John
Lestrade and I were whisked off to neighbouring cubicles relatively quickly because our injuries looked relatively serious; there was only a thin curtain separating us but I felt my chest tighten with panic when I couldn't see Lestrade. I was worried that he and Sherlock would abandon me and, now I had time to think about it, the pain in my arm was making my eyes water. I wanted someone to hold my hand. After an initial examination if my wound a nurse pressed a temporary dressing to it and told me to lie down on the blue paper covering of the trolley, "I'll go and fetch a doctor," He said.
It would need stiches. I knew it would need stiches. I had given people stiches loads of times but only had them once myself when I'd last been shot; that had been in a field hospital, I was pumped full of morphine, giddy with pain and practically dead. This time I was fully conscious, in more pain than I could ever remember being in, without pain relief and feeling utterly alone. At that moment I heard the curtains around the cubicle next to me (not Lestrade's side) being whisked open, a woman giving a small scream and a voice saying "Oh, I am sorry!" Sherlock's voice.
I called out to him, but my voice came out as a cracked and choked croak.
Sherlock must have heard me anyway because he and Molly sidled through the curtains around my bed almost immediately after I'd tried to shout his name. Molly smiled shyly at me and asked me how I was feeling.
"Better now Sherlock's here." I said truthfully.
Molly's smile faltered and was wiped completely off her face as Sherlock sat on the chair next to my bed and entangled his long fingers with mine.
"Oh!" Molly exclaimed, blinking rapidly, "I'd best be going then."
"Yes," Sherlock said, using his other hand to push my hair back off my blood-smeared forehead. He was staring at me intensely, like a predator might its prey, except all there was in his gaze was affection. His icy eyes seemed to have melted and the warmth of their lingering capture of mine flooded my body and calmed me.
"Okay. Well… bye then." Molly squeaked, barely supressing a sob as she ducked out of the cubicle.
Sherlock
Normally I held a liking for Molly but as she ran crying from John's bedside I was glad. A half-forgotten memory of Mycroft coming into my room and telling me I couldn't say I was going to go to chemistry club on Tuesdays after school and then not turn up because I knew half the things the teacher said were wrong because that wasn't what commitment was surfaced. This was commitment, sitting with my fingers entwined in the hair and hands of the one I loved, drinking him in with my eyes with my heart hammering so fast it felt ready to burst out of my chest. There was so much I wanted to say but my words seemed to be caught in a dry lump at the back of my throat. I smiled without meaning to and John smiled back. I wanted to kiss him again, to hold him in my arms but three seconds after this thought entered my head a doctor entered our curtained wonderland.