A.N: Apologies, apologies! I'm dreadfully sorry this took so long to write! Oh, and I'm also sorry for the lack of good quality writing! Here's a bit of fluff to keep you going until I can actually get good at writing! :)
Chapter 9
John was still in surgery when Sherlock awoke. The surgeons flitted around the operating table, performing their tasks with practised precision. Mycroft had made sure that John had the best of London's surgeons working on him. He'd phoned the hospital to talk to his brother, and was promptly redirected to Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade of Scotland Yard. The man explained that Sherlock and John were to have no visitors until they were well enough. A decision which Greg made on his own to avoid an antsy Consulting Detective insulting every person who had the nerve to actually visit him. Mycroft was surprised that his smooth, manipulative tricks didn't work on the stern gentleman on the other end of the phone. He made a note to meet this man in the future.
It took several attempts, but Sherlock was finally able to sit relatively upright in his bed. His shoulder and stomach wounds throbbed in a painful rhythm; his hip wound slowly becoming excruciating as he stretched his legs out properly. Looking to his right, he noticed that John was gone. He sighed, realising that the surgery must have been scheduled for mid-morning. His heart dropped when he realised that John could possibly be losing his leg today, a possibility that he really didn't want to think about. He tried to make a few deductions when staff or visitors walked by. In a space of half an hour, he'd deduced three unhappy marriages, a nurse that owned a few too many cats, a plastic surgery addict and a nurse that had a habit of stealing stationery. The rest simply bored him too much to notice. Deducing the room was the next step. He picked apart details to keep himself occupied.
Two beds, but the room holds three. The third bed was removed recently. The room is clean, except for a recent juice stain on the linoleum. Colour indicates a child's drink. Dirt tracks on the floor, nine different shoe prints. Three are nurses, four doctors, Lestrade. The last set leads to John's bed only. Females shoes, obviously heeled. Possibly a girlfriend. Yes, definitely a girlfriend. The woman from the clinic.
Sherlock stopped at the idea of John's girlfriend coming to visit him. He found himself becoming slightly jealous. Not at the idea of having a girlfriend visit though. He couldn't put words to it. With that, his nurse entered the room. She looked the same as she did yesterday; respectable uniform, black shoes, hair in a fountain of tiny braids and a touch of silver eye shadow on her dark eyes.
"Mister Holmes, you're looking better, yeah?" she smiled. Sherlock caught sight of her name badge for the first time.
"Miss Archer. When will John be out of surgery?" Sherlock asked. The nurse smiled. Sherlock deduced that the smile was genuine, and not constructed to cover any bad news that might be lingering.
"Call me Karen and He'll be back within the hour. When he's in and settled, I'll help you into that chair over there okay love?" She said, pressing a few buttons on the monitors.
"Yes, thank you. Who came to visit John this morning?" Sherlock asked. The nurse chuckled a little.
"You were sound asleep. Her name was Harriet, I'm pretty certain. She came in with the Detective Inspector; she was here until John left. Charming girl, she was. She said to say thank you to you for finding John. Well, I'll just check your temperature and I'll be off. John will be back any minute now. I've been told you don't eat much, but if you want I can bring up some tea and toast?" She placed Sherlock's chart on the end of the bed, and picked up a thermometer. Sherlock turned his head slightly so Kern could do her job, which she completed quite efficiently.
"Just some tea, thank you Karen," he replied as the woman walked out. Sherlock used his manners with this woman. She obviously wanted to help, and was certainly not incompetent. He hoped that John had a nurse that was as careful and polite. Sherlock sighed out loud. He'd gotten his deductions wrong. Harry Watson was the ninth set of footprints. Lestrade must have let her in to see her brother. There's always something, he thought.
With that thought, a bed was wheeled into the room. Sherlock shot up into a full sitting position, hissing with pain as his wounds disagreed with the motion. Sherlock held his breath as two men attached John to the life support system. A third stood and wrote in John's chart. There was a large chair blocking the view of John's legs. Any movement Sherlock made to see around it was cut short by excruciating pain. The three men eventually left the room, smiling at Sherlock as they walked out.
Sherlock knew John was unconscious. He would be for a while. "Got your tea, love," a familiar voice echoed as Karen Archer entered the room again. She smiled a knowing smile, and placed the tea down on a tray over beside John. Walking over to Sherlock, she lowered the bed a little, and held out her arms.
"It's going to hurt, so try not to shout, okay?" she instructed, helping the tall man to stand upright. The consulting detective breathed in sharply a few times. He ignored the pain as best he could. Step by excruciating step, they finally made it over to the chair on John's side. Sherlock sat down, and Karen pushed the chair closer to John, surprised that such a tall man could weigh so little. Sherlock let his eyes trail down John's legs, down to his knees. The blankets were too thick to be able to tell.
Karen patted Sherlock on the shoulder and left the room, quietly shutting the door behind her.
John looked so peaceful. His eyes were shut and his breathing was even. Sherlock reached a shaking hand out and touched John's leg. He let out a silent sob when he found that John had in fact kept the leg. He smiled wide. The dark haired man watched John for a while. He realised that he still had his hand on John's leg. He also realised that he didn't care. A warm feeling filled Sherlock's chest, and he forgot about the horrendous throbbing in his own body. He reached his hand up and moved it from John's leg to his face, and then down to his hand. He kept his hand on John's, feeling the soft pulse. Leaning forward, Sherlock rested his head on John's bed and closed his eyes. He didn't even realise he'd fallen asleep.
When he awoke, he lifted his head to find a pair of soft brown eyes looking at him. John smiled, and Sherlock sat up straight. He noticed that his hands had tightened slightly around John's in his sleep. He let go and regained his composure. John laughed.
"Well, we're a right mess aren't we?" he joked, his voice rough and damaged. Sherlock smiled. John raised an eyebrow at his friend.
"Well, what are you doing in here then?" he questioned. Sherlock looked down. He suddenly felt quite silly in his ridiculous hospital gown. He missed the finely tailored suits and heavy coat.
"Stabbed and shot. Oh, and I was punched in the face. Try not to get kidnapped again, it was most inconvenient," Sherlock brushed off his own injuries. They weren't important to him anyway. John rolled his eyes.
"You're the one who drove me out of the flat, you sod!" he laughed. Sherlock laughed with him, and it reminded him of how they laughed together in Buckingham Palace on the first day of the Irene Adler case.
"Harry visited this morning," Sherlock informed. John's laughter died out and he sighed.
"How'd she find out?" he asked.
"Lestrade was with her, so I assume he called her," Sherlock replied nonchalantly. John smirked.
"Pity she's not still here, we could invite Mycroft and have a family get together," John laughed again.
"Leave your girlfriend. She hasn't shown up to visit you. If Harry was let in, she would have been too," Sherlock said, with a completely casual manner.
There was a silence between them. John looked out of the large window while Sherlock looked at John. Rain began to patter on the window, and the view of London became distorted by the water on the glass. Sherlock reached for his tea and took a sip, only to realise it had gone cold. John was thinking. There was a battle going on inside his head. Tell the truth to his friend, or keep it a secret.
What would Sherlock say if he knew that the Army Doctor had feelings for him? He felt ridiculous. It was so childish to be so infatuated with somebody. But then, Sherlock most likely wouldn't care.
"I lied," John almost whispered, without even meaning to. Well, he'd have to explain now.
"About what?" Sherlock gave his full attention to John.
"I lied about the girlfriend," He confessed. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.
"Why on earth did you do that?" the detective questioned.
"Cause you were being a dick about it. Trying to deduce me like I'm some kind of suspect," John huffed.
Sherlock looked away for a moment, and then looked back. "You do fancy someone though, it's obvious," he said. John blushed.
"Yeah, I guess, if you must know," John answered quietly. Without hesitation, Sherlock leaned forward. Pushing aside the searing pain in his slim body, he pressed a quick kiss to John's bruised lips. He hissed, and put his good arm down on the bed to stabilise him. His face hovered a few inches above John's red face.
John had no words to describe what he felt. He finally mustered up the courage to speak.
"What- What was that for?" he stammered quietly.
Sherlock's eyes grew a touch wider when he realised everything. The sadness and fear and anger he'd been feeling all made sense. Molly was right; Sherlock did care for John, but in a way that Sherlock didn't understand until now. All of the times his heart hurt and his eyes watered when he watched the videos. Sherlock didn't even realise what it all was. He felt so stupid for being so ridiculously oblivious.
"I think, that I love you, John," He said almost inaudibly. John's heart rate went up, and the machine beeped a few times to alert them. Neither of them heard it, though.
"That's the best news anybody could wake up to," John said. He brought his hand slowly up to his friend's shoulder and pulled him in for another kiss. This time it was slightly longer, and Sherlock's legs almost gave out from beneath him. John pulled away and smiled.
"You'd better get back to your bed. You're not going to heal any time soon if you keep trying to move around. Go on, back to bed," John laughed. He thought it was all a little clichéd, but Sherlock was always dramatic about everything, even when he was covered in bullet holes. Sherlock pressed the buzzer on the wall and minutes later, Karen opened the door with a smile.
"Karen, could you help me back to my bed," Sherlock asked politely. John was surprised in Sherlock's demeanour. Mostly that he wasn't giving her sass or calling her an idiot of anything. John thought she looked rather familiar, to be honest. She seemed nice enough.
"Doctor Watson, good to see you're okay," Karen smiled, supporting Sherlock's weight as he walked to his own bed. John smiled back.
"Thanks," John said, and he heard Sherlock grunt in pain. The nurse finished sorting Sherlock out and stood between the two.
"You both should get some sleep, Sherlock; we'll change your dressings tomorrow okay? See you both tomorrow, goodnight," she walked out again and closed the door.
John laughed quietly to himself. Sherlock heard and looked over at his friend. "What?" he exclaimed in confusion.
"Nothing, now you heard the nurse, get some sleep," John instructed, chuckling.
Sherlock closed his eyes. "Goodnight, John," he said, loud enough for John to hear.
"Goodnight Sherlock," the ex-army doctor replied.