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He was really quite comfortable. How he got where he was – and where he was exactly, he wasn't sure of either – he had no idea, but it was nice and warm. His brain was rather muddled: as he tried to remember, a few vague memories surfaced. A sharp sting, his legs unable to hold his bodyweight, laughter…then it got more fuzzy, but he could faintly recall the feeling of warm fingers against his forehead and something blue flashing against the insides of his eyelids – lights.
There was an overriding feeling that permeated all of those memories. It was strong, he could tell; it was a powerful emotion and it hurt.
He just couldn't quite remember what it was.
John tried to screw up his face to remember, but he couldn't quite manage the physical movement.
Oh God. Was he paralysed? He manages a twitch in one hand, and decides not. Just exhausted.
He strained his memory nonetheless, searching. The problem was that all the things that had, apparently, resulted in him being in his current situation – whatever that was – only came in tiny bursts of remembrance, like catching snatches of conversation, but not enough to understand.
A bit like listening to Sherlock when he went off on a rant that was incomprehensible to the average human being, the only discernable words being 'murder', 'idiot' and 'dull'.
John found that the feeling, whatever it was, seemed to intensify at the thought of his flatmate. It was easier to try and decide what it was when it was present, so he keeps the man in mind as he tries to decipher it.
What did Sherlock have to do with this?
He tried to look at it logically, as the detective might have done, but his brain was clouded still, and the exercise that was usually a struggle was proving completely impossible. He needed the man's cool logic, his impartiality, his distance.
Oddly, the feeling, which had been more a background throb up until now, gave a sharp jab through his chest at the thought of Sherlock's logic and distance.
Well, that didn't make sense. The detective's withdrawal from normal human interaction and feeling could be annoying at worst, but it didn't hurt. John was well aware that Sherlock counted him as a friend, and did not require endless professions of such friendship. His panic at the Pool had been evidence enough.
Resigned to the fact that his pitiful deductive skills were not getting him anywhere, John gave up for the present. His mind wondered. For some reason it kept coming back to the vague memory of a sharp pain in his upper arm. Stab. Stab. He tries to move his hand to touch the source of the pain, but he can't.
The memory of the feeling brings with it that unidentified emotion, and John finds himself beginning to feel frustration.
He supposes, from experience of vaccinations, that the stab in his upper arm would most likely have been a needle. Hmm. Had he been drugged then? Poisoned?
His brain is beginning to function properly again, and he remembers that he was captured by a serial killer. Poisoned was looking more likely. Why on earth was he captured by a serial killer?
Sherlock.
Sherlock.
No.
The feeling washes over him in full force: powerful and identifiable. Betrayal. He's laying in hospital, having been poisoned by Sherlock bloody stupid, selfish Holmes, because he would rather poison John than risk his own neck.
John feels almost like crying. He'd been well aware that Sherlock was very capable of being selfish, but somehow he'd never thought he'd do something like this. He'd – wrongly – thought that they'd been friends. He'd trusted that man with everything. This was why he'd had 'trust issues'. It was more the fear of being let down.
It was funny, he reflected: he'd seen so much of himself in the consulting detective – the thrill of the chase, the slight removal from the rest of society, the feeling of being different. Sherlock possessed many of the same qualities as him, just more to the extreme, and John had been unable to resist the lifestyle the man offered. The manic chases, the serial killers, the excitement: all torn from the pages of wild adventure novels – it was exactly what he'd needed, becoming more important than much else, as vital as oxygen.
And when that needle had pierced his skin, he'd realised that he'd been blinded by the adventure. The idea of losing all that, of being removed from the battlefield, again, had prevented him from seeing the obvious. Sherlock was always going to let him down at some point, when John finally got in the way of his objectives. Idiot.
Don't look like that. Almost everyone is.
Even though, in hindsight, it seems blindingly obvious, the betrayal still hurt. He had genuinely trusted Sherlock.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Very slowly, and with far more effort than he feels should be necessary for such an action, John prises open his eyelids.
He had been right, he was in a hospital. Given the circumstances, he feels okay, though his head is throbbing, and his eyes dislike the bright light pouring through a nearby window. He wishes there was less white. He's attached to various wires that he would not care to identify at present, and he realises he is no longer wearing his own clothes: instead covered in a hospital gown, and the blindingly white duvet. He screws his eyes up against the hateful glare, and when he opens them again, he becomes aware of a few more details.
Firstly, judging by the quality of the light, it's very early morning. He doesn't bother trying to work out the exact time; it feels like some kind of tribute to Sherlock. About four though, he'd guess. Damn.
He looks sideways, and the next thing he notices is something much darker; a contrast to the white of the ward. It's a relief; actually, his eyes are aching from the brightness that seems to permeate everything. His brain is still slightly clouded, and it takes a second for the thing to come into focus. It's a mass of dark curls, and it's asleep across three plastic chairs, and it's in its bloody pyjamas.
John remains silent; a little confused, and watches the detective for a while. Ordinarily, he would have spoken, but the appearance of his flatmate has caused a violent surge of anger to course through him, and he thinks that a shouting match would probably be inconsiderate to the other occupants of the ward. They, after all, had not poisoned him.
However, it would seem that luck was not on his side: Sherlock chooses that moment to stir, open his eyes, and look straight at John.
Despite his background as a soldier, John Watson was not a violent man. That didn't stop him, at that moment, wanting nothing more than to roll off the bed and punch Sherlock in the face. Hard.
He wasn't doing anything: he was just lying there and deducting, his pale eyes scanning over John, taking him in, cataloguing him, calculating, and formulating some sort of brilliant evaluation that John really didn't want to hear. He'd tell him, all serenity and innocence, how he was angry, and the destructive nature of such an emotion.
Well, screw him.
John looks away, and flips onto his other side. He keeps his eyes open, and crosses his arms across his chest, glaring into the room. He tries not to think about punching Sherlock, because the idea is far too tempting and the man is only a few feet away.
The temptation is only made stronger when a pair of ice blue eyes appear a few inches from his. Sherlock, apparently, has scooted around the bed to continue his stupid staring contest. John flips over again, this time turning his gaze to the ceiling. The tiles are small and white and square: polystyrene with little embossed dots scattered across them. And really not very interesting.
He hears Sherlock shift again, this time to lean over him, and he snaps.
"For God's sake, Sherlock," he snarls, trying to avoid Sherlock's stare by closing his eyes. It feels stupid, so he opens them again, and uses them to glare at the man. "Can you not leave me alone?"
"Why would I do that?" The confidence in the detective's voice grates on John's nerves.
"Because you're tall and annoying and bloody selfish…and you god damn poisoned me and I want you to bloody well go away!"
He finds that he's shouting, and he feels a little guilty when he hears faint stirrings around the room. This was why he hadn't wanted to talk to Sherlock. It's a gut reaction for his eyes to slide sideways, looking guiltily at the woman in the bed beside his, who jerks awake and looks around blearily.
"Stop worrying about them, they'll go back to sleep." Sherlock tells him, picking up on the sentiment.
"Are you actively trying to make me like you even less than I already do?"
There's a short pause.
"You are in a particularly unreasonable mood at the moment," Sherlock comments, lightly, going back to sit on the plastic chairs. This time, John turns to face him, staring at the man in disbelief and renewed anger. This time, however, he manages to keep his voice to a whisper, albeit a very aggressive one.
"Unreasonable! I am not. Being. Unreasonable."
"Wrong."
John glares at him. The detective is sitting upright on the chairs by his bed, hands clasped in his lap, an expression of rather smug superiority on his stupid face.
"Fine," John says, fighting hard not to deteriorate into yelling again. "Fine," he repeats, gritting his teeth, and flipping onto his back. He finds it's easier not to want to kill Sherlock if he can't see him. "How is it unreasonable to be incredibly pissed off with someone who poisoned you?" He pauses. "To put it mildly."
He hears Sherlock shift a little in his seat, but he doesn't look over, concentrating again on the little white squares on the ceiling. A few are slightly stained, and he tries to be interested in how that happened, and not in what his flatmate might be doing. Well, ex-flatmate, unless he has a very good explanation.
"It's unreasonable when the person had no choice."
"You always have a choice," John told him coldly.
He imagines an exasperated look thrown in his direction, and the desire to punch Sherlock redoubles.
It suddenly occurs to him that he has been very restrained in his attack on the man: he has not said half of what he wanted to say. He has not resorted to physical violence. He realises it's a bit of a knee-jerk reaction around the detective: his respect of him always preventing him from making negative comments, where in another person he would have. Given Sherlock's recent actions, he realises that the man no longer deserves such treatment. For once in his life, he's going to tell him exactly what he thinks.
"You know what?" he bursts out. "I don't want to hear your excuses, or why I'm wrong. You poisoned me to save your own bloody neck. It doesn't matter that I would have done it if you'd asked; it matters because I trusted you, and all that I ever get is criticism and mocking and now I'm lying in hospital because of you."
"Cleverly observed, Dr Watson," Sherlock tells him, and John is too angry to notice the rare bitterness in the other man's voice, or the use of his surname. "Would you like congratulations?"
"I ignored everyone's warnings, I actually admired you, I trusted you – and with anyone else I might have accepted that they never realised, but not you – I suppose I should have realised you'd just sweep me aside when I got in the way of your precious cases." He takes a breath. "It turns out they were all right, doesn't it? I was wrong again. It shouldn't come as a surprise after spending so much time with you."
His last sentence is vindictive, angry, hurt, every single emotion that had flooded him as Sherlock had attacked him in that church. He wants for his words to hurt the detective, to make Sherlock feel even a fraction as bad as he did. It's selfish, he knows, but maybe Sherlock deserves a taste of his own medicine.
"Now," he manages, his voice a little calmer. "Could you please leave me alone?"
There's a horrible silence following his outburst. He thinks he hears a sniff, and fights the urge to look. His conscience appears to have returned, and he does feel a little bad. But not bad enough to take it back. When Sherlock speaks, his voice is hard and cold and unfeeling, so much so that John becomes sure he imagined the sniff.
"If you'd used your brain, then poisoning would not have been necessary."
"Excuse me?"
He is unable to restrain himself any longer, and John shifts in the hospital bed for what feels like the hundredth time since he awoke, to look at Sherlock again.
"If you'd brought the police with you, instead of trying to rescue me alone, then any action on my part would have been unnecessary. Therefore, John, it's entirely your fault that you are in that hospital bed. Stop being stupid."
"I didn't poison myself!"
"No, you thought you could take on a serial killer on by yourself. That's much more sensible, I forgot."
"Oh sorry, remind me of your great plan for escaping."
"Reckless."
"Selfish!"
"You remind me of Donovan with your wide vocabulary in describing me."
"Sorry, maybe it's the poison clouding my brain – "
"Maybe you're just an idiot."
"Maybe you should bloody well GO AWAY."
Their argument had become rather loud and heated again, and this time the commotion had attracted a nurse. She was in her forties, looked sleepy, and was currently frowning severely at John and Sherlock. By this point in their dispute, John had sat up slightly and Sherlock had leaned forward; their faces were inches apart and they were shouting at each other. John was breathing hard, Sherlock glaring.
She pushes John back down into the mattress with a little roll of her eyes and a reproving word, and then turns to Sherlock. He flatly refuses to leave, and unfortunately at the mention of the name 'Holmes', it apparently becomes irrelevant that he is still around outside visiting hours, which John has no doubt has something to do with Mycroft. She does, however, force him to move away from John's bed: owing to the fact that he is distressing the patient, and the pair of them are waking up the other occupants of the ward. She is extremely firm – John marvels at how anyone can manage to move an angry Sherlock Holmes, but she manages it, seating him at the opposite end of the ward. John tries to sneak a look at him after she's gone again, sitting up marginally and squinting. The detective is looking straight at him. John's uncertain of the emotion on his face; perhaps it's the distance. He disregards it, lies back, closes his eyes, and drifts off within minutes.
When he wakes, later, Sherlock has gone. He's unsurprised, and given how angry he was at the man earlier, he's a little confused as to why that bothers him. According to the clock mounted on the wall (which would have been useful earlier), it's eleven in the morning, and John notices a much more welcome visitor sitting where Sherlock had been earlier that morning.
"Sarah!"
She smiles at his voice, moving over to kiss him on the cheek and smooth his covers. He returns the smile, feeling significantly less agitated. She looks lovely, if slightly worried about him.
"Sherlock told me," she tells John, sitting back down and crossing one leg over the other. John is not thrilled at the mention of the man, and completely fails at concealing it.
"Right."
"Are you alright?" she continues, the concern in her eyes very visible.
"I feel fine," he tells her, trying to conjure his smile back up, realising that Sarah is referring to his physical state, in any case. "I can't imagine I'll be here too much longer…probably just a few cautionary tests, you know."
"Yeah," she smiles, the relief showing in her eyes. "Listen, John, I'm sorry…but I've got work, you know, and you were asleep."
"I know," he tells her, squeezing her hand, thankful beyond belief for the refreshing normalcy her presence brought. "It's fine."
He leans forward to press a kiss briefly to her lips. She grins at him and leaves with a wave, promising to return later. John leans back into the mattress with what is undoubtedly a very stupid grin plastered across his face. He wonders vaguely if eleven is too late for breakfast.
After breakfast (which it is apparently permissible to eat at eleven in the morning) he has a brief chat with the doctor. He's happy for John to leave as soon as possible, though he informs him, as John had suspected, that there are still a few routine blood tests that need to be got over with.
He takes a quick trip to the toilet more for the walk than anything else. It's a relief to be able to move around, after his brief scare last night. He takes his time, meandering down the disinfected corridors with little sense of purpose. It's nice to be moving around rather than just laying in bed, although his mind does note how it's also nice just to walk for walking's sake, rather than because he has work, or a serial killer to chase, or some other ridiculous reason conjured up by Sherlock.
However, as much as he desperately wants to be out of hospital, he does wander where he's going to go when he leaves. After speaking to Sherlock the way he did, he doubts the detective would relish the idea of him turning up at the flat, and to be frank, he's not sure if he wants to go back. He's not really forgiven Sherlock, although he has reached the stage where he can think of him without wanting to kick something.
John's not really paying attention to where he's going, so it's little wonder that on the way back from the toilet he walks into someone. He mumbles a 'sorry' without really looking at the person, then does a double take, and looks back.
"Mycroft?"
"Hello, John."
"Have the Holmes family taken up residence at this particular hospital?" he asks. His tone is ruder than he would have liked, but the link to Sherlock has sparked a little stab of irritation that he was unaware still existed. "Sorry," he adds.
"I can understand your anger at Sherlock."
"Yeah," he says, unsure of how to answer the man. He's very aware of his hospital attire, and feels more intimidated than normal.
"You must understand, that to him, the fact that you survived and he caught the killer is a result – and as such, the method in which that result occurred is irrelevant."
"Sounds like him," John admits, feeling a little bad. He tries not to show it, despite knowing it to be a futile exercise around either Sherlock or Mycroft.
"He feels that because he lowered the concentration of the poison he has nothing to apologise for."
"Well he's bloody wro – wait, he did what?"
"He no doubt did not explain himself properly when you two were having your shouting match last night."
Mycroft sweeps away without further comment, leaving John standing in the corridor feeling rather foolish… and more than a little bit sorry.