This is not a new chapter, really, it's more of a separate one-shot in the same universe as Chair, but after Sherlock returns to the hospital. Unfortunately I can't mark one story as part of a 'series' like I can on ao3, so I'm posting it this way. Hope you enjoy, and as always, reviews are always appreciated.
Awakening
John refused to go home with Mary.
His best friend had almost died for the second time in a week. He had climbed out of his hospital room window, dashed across town, rearranged the furniture, and planned a trap, all so John would see and understand. It was a terrible plan, and John still didn't understand.
Mary had shot Sherlock in the chest. Given the chance, she might have shot him again tonight.
What sort of nightmare world had John fallen into? The woman he loved, the woman he'd promised to honor and cherish until he died, was a lie. As much as John would have loved to hate her right now, she was carrying his child...and Sherlock appeared to have forgiven her.
Why?
John rubbed his temples, hoping the headache would go away and take all this confusion with it. His bum was sore from sitting on the hard plastic chair, but he couldn't be bothered to think of that now. Sherlock, the stupid, stupid genius, was still in danger, and John had nowhere to go.
Unable to sit still any longer, John paced up and down the waiting room like a caged tiger. He refused to leave the hospital until Sherlock was safe again, and Mrs. Hudson was in no condition to stay up all night, not after the awful day they'd had. As for Lestrade...
John grimaced. He'd done exactly what he had promised not to do, and left Greg out of the loop. How did one call up a friend and say 'Alright Greg? Just so you know, it was my lying wife who shot Sherlock'? The ex-army doctor had no idea.
"Doctor Watson?"
John turned, and there stood the middle-aged surgeon in charge of Sherlock. Immediately, John looked for tell-tale signs of defeat, relaxing slightly when he saw none.
"He's pulled through," John sighed, inwardly thanking any listening gods.
Dr. Patel smiled. "He has, indeed. I've no idea how this man can come so close to death and then return to us; Dr. Johnson told me he flat-lined when he was first shot, and just as they'd given up he came back. He's done it again."
John nearly sank back onto his chair in relief. "Good."
"We'll keep him under for a bit, give his body some time to heal. I'm not sure how often he climbs out of hospital windows while recovering from a gunshot wound, but I'd rather not risk it anytime soon."
"That's fair," agreed John. If he'd been Sherlock's assigned doctor, he might have done the same.
"Well, that's my bit of news for tonight," the doctor said kindly. "I'm required by the hospital to tell you that visiting hours are over, and that you should return tomorrow morning. However," he added wryly, "Mycroft Holmes has been in touch, again. John Watson, Gregory Lestrade, Molly Hooper, and Martha Hudson are allowed and encouraged to stay with Sherlock as long as they like. Feel free to board up his window and force-feed him while you're here."
John chuckled at this. "Thank you, Doctor."
The two doctors shook hands amicably, and John rushed up the familiar stairs to Sherlock's new room. It was two floors above the last one, perhaps to dissuade Sherlock from exiting through the window.
"Hi, Sherlock," John told the man on the bed. The lights were off except for the safety light by the door, and the various lights of the machines. Sherlock's heartbeat was slow and steady, his breathing even.
A faded armchair had been placed under the window, and there John sat, pulling back the lever and reclining. The chair was red, and oddly familiar to the one he'd left behind at Baker Street. A lump rose to his throat, and unconsciously, he fingered the USB drive in his pocket.
The flat he shared with Mary was not home. It had been for months, but he could not stand the thought of returning now, of climbing into bed with a woman he didn't know. It wasn't the faceless victims that bothered him; John had killed men as a soldier, and it was part of the job. What bothered John was that Mary Watson didn't exist. The woman he'd married was an unknown entity, one who had seen how much John had hurt after losing Sherlock, and had shot the man anyway.
"She would have killed you to keep her secret from me," John whispered to Sherlock. "So why are you telling me to trust her? Don't you know what that would have done to me?"
There were no answers in Sherlock's face. This man had jumped off a building and disappeared for two years, endured torture and starvation and who knew what else, to save his friends from Moriarty. Even though John had called him a psychopath in his anger tonight, he knew it wasn't true.
"Sleep, Sherlock," John said, closing his own eyes. "Tomorrow you'll wake up, and I'll tell you what an idiot you are, and then you'll help me pull myself together."
It had taken three days for Sherlock to wake up fully. In those three days, John had requested leave from the clinic (he couldn't face working with her), drunk more bad coffee than he'd ever had in his life, and packed his things while Molly sat with Sherlock.
He'd been wrong. He had always had somewhere to go in times of need, and this was one of those times. He had cleaned the old second bedroom at Baker Street, and dumped his boxes there before coming to the hospital.
Sherlock had saved him from depression and a psychosomatic limp, years ago. Perhaps now he could save him from a broken heart.
On the third day since Sherlock's relapse, John relieved Mrs. Hudson and took a seat at the detective's bedside. All was quiet, as usual, and John had brought some medical journals to pass the time. He read for hours, with the steady beeping of Sherlock's monitor for company. Nurses came and went, checking his vitals and morphine drip occasionally.
At half past eight, the detective's eyes fluttered open.
"John?"
John dropped his magazine and rushed to Sherlock's side. "Sherlock! How do you feel?"
The detective took a mental inventory of his aches and pains. "Like I've been shot and then injected with morphine."
The former soldier couldn't help but laugh. In the meantime, Sherlock's eyes had turned to the doctor, and John found himself under surveillance. He'd been on the receiving end of Sherlock's scans before; this one was particularly uncomfortable.
"You've left Mary," Sherlock deduced.
"Yes, Sherlock," John sighed. "I've left the assassin who shot you and moved back to Baker Street, at least for now."
"Why?" the dark-haired man asked, very quietly. "She loves you; she shot me to protect you. I may not like the result of our encounter, but I understand her motive."
"You would, wouldn't you?" John snapped. "Both of you are very choosy about which bits of truth you share with me."
Sherlock could tell that this conversation was headed nowhere good. "John—"
"No. You shut up, and listen for once," John continued, building up steam. "You asked me why I left. Sherlock, she knows what a mess I was when you jumped. She was there when I pulled myself together, and she was there when you came back. She saw what it did to me, and in the end none of that mattered to her as long as her secret was safe. She even told me she liked you, that day you came back!"
"Yes, but Magnussen—" Sherlock insisted, using his remote to sit up in bed. John silenced him with a quick hand gesture.
"You kept your plan secret from me because Moriarty had a sniper aiming for my head, and once his network was gone, I was out of danger. She kept her past from me out of fear, and who knows if someday the CIA won't show up, looking for her? Will not knowing protect me then?"
He was pacing again. Sherlock, who had lived with him for years, knew that was very Not Good.
"I don't know if I can forgive her, Sherlock. The dream is over," he said bitterly. "and John Watson is awake. If you had died from this, I would have turned her in myself. I still might, you know."
John turned to the bed. Sherlock was wearing the same expression he'd worn in the abandoned Tube car, when John had told him he was the best and wisest man he knew. It was the look of a man who had never received kindness in his life, suddenly realizing that he had a friend. It was more than John could take in his current state of mind.
"So," John finished, feeling a bit self-conscious, "do you mind if I stay with you, until everything is sorted?"
Sherlock cleared his throat. "No," he rasped, reaching for a cup of water. "I don't mind at all."
The doctor sighed with relief. "Good, because I've already moved my stuff back. Any experiments I should know about?"
"There is a rather delicate mold sample in the kitchen," the detective admitted, his eyes shining with happiness (or perhaps it was the morphine). "I'll need photos and your professional opinion of the smell to conclude my experiment from here."
"Right," said John, "Sorry I asked."
Like two children, they looked at each other and grinned. There would be plenty of time to ponder the future, and make sense of John's marriage troubles. For now, John's best friend was alive and recovering, and that was enough to get on with.