Authors Note: This is just a mini update that goes along with the last chapter, expect a full update sometime this weekend!
John's P.O.V
Beep. Beep. Beep.
"There's nothing else you can do."
"Yeah, I'd noticed that."
"You should go home, get some rest."
"Unless you're going to get security to force me out of this room, I'm not going anywhere Mycroft. Now go away, we both know you'll upset him when he wakes up."
"He might n-,"
"I said go away."
"As you wish. "
Beep. Beep. Beep.
How was that sound so loud? John was going to go deaf with that blasted machine blaring in his ears 24/7. Imagine, Sherlock waking up and not being able to hear the man's wonderful voice.
No, John wouldn't imagine not being able to hear Sherlock's voice ever again. Even as a result of hearing loss, the idea hit a little too close to home at the moment.
Sherlock was just busy sleeping. That's what the good doctor was telling himself. The other man didn't do it nearly enough, so John would let him sleep. John would sit with the fog horn of a heart monitor and let Sherlock Holmes catch up on his beauty sleep.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
"Look Sherlock…I… I just need you to open your eyes. A tiny bit that's all, could you do that for me?"
….
"Alright, that's fine. You're right, it's asking a bit much. Could you squeeze my hand? Gently is okay."
…
"Asking you to lift one finger isn't much. Come now, don't you owe me one finger? Think of all the fingers I've let you have."
…
"Listening up Sherlock Holmes, I need you to move. Move anything. Move that sodding annoying mouth of yours, tell me it's stupid to sit in a plastic hospital chair with my shoulder acting up. Point out that coffee stain from this morning and that I can't sleep with you like this. Just do it. Move. Talk. Wake Up."
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Doctors make the worst patients. This might not always be true but it was in the case of one John Hamish Watson. To be fair, he figured he had more than enough reasons for hating hospitals. Working in the surgery was different. Helping parents with sick toddlers didn't remind him quite as badly as ugly white walls did. Didn't remind him of the prickling fever of infection crawling over his skin from a bullet that was still lodged in his shoulder. Didn't remind him of the number of A/E trips for broken ribs, wrists, concussions and the like that resulted from all the cases. No, the surgery did not remind him of the life Sherlock Holmes led. Like sugar on the edge of knife, running his tongue along the blade to taste the sweetness without noticing the metallic taste of blood mixing in. Dr. Watson hated hospitals. Because when you're with Sherlock, you don't just see a hospital full of sick people. You see the battlefield. And John knows the battlefield. He knows what you can lose in it.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
"You're wearing one of those ridiculous gowns you know, standard issue."
…
"Backwards butt robes you called them once, one of the times you got yourself drugged and I had to haul you here. "
…
"I haven't let anyone take a picture of it yet, so you should be thankful for that."
…
"If you don't wake up soon though, I might. I don't think Anderson would even know what to do with himself."
Beep. Beep. Beep.
John thought he might claw his own eyes out soon. No, that wasn't creative enough. That wasn't doing his current situation justice. John Watson would extract his eyeballs meticulously with a pair of dull chopsticks if it meant he wouldn't have to see the same scene in front of him again.
Private room, single bed, crisp overly starched sheets, messy black hair like a sort of deranged halo, skin that had reached a sickly pale shade, deep bruises under both eyes, everything still.
"Who gave you permission to look so tiny? You aren't allowed to get tiny Sherlock," he whispered to the unmoving man, in the unmoving bed, in the unmoving room, in the unmoving scene.
Who said you could look vulnerable? he thought
"Do not get any smaller, alright? You can't go fading away on me. I forbid you," the doctor snipped at him, instantly regretting not keeping his tone soothing. Soothing tones were meant to help.
"Do not leave me behind Sherlock. Don't you dare."
Beep. Beep. Beep.
John heard that noise every time he blinked. John heard that noise when he tried to curl up in the chair and sleep. John dreamed about that sound. Heart monitor ticking out the beat of the one organ Sherlock Holmes had tried so desperately to deny having. The good doctor found it to be both the most terrible sound in the universe for fear it was doing nothing but feeding him false hope, and the most amazing feeling in the world to know that the great man lying in front of him had not been taken from him. Not entirely.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
"Lestrade came by today. Wanted me to go back to the flat, I told him to piss off. Remind me to apologize later. They got a confession out of Hallohan. Bet you would have hated that, them closing the case without you. That's just what you get when you make such a big fuss like this. It's your own fault."
…
"I didn't mean that, you know that right? God- I didn't."John whispered into the suffocating silence.
…
"This isn't your fault, of course not. It's alright, I knew you were an idiot from day one remember? You never could resist, you must have the worst survival instincts of all time."
…
"You could make it up to me, you know. You could show them that you're still in there. Let Lestrade know how hopeless he'd be without you, tell Anderson that his new tie makes him look even more rat faced as if it were possible. Then we'd be even."
…
"Would you do that?"
…
"For me Sherlock, just stop it."
…
"Stop this."
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Authors Note:Please let me know what you think, this was a bit different I know