… still blushing from the tip of my nose to the end of my toes! Thank you for all the positive feedback.
Consequences
John closed his eyes, waiting for the bloody MRI scanner to finish its job. This was a complete waste of time – ordering a CT just because he had had a bit of a breakdown when they had dragged him away from Sherlock. He did have a slight concussion, but nothing more. Moriarty had known where to hit hardest when lashing out with his gun. The vomiting, the momentary blackout and the subsequent shock and disorientation were due to extreme stress, not a severe injury.
But that's private medical care for you – no waiting and flashing all the guns they had. Waste of time. Too much wasted time everywhere. It had taken the ambulance another endless minute to arrive while he knelt, cradling Sherlock's head in his hands, watching helplessly as he suffered the agony of choking, blood frothing at his lips and eyes so full of pain and fear it broke John's heart.
And when help finally arrived, there was nothing he could do, only watch while the medical crew worked on him, ruthlessly shoving the tube down his throat – quick intubation was vital, but sedation took time and Sherlock hadn't been completely unconscious, so he struggled against the violent procedure, his back arching, hands twitching, nearly kicking one of the paramedics in the groin.
John almost chuckled. Sherlock had fought all along the way: lashed out even in half-consciousness, hitting poor Barnes' nose, sending the leader of the rescue team tumbling backwards.
The stillness of sedation had frightened John far more: seeing Sherlock on the stretcher, unmoving, almost buried under equipment and blankets; he knew it simply meant the situation was under control – so far, but it seemed like an eerie premonition of what might lie ahead. Sherlock would need his fighting spirit more than ever.
The table was finally moving out of the MRI scanner.
"Dr Watson, we're done now, you can get up in a moment," the nurse informed him. "Just take it easy, you might be a bit dizzy."
"No, I'm fine, thank you," John answered automatically.
"No, you're not," she said with a smile. "You look more than a bit peaky. Do you need a sick bowl?"
"No, really not, thank you. It's okay. I'm okay."
She gave him a long look, handing him a bundle of blue scrubs. "The doctor will be with you in a moment to discuss the images, and if no further treatment is required you'll be taken to your room. I've been told that someone will deliver an overnight bag with your things so that you can put on some proper clothing."
"That's great, thank you. But scrubs are actually fine with me. I'm just glad to get out of this," he smiled wryly, plucking at the hospital gown.
She chuckled, "I bet." No one liked hospital gowns.
"Um, any news yet?" He looked at her, searching her face carefully. They were all so friendly here, it made him uncomfortable. Better a grumpy old head nurse who told him the truth.
"No, Dr Watson, I'd know instantly," she tapped the small phone in her pocket. "Mr Holmes is still in surgery. All the nurses taking care of you have orders to inform you of any development immediately. Someone was adamant about this."
John did not have to think twice who that someone was.
"Now, we'll get you sorted and then you can rest in your room. I will check on you regularly, so let me know if you need anything. Ah, here's Dr Jones to see you."
The images showed no bleeding and no swelling, he had, as predicted, a concussion, though it wasn't quite as slight as he had thought. His vitals were a bit off, too, but you don't take a dive in the Thames every day, dragging up your best friend.
His room was as posh as the whole hospital: cream-coloured walls and floors, glass doors, wooden surfaces, and a bathroom that might as well have been in a hotel suite. Even the bed was soft and broad and laden with luxurious pillows and blankets. Still, he would have been more comfortable in an army bunk – the unfamiliarity of his surroundings added to his sense of dissociation from reality. The events of the last days seemed like a nightmare, without the hope of waking up soon. And now all he could do was wait. Wait, with two security guards outside his door and an unknown number distributed in and around the hospital – mind you, Moriarty was still out there.
He checked his phone – no news from Mary or Mycroft; Lestrade had called five times, though he certainly knew that John was undergoing treatment himself. Probably just to let him know he cared. When he was about to call back, he received a message. He almost dropped the phone, startled by the noise.
Mary informed. Bomb defused. MH
John raised his brows – the eloquent Mycroft Holmes had to be in a real hurry if he resorted to text messages in telegraphic style. He quickly typed back:
Please make sure Mary's safe. Don't bring her here. Worried about Moriarty and the bomb. JW
Even a defused bomb was a threat, he knew, but he was more worried that Moriarty might attempt to attack them again; and no matter how much security Mycroft set up, getting into a hospital was so much easier than breaking into the facilities of the secret service.
He received an answer almost immediately.
Mary is safe. Mrs H and Lestrade under protection. Bomb being removed right now. MH
Well, at least the threat of the explosion was eliminated. Strangely, it did not touch him at all. He ought to feel relieved, so many lives saved, but it did not make the slightest difference to him – he felt oddly blank, as if he had spent all his emotions, and what little energy he had left was carefully preserved for Sherlock once he came out of surgery. If he came out of surgery. Alive.
John sat down heavily in the chair. He sent a quick text to Lestrade, updating him that there was nothing to update on, and that he himself was fine.
He wasn't, of course. He briefly wondered whether Mrs Hudson knew what had happened, but he decided it was Mycroft's task to inform whoever he deemed necessary to inform.
He looked at the bed, soft and inviting, but it was a hospital bed nevertheless. He refused to lie down. He refused to pull over the sick bowl despite the excruciating headache and the nausea. He refused to acknowledge his own minor injuries as long as Sherlock was struggling to survive.
Though bruised ribs, concussion and hypothermia were not minor. Unless compared to a bullet wound in your chest.
The door opened and a nurse came in – Nurse Mills, he remembered. She was tall, blond, determined and apparently assigned to him, for she had been the one to settle him in. He briefly wondered what Sherlock would deduce about her – all he could see was cool professionalism and the artificial friendliness typical for hotel staff. He had no clue what the real person was like and no desire to find out. There had been a time when she would have been his type, but that was before Mary and before the great catastrophe that had brought him here.
"Dr Watson, you absolutely need to rest – you know as well as I do how important this is when you have a concussion. I can give you something to help you sleep, if you can't find rest. And no, before you ask, Mr Holmes is still in surgery. I have just called downstairs and enquired, the minute before I walked in here, knowing you would ask. He's stable, now."
John watched her closely as she went through the procedure of the check-up, making sure the concussion wasn't turning into something more serious.
"But he wasn't – am I right?" he asked quietly.
She hesitated. He had noticed that slight hesitation before, and that had made him jump to the conclusion.
"He's doing fine now, Dr Watson," she assured him. "He'll be out of surgery soon enough."
"He crashed." He had no doubt now. "On the table."
"Only once, and they managed to bring him back very quickly."
John just nodded. There was nothing more to say; cardiac arrest always meant that chances of survival dropped significantly. Complications were inevitable; consequences, too. Such as brain damage. Even if they brought him back very quickly.
He decided to take the bed anyway. He felt too shattered.