Hey how's everyone doing? Doing good so far? So, the Royal Wedding, wasn't that exciting?
Of course, there was that news too. Which I guess means it's all good :)
...
Sherlock fought to keep awake all the way back to Baker Street, only to practically collapse on the sofa. The fact he made it that far was a bloody miracle in itself, Lestrade was right, even he had his limits.
When he came back round from a long dreamless sleep it was only the clock mounted on the mantlepiece that gave him any sense of time at all, he found that it was mid-morning the following day, nearly 20 hours since he'd left John at the hospital. Mrs Hudson had then popped round the front door and began to attempt to feed him all manner of foodstuffs. One chilli con carne, five biscuits and three cups of tea later it was all Sherlock could do not to physically throw her out of the door. A carefully orchestrated glare and a few polite yet firm words did the trick, and she left him alone to take a shower in peace.
The shower was welcomed more than Sherlock had anticipated, hot water running over his skin easing the tense muscles in his shoulders. He used his fingertips to rub shampoo into his hair so vigourously it was like each follicle had done him a great personal offense. He felt greatly relieved when he stepped back out in clean clothes, clean shaven and just generally fresher. With a pang of shame he realised he had no idea where the laundry basket was, since John had always done the washing. He could have asked Mrs Hudson, he supposed, but he found he didn't want to admit his lack of knowledge on the matter, so he ended up slinging his dirty clothes into his wardrobe. He'd do it later.
Sherlock then set about packing some holdalls with supplies for John and himself, he couldn't decide exactly what to pack for John, so he ended up just grabbing a handful of clothes and stuffing them rather unceremoniously into the bag. Deciding for once to actually take Lestrade's advice Sherlock started to pack some of John's things, only to end up being unable to decide which of John's books to pack.
After twenty minutes he had only picked three and was currently deciding on the fourth; 'The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy', he decided, was a safe option. The other two were the only ones in the Harry Potter series John owned. Sherlock peered at the cover of the fourth, 'Wuthering Heights'. From what he could tell, it was, as the text on the back told him 'A sensational tale of unbridled passion amongst the wild Yorkshire moors'. Sherlock bit back a little snigger at the fact John would possess it. Judging by the yellowing paper and dog-eared pages John had obviously had it a long while and had read it many times, it was probably one of his favourites. But if Sherlock were to pack it, how would John interpret his actions? Would he be happy Sherlock brought his favourite book? Would he think it was a sick joke that Sherlock brought him books when he'd lost an eye? Or worse, would he think Sherlock was trying to tell him something by giving him romance novels?
Sherlock stared at the image on the cover, a dark haired man and woman, both looking quite irate at the greenery around them. His family home had quite a sizeable library, storing thousands of books. Sherlock never head a real passion for literature, focusing more on the non-fiction and the factual, it had never occurred to him that books like this might actually be good. But then again, Sherlock was well aware of the fact John was better with these sorts of things than he was. The book then somehow found itself nestled among John's clothes in the bag.
Sherlock was just finishing his own packing when a buzzing sensation in his jacket pocket caught his attention. Fishing it out Sherlock saw he had received a text from Lestrade, it only contained two words:
He's awake.
...
'How is he?' Sherlock demanded, sweeping through the hospital foyer as Lestrade rushed out to meet him.
'Panicking, disorientated, he tried to fight off the nurses, shouting about a sculptor.' Lestrade answered as they both walked quickly to John's ward, nearly knocking an elderly woman off her zimmer frame in the process.
'Did you try and calm him down?' Sherlock's expression was growing darker by the second, but Lestrade could see he was greatly relieved his friend had shown some sign of life.
'I tried, I don't think he recognised me at first.' Lestrade unconsiously took one of the holdall bags from Sherlock and slung it about his own shoulders. 'But he's had a hard time, I don't blame him...why have you got a violin case?'
Sherlock followed his gaze to the violin case dangling from his other hand. 'Stradivarius. You said something with which to occupy my time.'
'Strad-?'
They were interrupted by the sudden appearance of Dr Hardwicke, who puffed out his cheeks in agitation.
'Finally! I'm glad someone's here, maybe you can get some recognition out of him.'
Sherlock strode into John's room to see his best friend sitting upright in the bed, bandaged face snapping up to see him. The dark eye widened as it roamed over Sherlock's face, then blinked in disbelief. His bottom lip quivered, the stitches sticking out painfully, after a few moments, John's mouth formed an easily recognisable word.
'Sherlock?'
Sherlock heard the little crack in the dry croak, and remembered John probably hadn't had a drop of water in days. He felt his own lip begin to tremble, determined never to leave John alone like that again. Sherlock took a few steps towards John, and was surprised, not to mention a little hurt, when John shrank back against the bedclothes, uninjured hand brushing his bandaged chest. Sherlock frowned when he saw a flash of fear pass over John's countenance, but softened his own expression and extended a friendly hand.
'Hello John, are you alright?'
It hurt Sherlock, somewhere in his chest region, to play the concerned yet aloof flatmate whilst he desperatley wanted to just hold the man to him and tell him everything was fine. He felt his face involuntary contort with the wave of emotion he felt at the sight of his friend.
John's eye blinked rapidly, tears welling up in the depths. Sherlock saw the hand that was once clutched to his chest stretch out towards him shakily. Throwing a 'leave us alone ' glare over his shoulder Sherlock eagerly edged his way toward John, who wrapped his fingers around Sherlock's wrist in a vice-like grip.
John's voice shook uncontrollably as he tried to pull Sherlock closer. 'It's really you.'
'Of course it's me John,' Sherlock replied, his own voice threatening to crack. He allowed John to draw him near, closing his own fingers upon the hand gripped on his wrist. John then did something Sherlock had expected, but was still a tad unprepared for; he began to cry, mumbling his name.
If there were still others in the room, Sherlock was far past caring. All he could process at this particular moment in time was John. John, who was clutching at him as though frightened to let him go. Sherlock gently eased John back onto the covers, as the man had gone rigid, thankfully John complied, allowing himself to be pushed back onto the pillow.
'We have to get out of here Sherlock, ' John whispered to him urgently 'We're not safe.'
'Shh,' Sherlock tried, hoping his voice was soothing enough, 'Everything's fine John, you're perfectly safe here.'
John shook his head violently. 'He told me he'll be back for me. Please Sherlock, let's get out of here.'
Sherlock frowned, 'We're in a hospital John. Who told you that?'
John's entire frame shook, making Sherlock tremble with him, his eyelid began to droop, he was falling asleep again. A common occurance with awaking coma patients.
'John! Stay with me, it's okay.' Sherlock murmured, patting John's hand.
'He took my eye.' The voice was broken, tiny. This wasn't the voice of John Watson. John Watson was confident, he was strong...
John's head lolled onto his shoulders and Sherlock gently withdrew his arms. Footsteps padded softly behind him, he turned to see Dr Hardwicke rubbing the back of his neck and frowning slightly.
'He just needs rest.' The man assured him, checking John's vitals and retreating once more. Sherlock nodded numbly, watching John sleep, John's confused mumblings were a concern to him. Who was 'he'? And why was John so terrified of him returning?
...
Dear God that fizzled out for sticking around. Again, I'm sorry for lack of updates, I have the role of Followspot Operator for a production of 'Jesus Christ Superstar' so it's gonna be a hectic few weeks!
Next Chapter: 'Great, spectacular. Destroying it before it even began. Nice going Tosspot.', John's recovery and Sherlock makes a less than graceful confession.
See ya there dearies! x