Author's Note: Here's the next chapter! Thank you so much for your continued support; it means a lot.
Is the world now grey?, was the first thought that Sherlock Holmes had when he woke up. It was a silly question, but that was the question that seemed to appeal to him. Obviously the world isn't grey, he answered himself, mentally shaking his head. The world couldn't just become grey. Unless...he was dead? No, he couldn't be dead. He was safe. With John. In Madrid.
His thoughts came to a halt just as he registered the pain that was shooting through his body, going this way and that. He wanted to open his eyes, but he believed that even that would hurt in some way. All he wanted was to stay still. Maybe, if he stayed still, the pain would go away.
Something warm caused his thoughts to pause. The warmth was coming from his hand. Well, on top of his hand to be more exact. It felt like a hand. No, a thumb. It was a thumb.
"I'm so sorry," the person murmured. He rubbed the back of his hand again. "I'm so sorry that I wasn't able to protect you, Sher." His voice caught on the last word. It cracked. Was he crying? He scrunched his eyelids before opening them.
The world was fuzzy, but after blinking a few times, it seemed to clear up a bit. John was sitting next to him, his hand resting next to Sherlock's. His gaze was on the edge of the bed. His hair was sticking up this way and that. Sherlock frowned; he had never seen John look so disheveled.
Even in times of panic, the army doctor always seemed to be able to keep a level head. He always seemed able to think clearly and help Sherlock out in some way. But...here he was, on the verge of tears. Unable to keep his emotions in check. Sherlock shook his head slightly, just enough for John to register the movement. John shook his own head and moved a bit closer to Sherlock.
"No, it was my fault. I told you that I was going to protect you until the day that I die. And you got into trouble tonight...and I was unable to help you." John sighed. "I am so sorry."
Sherlock turned his head to the side, as if telling John 'no'. How could John possibly blame himself for this? This wasn't his fault. If anything, this was his fault. If he had never suggested Madrid, they would have never run into that person. The hair on the back of his neck stood up. He swore to himself that he would never come in contact with that person again, but he did. He broke his promise.
"No..." He whispered, his voice hoarse. He wanted to speak more, but a sharp pain shoots down his throat. He winced and pushed himself against the bed more. John frowned.
"Don't...talk. They...had to put a breathing tube in. The guy...well, when he shot you, he hit one of your bones apparently. A piece of one of your ribs chipped off and...well, tore your lung a bit."
Sherlock's eyes widened. So that's why his chest hurts. He nodded softly and closed his eyes; a sudden wave of drowsiness rushed over him.
"Sleep...y." He said, sinking down into the bed.
After a few minutes of getting more comfortable, the consulting detective drifted off to sleep. John smiled softly, glad that Sherlock was getting his rest. He needed it if we wanted to recover, after all.
About an hour and a half later, Sherlock woke up again. His finger twitched upwards, notifying John that he was waking. John shifted and leaned forward; he was awake. He didn't die. Did he actually believe that Sherlock was going to die while he slept? No, not really, but he couldn't shake the fear that somehow Sherlock was going to die on that hospital bed. Sherlock groaned slightly before shifting so he could see John properly. The army doctor smiled and kissed Sherlock's hand.
"How are you feeling, Sher?" He asked softly, looking at the detective with wide eyes.
Sherlock would have shrugged, but he was still in too much pain. He rolled onto his side and adjusted his morphine drip. John frowned but didn't comment on the fact that Sherlock had just increased his morphine.
"I'm sorry that you're still in pain," he mumbled.
Sherlock shook his head a bit.
"No...not...your fault...John." He said, his words coming out slowly. He shifted over so slightly so John would have more room on the bed. "Lay with me, John? Please?"
John bit his lip. He really shouldn't lay with him. If he did, he could hurt Sherlock. He could accidentally pull one of the wires that stuck out of the detective's thin form. Sherlock groaned and patted the side of the bed.
"Please?" He asked, his voice hoarse from underuse. His vocal cords were so used to him talking, they were probably in shock from the sudden lack of use. John wanted to say no; he wanted to tell Sherlock that he would recover better if he was sitting next to him, but he soon lost that argument when the other man looked at him with big, sad, eyes. John let out a breath and climbed into bed next to him.
He draped one of his hands over his waist and pulled himself closer to him.
"Better?" He asked softly, looking at Sherlock with wide eyes. He wasn't used to seeing Sherlock like this. He knew that he shouldn't be laying next to him, but what could he say? He rarely said no to Sherlock. Especially when he was in so much pain.
Sherlock nodded and shifted himself slightly so his head was resting on John's chest.
"Yes," he whispered.
John smiled softly and kissed the top of the consulting detective's head. His hand slid up Sherlock's back until it met his soft curls that marked the back of his head. He smiled and carded his hand through his hair. Sherlock hummed softly; his body relaxed slowly, comforted by John's presence. John continued to card his hand through the detective's hair, hoping that it would help him fall back asleep. He knew that Sherlock had been sleeping a lot lately, but he needed more sleep if he wanted a quicker recovery. Of course, Sherlock hated to sleep, but he hoped that the repetitive motion of his hand would help lure him to sleep.
Sure enough, about ten minutes later, Sherlock was sound asleep. His head drooped a bit on John's shoulder and his lips parted a little. John watched Sherlock closely, not wanting to miss anything if he suddenly stopped breathing or woke up and needed him. He kissed his hair gently and sighed.
"I'm sorry, Sher," he whispered, frowning.
The door opened, sending John's out of his thoughts. A nurse walked in and blushed softly when he saw the two men laying on the bed.
"I'm sorry...was I interrupting something?" She asked, glancing from John to the door.
John blushed.
"No...you're not." He shifted a bit away from Sherlock. "Do you need me to get off of the bed?"
She nodded. "Could you? I just need to properly examine him."
John nodded and got off of the bed. The nurse came around the side and started to check Sherlock's vitals, making sure that his body wasn't under too much stress. She quickly examined Sherlock's wound and jotted something down on his file.
"Thank you." she began, glancing over at John. "He seems to be making a proper recovery so far. It's still a little too early to tell how long he'll be in here, but I would say that he should be out by tomorrow by the earliest."
John nodded.
"Thank you."
She smiled. "You're welcome. I'll bring some food for him a little while later."
She turned to leave, clearly done with Sherlock. Which made sense- she probably had a lot of patients to check up on. But, John couldn't let her leave just yet. He walked over to her, stopping her in her tracks.
"Is there something that I could do for you?" She asked. Her eyebrows furrowed a bit.
John nodded and glanced over her shoulder at Sherlock. He smiled softly.
"Sherlock doesn't really like to eat much, so I wanted to ask you if you could make him something special, if it's not too much trouble. Could you make him some toast and put some nutella on top of it?"
Her expression softened; a small smile spread across her lips.
"Sure. Is there anything else that he'll want to eat when he wakes?"
"No, but thank you."
She nodded and headed out of the room. John took his seat next to Sherlock and squeezed his hand lightly.
"They're going to make your favorite breakfast, Sher." He whispered, kissing his hand.