Right, so this is officially the last chapter of the story. I will still post little one-shots of their lives after this. If you have ideas, just lemmie know. I have a few planned, but am always open for suggestions. :)
John felt as if he was slowly fighting his way up from the bottom of a pond. Everything was murky and cold, and he felt strangely confined. The longer he fought, the lighter his surroundings became and the more he felt he could but surely, he made his way through the surface, but instead of breaking through the surface, gasping for the breath he should surely need, everything went dark once more. But not for long.
Mycroft had been at the hospital ever since John Watson had first been admitted. He had patiently waited, foregoing his usual duties in favor of consoling his brother, who frankly, needed him more at than the country did at this point. Anthea was perfectly capable of filling in for im at meetings, and important decisions could be solved through secure phone calls. Right now, his younger brother was hurting.
Mycroft was roused from his light napping in the unforgiving plastic hospital chair by rustling from one of the two beds in the room. He glanced toward his brother's bed first, despite knowing that he was not the source of the movement. After Mycroft had gotten him to sleep, he'd had a doctor come to check Sherlock's knee. It was a grade 3 knee sprain-not severe enough to require surgery, but still a bit not good. He had the doctor give him some painkillers that would let his brain rest longer than the normal amount of time allotted. He would need this time. Soon he would have to suffer through some intense boredom, as he wouldn't be able to do much on his knee for awhile. Just maybe, Mycroft pondered John will be able to... alleviate some of that boredom.
The elder Holmes turned to John's bed then. He observed the man struggling in his sleep, obviously-well, to Mycroft, at least- about to wake up. The British government knew his brother should be rousing soon as well, and decided that he should take his leave- for now. His brother and John had some things to sort through on their own.
The brightness didn't burst suddenly in front of John in a blinding supernova. It didn't suddenly blind him, or even just appear. The brightness came like the moon. In a slow progression of slivers; starting as nothing more than a hairs breadth wide, but ever so slowly building, budding into a beautiful full picture. The light was bright, but not blindingly so. Everything was white and bright, but that's not what hurt. John is what hurt. Everything was achy, but the pain was the worst in the upper regions of his being.
With the brightness came vision. Before,his sight was impeded by the murkiness of his surroundings. He couldn't see anything. Now he could see a room. Specifically the ceiling of a room. The longer he could see, the more he saw. The longer he could see, the more he could distinguish between the different parts of himself and what was him and not him. He could tell the pain was in his arm now. He could hear beeps around him. EKG his brain provided.
He tried to sit up, and was pleased to find that it wasn't too difficult. Every movement pained his arm, his body was achy, but he could manage. He was used to soldiering on in the face of pain. This wasn't too awful. The awful thing was the sight that greeted him when he turned his head to look about the room. There was Sherlock, lying on a bed, with an IV drip. He seemed to be unconscious, but could be just sleeping. He was mostly covered with a sheet, minus his left leg, which was in a brace. Of what John could see, Sherlock didn't look too bad. What scared him is what he couldn't see.
Absolutely anything could have happened after he had blacked out. Sherlock had no doubt confronted Moriarty once more, and when it came to that spider, Sherlock didn't have the best judgement skills. He could have gone too far, been seriously injured. Any amount of time could have passed since then. John didn't know how long Sherlock had been out or even how long he himself had been out. He took small comfort in the fact that he and Sherlock were not surrounded by frantic doctors, but being a doctor himself, he knew that the lack of doctors didn't make them safe. Sherlock could be in a coma, or under anesthetics, or could just be sleeping. John didn't know.
"Sher'ock" he managed to croak out. He attempted to reach towards the other man, which was an unfortunate decision on his behalf, as Sherlock was on his left, and his left arm was injured. He cried in pain and frustration as his arm proved just how useless it currently was. At the sound of John's anger, Sherlock stirred in his bed.
"Jawn." he mumbled. He stirred about some more, as if attempting to rouse himself.
"Jooohn." he moaned.
"Sherlock" John managed, louder this time. He needed Sherlock to wake up. John had to know what happened. He needed to know if Sherlock was okay. He needed his Sherlock to be okay.
"John." Sherlock said. His voice sounded normal,and John could see his eyes struggling to open. A rush of relief flooded through him as his greater fear were squelched Sherlock was almost awake, not lost in a comatose state as John had been fearing. When Sherlock finally opened his eyes, John let out the breath he didn't realize he had been holding.
"Sherlock. God, you're okay." John breathed. Sherlock rolled over on his side and moaned loudly.
"What-Are you Okay? What's wrong?" John said frantically upon seeing Sherlock's pain.
"No it's fine John. It's all fine. My only injury was an unfortunate jarring to the knee. It should be fine, just stiff from inactivity after overuse. The real question is, are you fine." Sherlock said, an unusual tone to his voice. He sounded...happy.
"Yea, no I'm fine Sherlock."John said, a bit preoccupied with the new sentiment Sherlock's voice was conveying. Silence descended over the couple. It wasn't awkward, just comfortable, like most silences the two shared.
"John, I need-" Sherlock said just as John said- "Sherlock, listen-"
"Oh, you go first." They said simultaneously. They shared a small giggle, then John indicated with a small nod-he was smart this time and avoided arm movement- that Sherlock could go first. The younger man gave a small gulp, then proceeded.
"John, there is something I need to tell you. Firstly, I must confess that I am not good with sentiment, and strong surges of emotion with in myself unsettle me. My earlier actions-they were based on one of these hasty emotional surges, and-I-I think you should know that you are special to me, for reasons unbeknownst to even myself. You keep me interested. You are so easy to read, yet you surprise me time and time again. You are unswervingly loyal, and the only one who tolerates me. You put up with me at my worst, and keep me in check at my best. I do not know much about emotion-whatever I had learned, I made a point to delete. What I do know, is that it hurts me to be away from you. I want to be in your life, a part of your future. I want to be there when you wake up, even if it means being temporarily bored while I wait for you. I want to be there when you go to sleep, even if I don't wish to sleep. I want to spend more time with you, and-" Sherlock rambled.
"Sherlock." John interrupted. He absolutely couldn't believe what Sherlock was saying. He was elated; Sherlock wouldn't just say these things. He meant them, truly. He could see how difficult and unnatural this was for his friend, so he put his out of his misery. Sherlock had stopped and stared at the interruption, waiting for John to speak.
"I love you too." John said.
A grin that Sherlock rarely wore-in fact, only ever wore for John- stretched across the consulting detective's face.