John looked critically at Sherlock, cataloguing his injuries.
Definite right tibia and fibula fracture that would need surgery. No clue how he managed that. Oh wait, perhaps by falling off a building?
Numerous bruises and abrasions to his right side.
Possible broken right wrist, but more likely bruised and sprained.
Laceration to his forehead, not deep enough to need stitches, but could indicate a mild head injury.
The orthopaedic surgeon on call was looking at John, waiting for a response to a question he hadn't hear.
"Sorry?"
"Are you his partner?" he repeated, obviously not pleased at having to say it again.
John blushed. "Erm... no. But I am his medical proxy."
The surgeon nodded, like it didn't matter to him, as long as he would get to operate.
"I'll need you to read these and sign them, Be sure to ask it you are unsure about anything Mr..."
"Doctor Watson," John supplied.
"Right," he said, shoving a clipboard in John's direction. "The pre-op nurse will be back in a little bit to answer any questions you may have and to prep him for surgery."
John nodded, and with that, the surgeon left.
He skimmed the consent forms, already knowing what the gist of it was, and signed the necessary blanks. He set that on the bedside table and pulled his chair closer to Sherlock, who was still out of it. The second drug that he's been given seemed to be lasting quite a long time, given Sherlock's drug history, but that was alright with John if it meant he didn't have to deal with Sherlock moaning about surgery and John making medical decisions for him.
Thankfully, Sherlock didn't wake up before he went to surgery. John settled in the waiting room with a two year old magazine about Hollywood relationships that seemed preposterous. He gave up on it after a total of five minutes and moved to pacing around the tiny room. He was thankful that he was the only one occupying it. That only lasted for about ten minutes until he was tired of that, and he gave up and went to the hospital cafeteria.
He choked down a sandwich after remembering he hadn't eaten since that morning, and seeing how it was getting dark out, he needed to eat because he wasn't Sherlock. That didn't even take half an hour.
He headed down to the morgue, hoping to see Molly and maybe have a chat with her, anything really to keep himself occupied, but she wasn't there.
John wandered around the hospital for a bit longer before returning to the waiting room, giving up on any hopes of avoiding boredom and figuring he may as well be there for when Sherlock came out of surgery.
Because knowing Sherlock, as soon as he could, nurses would be crying and doctors wouldn't be far behind. It was best to head that problem off before they even got there.
John spent an indeterminate amount of time that seemed agonizingly long before he was told Sherlock was out of surgery.
It was the same orthopaedic surgeon as before who came to tell him.
"Mr Holmes is out of surgery now," the man informed John flatly. "It went fine. You should be able to see him after he wakes up, probably in about an hour."
He turned to leave, but John scrambled to catch him, laying a hand on his shoulder.
"That might not be such a good idea," he told him, removing his hand when the surgeon glared at him. "Have you read any of the notes in his chart? Specifically related to how abrasive he can be, especially after just waking up from anaesthetic."
The surgeon didn't say anything, just continued glaring at John.
"It would be best if I was there when he awoke. For some unknown reason, he's calmer when I'm there."
The surgeon studied him for a moment in a way that reminded John of Sherlock a little.
"Fine," he said finally. He spun and led John down the hall to Sherlock's bed, and went to inform the nurses.
John settled himself in the small chair at the bedside and clasped Sherlock's hand carefully between his own. His right hand was not broken, but was badly bruised and scraped and was wrapped up. John held the one with the IV.
His leg was encased in a large plaster cast. John knew it was only temporary. When Sherlock left the hospital, probably in three days, it would be replaced by a much lighter fibreglass one.
The cut on his forehead had been cleaned during surgery, or some time shortly after, and steri-strips were holding it together.
John shook his head.
"Had to go and slip off a building, didn't you? Thank goodness it was only from the second story. And why might I ask?" he mocked, responding himself, "oh yes, it was an experiment. In what I might ask?" he asked himself. "Oh, experimenting with friction on multiple surfaces. It turns out that when roof tiles are wet, they tend to be rather slippery." John widened his eyes. "No kidding?"
He shook his head, hardly believing he was having a conversation with himself, let alone in front of Sherlock.
"Look what you've done to me," he told Sherlock, shaking his head yet again.
"Hardly my fault," Sherlock muttered without stirring.
"What the- Sherlock, you're supposed to still be knocked out."
"Since when does that mean anything?" he replied.
John glanced at his watch. It had only been half an hour since the surgeon retrieved him, half the time it should have taken for Sherlock to wake from anaesthesia.
Sighing, John replied, "Never. How are you feeling?"
Rolling his head slightly to face him, Sherlock examined John for a moment.
"Like I fell off a building." With a smirk, he added "Nice conversation you had with yourself there."
John groaned. "You heard that?"
"Of course."
John shook his head and collected himself before speaking to Sherlock again.
"You had surgery to-"
"Pin the bones in my leg, yes, yes," Sherlock interrupted. "Tibia and fibula fracture, internal fixation."
He shifted slightly, like he was testing something. "No broken ribs, but definitely bruised. Minor concussion. Bruised wrist." He raised his eyebrows, wincing as the skin around the laceration was pulled. "And a cut on my head." He looked to John for confirmation. "Anything else?"
John shook his head. "Spot on."
Sherlock smirked. "Of course."
"Are you in pain?" John asked anxiously.
"Of course I am," Sherlock snapped. "My leg is broken. Then they cut it open to shove bits of... whatever, metal or something in there. Of course it hurts."
His eyes glazed over for a minute.
"Cause I can get the doctor-"
"I didn't like those drugs," Sherlock interjected.
John frowned, not quite following. "Which ones?"
"The second dose that I was given in the ambulance. Not good."
John made a note to find out what drug that was, and make a reference to it on Sherlock's chart.
"Okay," he said gently. "It can be a different one. I'll go see, okay?"
For a split second, John thought Sherlock was going to tighten his grip on his hand, but at the last moment, loosened it and nodded to John.
John returned with a nurse and a different drug, dosed for Sherlock's tolerance.
He nodded off soon after, a fact that John was relieved about. He returned home to sleep and shower, intending to be back before Sherlock awoke.