to his body like an injured wing. John said nothing, he knew it wouldn't help, so he sat there patiently waiting for Sherlock to come to whatever conclusion his turmoiled mind was trying to reach and praying that he didn't move any further away with the already training IV line still in the back of his hand.

"I'm sorry, I just…"the detective said eventually, his voice sounding strained and trailing off as if he still couldn't find the words to say what he needed to. His eyes were closed again, John could see it in his reflection in the window, and he ran his shaking left hand through his mattered curls in frustration. The hand stopped, staying shakily on Sherlock's head. John had never seen his friend looking so lost, not even at the Baskerville case after he had seen the Hound.

"Sherlock, listen-" John said after another minute of silence. His voice stronger now and calmer, being angry or upset now wouldn't help at all. He knew that Sherlock blamed him for what had happened now, and as much as he hated that this wasn't about him at all, and certainly not now. It was almost as soon as he had started to speak that another voice spoke quietly over the top of his.

"Please John not now, just…just leave me alone, I need to think," whispered the detective, his eyes still closed and his head now bowed in defeat. He needed time and quiet, some space to try and sort his thought back out and go through the memories he had found again. They were unpleasant, most of them anyway, and to have them all replaying round and round in his head after being locked away for so long was nearly too much to deal with. It's hard to think, or to do anything really, when there were small children in your head calling you a freak and twisting your arm up behind you until it snapped. The pain in his arm wasn't helping either.

John sat silent for a moment, hearing the desperation in Sherlock's voice but internally debating whether it would be safe for him to leave him to his memories alone. The image of Sherlock rocking in a corner, stuck in his mind palace and unable to get away from his torments was burnt into his mind. Eventually friend won over doctor and slowly he put the file he was still holding back on the table and got to his feet, never taking his eyes from the motionless figure by the window.

"Alright, I'm going down to the café for a bit, but you're not to leave this room whilst I'm gone. Please?" Sherlock was still for a second more before he nodded his head, just one slight dip of his head and nothing more but it was still a yes. John sighed a breath of relief and muttered a quiet 'thank you' before turning away from his friend and leaving the room, shutting the door with a slight click as he left.