After arriving at the hospital, John was evaluated and his shoulder was stitched up from where Alan had cut him with the knife. He had to wait in his room for what felt like hours for the doctors and nurses to do a job he could have done much faster. Hell, he HAD stitched people up far quicker when he was in Afghanistan.
His phone had been destroyed when he took a dip in the Thames, so he couldn't even text Lestrade for an update on Sherlock's condition. During the trip to the hospital, Sherlock briefly regained consciousness, but he did not speak. His vital signs were holding steady. His face had already started to bruise and swell from Alan's vicious attack. All in all, John knew that the damage he could see might not be as concerning as the damage on the inside. He needed to know that his friend was ok.
Thankfully, Lestrade seemed to read his mind and stopped in his room after John's shoulder was stitched. He walked in with his hands in his pockets, looking tired and wet from the rain.
"Well. How is he?" John asked, getting straight to the point as he pulled on his wet shirt.
"All in all, not as bad as he could be. He's got some bruising to his chest and a fractured rib, probably due to the CPR." John nodded but listened as Greg continued.
"They say he's got a mild traumatic brain injury. I've been reading up on it online – it's not as bad as it sounds, basically a concussion. But I'm sure you already know that."
"They're certainly not good though." Said John, looking displeased, "What else?"
"They're worried about pneumonia with the water and bacteria he got in his lungs from his little swim. They want to keep him for observation for a few days."
"He won't like that one bit. So he's woken up, then?" He looked down at himself and could smell the scent of the river on him. He began stripping again.
"Yeah, he's been awake for awhile. Giving everyone that walks into his room a hell of a time." Greg started pacing the room.
"With Sherlock's history, his sensory issues are going to be kicked into overdrive. I hope someone told the doctor and nurses about that."
"I've been on top of it. As had his big brother. He's already got a private room and a team of specialists who've all been reviewed and hired by Mycroft."
"Good." John was standing in just his underwear now. He looked sheepishly at Greg, "Hey, could you do me a favor? Maybe you could get me some dry clothes? There's only gowns in these cabinets and my clothes reek."
"Yeah, I can do that." He said as he turned to leave the room. "John?" he stopped, turning to face John.
"Yeah?"
"How are you?"
John furrowed his brow and laughed. "I'm fine."
Greg nodded. "Ok. I'll be back in a few with your clothes. Why don't you sit down or lie down, John? You need rest, too."
"Yeah, I'll do that." John responded, watching Greg leave the room.
John was able to get a pair of gray sweats to wear instead of his wet clothes. Greg had even gone to the store down the street to get him some toiletries to freshen up. When he was discharged, John visited Sherlock. He entered the room and found that he was curled under a blanket, knees pulled up to his chest, and pillow covering his head.
John turned off the overhead lights and turned on a lamp in the far corner of the room. He quietly sat in one of those uncomfortable hospital chairs next to Sherlock's bed, and waited. He'd wait as long as he needed to. Right now, nothing was more important than seeing Sherlock awake and ok.
After a few minutes, Sherlock peeked out from under the pillow.
"Oh. Hello, John." John grinned. He could tell he was trying to sound chipper, but his voice was scratchy and low.
"Hi. How're you feeling?"
Sherlock groaned in response.
"With words, please." Insisted John.
"The light hurts me. Sounds hurt me. My chest aches. My head feels like it's going to explode."
"Have they given you anything?"
Sherlock inhaled deeply and rolled onto his back, stretching out like a cat. He sighed
dramatically saying, "Not anything that works."
John knew that due to Sherlock's previous drug use, that the doctors would be hesitant to prescribe anything that could become addictive. He knew that bringing that up wouldn't be wise, so instead, an uncomfortable silence filled the room.
Sherlock sighed just as John started to speak. "Listen," he started.
Sherlock cleared his throat.
"Listen, I think that the past two months have been physically and emotionally traumatizing for both of us-"
Sherlock's head turned and he fixed a glare on John.
"What is THAT supposed to mean?! I have not be trauma-"
"Just shut up and listen, would you?" John raised his voice, sternly.
Looking as though he were a scolded child, Sherlock listened.
"We've been through a lot the past couple months, is all I'm saying, and I think a lot of it could be avoided if we agree on something."
"What?"
"We can't split up anymore. You know, we're a team, you and I." He said, gesturing between them, "When we're together, we're generally able to fight off whatever baddies come our way. The second we split up though, that's when everything goes to hell. So. Sherlock. Let's promise not to split up anymore. Ever. You won't send me off on a mission to gather information by myself; I won't leave you to fend off a bad guy on your own. We're in it together. Or not at all."
"I don't do promises." Sherlock responded as he mulled over John's words for a moment. He conceded that he had a point.
John covered his face with his hand and scowled. Before he could speak, Sherlock piped up again.
"But I suppose that due to this infuriating concussion that I am prone to moments of vulnerability and sentiment. I probably won't even remember this is an hour. I promise to not split up or encourage us to split up. Your turn."
"I promise to not split up or leave you on your own again." John grinned, "Deal?"
"Deal." Sherlock rolled onto his side and pulled up the blanket.
He was going to be ok.
They were going to be ok.
The two great heroes of England: thick as thieves, as close as brothers, and best friends - Sherlock Holmes, and Dr. John Watson – they are always going to be ok as long as they stick together.