Here's another two-parter. I debated being mean and saving the second part (Bond) for tomorrow, but I couldn't bear to do that, so I am publishing them both today.
John paces the impersonal, antiseptic-looking hallway nervously. On his third circuit in front of Sherlock's room, an elegant hand reaches out and gently grasps his wrist.
"John, take a seat. He is in good hands. It's not the first time he's ended up in surgery."
"Thank you, Mycroft. It's just… his head, you know? I can see Sherlock learning to function with damage to a limb, but I can't imagine him without that brain of his."
"No, nor can I. It is certainly an integral part of what makes my brother the charming, affable, loving person he is." John's about to argue when he sees the smirk on Mycroft's face. Does everyone in this family use sarcasm as a coping mechanism? Groaning, he lowers himself into the awful vinyl chair just outside the room.
Interminable minutes later, they wheel Sherlock back down the hall. He's unconscious, his body looking small and vulnerable. John switches into doctor mode, passing a critical eye over the monitors. Everything looks stable, but there's still no way to know what will happen when he wakes up.
When Sherlock finally stirs the doctors examine him briefly, but John impatiently steps in. "Hey, Sherlock. How are you feeling?" His heart sinks as Sherlock studies his face curiously. There is no flicker of recognition, his eyes are completely blank.