Chapter 16
Once in the police car, John was even more fidgety, looking out the window to the streets that still passed too slowly, and not really hearing anything the police woman was saying. If only Sherlock hadn't been so bloody stubborn and had allowed him to go along. If he hadn't had that stupid distraction complex, he would have had a gun and a man behind his back to protect him, but no. John desperately tried to swallow away the feeling of guilt - he should have gone to find Sherlock anyway once he got worried; never mind how much of an idiot the detective was all the time, sending no messages at all...
"I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes is in too bad a state. I can't allow you in," the nurse in front of Sherlock's door said. Somehow, John could register that she had a Scottish accent.
"I need to see him." He was surprised how much panic sounded through his own voice.
The woman was shaking her head, but then Lestrade came around the corner. "Ah, you can let Dr. Watson in, please. I contacted him myself."
John entered the room and it was as if an ice cold fist closed around his heart. Sherlock looked pale, small and broken in the clean white bed. His eyes were closed and different bruises and cuts were scattered over his face, a compress on his right cheek and one on his forehead. John let himself fall in the chair next to the bed, staring at Sherlock. He didn't think of anything to do, all of his medical capacities gone as he felt lost sitting there.
There were no voices this time, when Sherlock slowly awoke. The intense pain throughout his body had been reduced to a dull ache. His right arm felt heavy and restricted, but remembering the agony when he had tried to use it, he thought that was probably for the best. His throat was still burning, but he decided to risk testing his vocal chords. He had meant to ask for water, in case anyone was within earshot. But what escaped, raspy and pained, was a name: "John..."
John gently took Sherlock's left hand, careful as if it was made of a very fragile kind of glass. He hadn't really been able to make much of the cracked sound Sherlock had made, but it had sounded a bit like his name and at least it meant that Sherlock was perhaps returning to consciousness. "Shush," he said softly. "I'm here. And I promise everything will be alright. It has to be." He bit his lip.
Sherlock knew John from the touch of his hand before he even spoke. A sigh of relief escaped him and he tried to force his eyes open. Only one of them complied, but it was enough. John's face, lined with worry was hovering over him. He tried to speak again. "I'm sorry..."
"Sssh. Sleep. It's fine. I'm here. Nothing's going to happen to you now, I'm here." John very gently squeezed Sherlock's hand and bent to brush a light kiss on the battered cheek. He didn't even notice the tears rolling over his own cheeks, partly caused by relief and partly by worry.
"Don't need sleep," Sherlock tried to answer. He did not want John to leave. He needed to tell him something, but even more importantly: he just needed him.
Despite himself, a small smile broke through in John's expression. "Yes, you need to sleep, my idiot."
Sherlock smiled. "Thank you. I love you too," he whispered, finding, to his great annoyance, that he was indeed drifting off again.
John pressed the pale hand against his lips for a moment, and didn't let go of it as he put it back in place, even though that made him sit in a strange angle. He was reassured for now, but he avoided thinking too much, knowing that all wasn't over yet with Sherlock just waking up.
When Sherlock woke up the next time, it was to the sound of a somewhat familiar voice rattling of facts.
"He was very lucky," the man said. "It could easily have been a lot worse. As it is now, he's facing a fairly long recovery. His arm alone will take up to eight weeks to mend and his ribs will be bothering him for a long time. There's also the effects of the prolonged exposure before he was found. We have it under control for now, but he'll be at increased risk of pneumonia for some time. He's going to need a lot of care."
Sherlock opened his eyes, one of them still reluctant. A doctor was standing by his bed facing a relieved looking John and an infuriatingly composed Mycroft.
"How nice of you to join us, brother dear," Sherlock rasped.
The three men looked around, surprised to find him awake. John immediately smiled at him, Mycroft gave him an unimpressed look.
"It would save me a lot of time if you would stop getting yourself into trouble all the time, little brother. You should listen a little more often to our, or should I say your, good doctor."
"Piss off, Mycroft," Sherlock answered, almost fondly as he reached out a shaking left hand towards John. "And take the other good doctor with you, please."
The doctor and Mycroft exchanged a look and left the room, leaving John with Sherlock.
"Hey. How do you feel?" John asked, taking the shaking hand in both of his own.
"Like hell," Sherlock answered honestly. "But I'm glad you are here."
"You do look like you've been run over by a bus a couple of times," John said with a half smile that didn't quite work.
"Yeah?" Sherlock too tried to smile. "You should see the other guy..."
John huffed, then leaned forward to bury his face in the pillow, right next to Sherlock's shoulder. It was starting to smell a little more of Sherlock and a little less of hospital. "I was so worried," he said in a small voice.
"I'm sorry," Sherlock bit back the many aches it brought on and turned his head towards John's.
John said nothing and just quietly kept their heads together for a while, enjoying the closeness, until his back started to protest and he sat up. He softly stroked Sherlock's cheek. "I love you."
Sherlock sighed, putting his hand over John's. "I love you too."
John wanted to ask what exactly had happened to Sherlock, but probably it was too early. It would take too much energy for Sherlock to tell the whole story now. "Get some rest," he said softly, kissing Sherlock's forehead.
"Will you stay?" Sherlock asked, his eyes closing.
"Of course," John said, shifting his chair a little closer to the bed.
Already half asleep, Sherlock reached out his good hand, searching for John's.
When he woke again, John's hand was still in his, but it was no longer gripping tightly. He could feel the weight of John's head on the bed and hear his heavy slow breaths, interspersed with those little endearing snores that Sherlock had grown quite fond of. He could smell John's breath and even feel it as a light cool breeze on the back of his hand. Having exhausted all the available information, Sherlock opened his good eye. John was sitting in the chair by the bed. He was leaning forward resting his head and chest on the mattress next to Sherlock. One hand rested in Sherlock's the other was clenched in the sheet, signalling the worry that John still felt.
Sherlock studied his face. Even in sleep there was obvious tension around the mouth and eyes. He had been worrying and was still feeling... What? Concerned? Angry? Sherlock could understand both.
John must have been terribly worried about him. He felt guilt coursing through him at the thought of what he had put him through. From the reception the doctors had given him when he was brought in, he had been able to discern, even in his confused and concussed state, that they had initially considered his condition to be quite critical. He couldn't remember if Lestrade's showing up had been before or after they had him x-rayed and found the internal damage was minimal. What had John been told? He couldn't even bear to think about it.
And the anger was even more understandable. Sherlock had been beating himself up all day about how he had acted that morning. It had been entirely his own fault. John had been ready to get started on the case, but Sherlock had not been able to resist teasing him, hoping for … Sherlock blushed. He'd gotten a little more than he'd bargained for, certainly, and it had been fantastic. But Sherlock had not been prepared for the blissful exhaustion that followed. When he woke up, he had been furious with himself, and more than a little embarrassed. And he had taken it out on John.
He had barely made it to the street before realizing what he had done. He had turned on the stairs, ready to rush back up and make it up to John. But then he had realized that this too was a distraction and that the inevitable conversation that would follow, would have taken up even more of the time he did not have. It had had to wait. Perhaps when he had tracked down Harris and made a new plan, he could call John. Or at least text. But right then, he had to focus.
Thinking back, Sherlock desperately wished he had made another decision. If he had gone back, none of this would have happened. They would have been at home now, together, sleeping in each other's arms or perhaps … He smiled and gently squeezed John's hand.
