*You guys are lucky I'm on Spring Break.
Sherlock sat alone in 221B, unusually still and quiet. He wasn't in his Mind Palace, he wasn't thinking through some case. One thought occupied his mind. John. After the events at the music hall, Lestrade and Mycroft had forced him to go home and try and get some sleep. He wanted to fight them, to go to John's side and never leave. But at this point, he was numb. He was so numb, he couldn't find the usual brashness with in himself to fight back. He had received only a text from his brother, telling him of John's condition.
John is currently being operated on. Too early to tell anything for sure, but he lost copious amounts of blood. I will ensure he gets the best treatment money can buy. Do not worry.
-MH
Sherlock could read between the lines. There was a chance that John could not make it through this. The very thought of John, lying dead on a table sent uncontrollable shivers through Sherlock. This total lack of control scared Sherlock. He had always been so in control of everything, but now, the most important part of his life was spinning away, completely out of control. The normally emotionally repressed man could feel a panic attack building quickly, and had absolutely no desire to let the episode take him over.
I need to get out of my head, do something normal. Take my head off of this whole situation. What would John want me to do. Sherlock pondered for a moment, and decided that, since there was no way he would be able to sleep, he might as well try eating. He had absolutely no desire to leave the flat at the moment, unless it was to rush to the hospital and wait for John, so he meandered into the kitchen. He opened the fridge, and was dismayed to find a dearth of leftovers. He rummaged in his Mind Palace for a recipe he could attempt with the ingredients in the fridge. It was a little known fact that, if he could be bothered with it, Sherlock was actually quite a competent cook. He decided that he was in no state to make anything complicated, so made some pasta. It kept his mind engaged enough to be off of his companion, who was possibly dying, in the hospital.
The meal was prepared, and Sherlock did his best to eat it, but it tasted like cardboard. Everything around him was unusually dull, and he felt quite lethargic, despite his inability to sleep. All he could think of, was John. How John would make him eat if he were here. How John would bring back the proper colors of the world if he were here. How John would make him sleep, make him lay in bed until he was too bored to do anything else. Sherlock needed his John back now.
Sherlock wondered if this is what life was like for John when Sherlock had left. John believed him to be dead. Did the world lose all appeal, like it was now for Sherlock. The world seemed unbreechably dark. Sherlock may be capable of making light, but he was useless without his conductor.
Sherlock couldn't take it anymore. He had to go to the hospital. He had to go to John. He had to go home. Sure, 221B was his and John's flat, but if home is where the heart is, then Sherlock's home was John. This new revelation was backed by the lonely, cold atmosphere that currently inhabited the flat. When John was home, it was quite the opposite. It was warm and comforting and just full. When John was in the flat, it felt like home. But now, it just felt empty, mocking.
Quick as a flash, Sherlock jumped out of his chair, and ran out the door. He couldn't wait for a taxi, so he bounded off down the street to St. Bart's. He did his best to ignore the pain in knee from where he had banged it on the ground earlier. It seemed horribly ironic that John, whose currently hung in the balance, should be doing so in the very place where Sherlock had faked his own death. It was a terrible irony, and Sherlock couldn't help but think that this time, fate would take the turn for the worst. It was a fifteen minute run-even with his bad knee- to the hospital. Once outside, he took a second to compose himself. He dramatically burst through the doors. He strode to the reception desk. The effect was ruined a bit by the limp that was prominent in his stride.
"I demand to know the status of Doctor John Watson. I assure you that if you do not fulfill my demands quickly and accurately, I will have you fired." He snarled threateningly. The nurse at the desk quivered for a moment, as if unsure whether to retort or do as he said. Sherlock simply raised one eyebrow, as if he was questioning why she was still here if she didn't have the information. The lady quickly turned, huffed, and walked away. She returned quickly with Mycroft right behind her.
"Sherlock, I told you to go home." Mycroft sighed.
"And here I am,"Sherlock retorted, for once not caring if others saw his emotions, "My only home is with John." Mycroft looked at him, analyzing. Finally he sighed.
"Very well, come with me."
Sherlock complied, and Mycroft led him back into the hospital to the laboratory Sherlock normally used. Mycroft walked to a table and pulled out a stool. He waved his hand to indicate that Sherlock should do the same. Reluctantly, Sherlock complied.
"Sherlock," Mycroft said quietly, " John should live. The bullet missed his artery, but he lost a lot of blood. The doctors gave him a transfusion, and as long as he doesn't have a bad reaction, he will be fine. However, he may never regain full motility and function in that arm." Sherlock was dazed. He was over joyed that his doctor would live, but was simultaneously horrified that John might be crippled. Sherlock just nodded, unable to speak. Mycroft looked a bit worried.
"Sherlock, are you sure that you are alright?" He questioned. Sherlock just nodded and stood up. His knee, in protest of the hard work it had been put through earlier, promptly collapsed under him.
"Perhaps not then." Mycroft muttered. The politician reached down to pull his brother up. Sherlock gave him a sheepish smile and allowed Mycroft to assist him back out into the hospital. Mycroft pulled him into a private room and made him rest on the bed, with his knee elevated. The elder Holmes then disappeared into the hall way. Sherlock sighed and sunk back into the pillows. He was relieved that John would be okay. John will be okay.
A rush of sleepiness over came him. Just before he passed out, he heard the door open and the sound of something being wheeled in. Too big to be a cart He thought sleepily.