Chapter 3: I'm Fine

With a gasp, Sherlock jolted upright, his eyes opening to the blinding white light of a window. Immediately, blood rushed into his throbbing head. It was pounding furiously with an overwhelming dizziness that begged him to fall back and return to the darkness. He fought against that impulse, though, squeezing his eyes shut to shield his vision momentarily. Clenching his fists, his skin tightened around the knuckles, the first solid sensation of reality he could feel. His breathing was labored, each intake of air only met with a burning in his throat. But coughing would only inhibit his oxygen intake, and the last thing he wanted was to lose enough oxygen to return him to that unconsciousness.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock opened his eyes and turned his head to the right. There sat John, in a plastic waiting chair, looking up at him with wonder. From his disheveled hair and wrinkled clothes, it was quite obvious his friend had never left his side; perhaps only once to get a cup of coffee, but that had been hours ago, as Sherlock saw from the Styrofoam remains that laced John's fingers and nails as he had torn the cup in boredom and worry. Looking to point that out, Sherlock made to say something, but John instantly threw his magazine to the side and stood up, staring at him with relief.

"Sherlock," he began, but he couldn't continue, shocked that his friend had suddenly returned to the world of the living. It only took Sherlock one look to understand that John was happy to see him. And, to be quite honest, Sherlock was relieved to see him again too.

"John."

"Are you alright?" The deeper wrinkles around John's eyes confirmed Sherlock's suspicions; he hadn't slept in twenty-six, maybe twenty-seven hours.

"Never better," he nodded his head at the grinning doctor, flinging the sheets off his legs and swinging them over the edge of the hospital bed.

"Oh no you don't," he said sternly, pushing Sherlock's shoulder until he fell back onto the pillow once more. "You are definitely not getting up after all that." John grabbed the chart from the front of the bed, pushing a small alert button on his way. As Sherlock heard the beep, he looked up at the ceiling of the hospital room, noting all the tiny geometric patterns that created the gaudy color above him. While normally he would fight back at John, he could not deny that all he really wanted to do was lie down again; simply threatening to get out of bed had been nauseating.

"You're a bloody brilliant man, rolling under that concrete nook," John continued. "Saved your life. Then again, only you could escape a collapsing building without any broken bones or smashed limbs and then wake up from a comatose state trying to leap out of bed."

"How long was I unconscious?" Sherlock inquired, ignoring the exaggerations.

"Two days."

He jarred slightly at that. Had it really been two days? He felt like he had been in that black hole for more than two days…

"Sherlock," John said as he clicked out his pen. "I'm going to ask you a few questions. I need you to answer them as clearly as possible."

"Fine," Sherlock grumbled, really only wanting to put his clothes on. The hospital gown seemed highly unnecessary, and the room itself was actually quite cold once he had pulled the sheets away. Had it been any other doctor tending to him, he would have simply walked out of the room. But it wasn't just any other doctor, and it seemed easier to appease John than to worry him any further.

"Are you conscious?"

"Yes."

"Any pain in your extremities?"

"None." But his arms and legs were covered in new cuts and gashes for some reason.

"Any headaches?"

"No."

"Are you seeing spots?"

"These ceiling shapes have plenty of squares."

"Are you hearing things clearly?"

"Your voice, the heart monitors, heels clicking outside the door indicating a tall woman weighing about 60 kilos happily going down the hall to her dying husband—"

"Do you have any strange tastes in your mouth?"

Sherlock sarcastically licked his teeth. "Calcium."

John scribbled down the word before looking at Sherlock incredulously. "Hang on…"

"Yes, John, that was a joke. Continuing."

"Any headaches?"

"You're being redundant; you already asked that."

"Answer it again then."

"I hate repeating myself."

"Sherlock," John said sternly. "Stop being a child. I'm trying to see what damage has been done."

"There is nothing wrong with me, John. Look," Sherlock waved his arms around. "I can move. I am perfectly fine."

"You don't need to prove you can move; I can see that already. Besides, what I'm most concerned about is your head."

Sherlock clenched his forehead, letting his face fall into a disconcerted frown until he realized there was indeed something covering his forehead. Reaching up, he felt a piece of cloth wrapped around his skin tightly, his curls loosely hanging over them. Running his fingers along the fabric, there was a denser area towards one corner. As he found the pin holding everything together, he began to unwrap the head bandage.

"Ah, no," John chided, pulling Sherlock's hand away from it. "You should keep that on." But Sherlock's fingers returned to the denser area, where his fingers suddenly felt sticky. He looked at his hand; nothing was on it now, but there was something familiar about the sensation he had just felt. Red flashed in his vision.

Fingers stained in blood, blood from his own head.

The memories flashed into Sherlock's mind. It rushed through his thoughts, leaving pictures blurring through his vision. He allowed his eyes to glaze over, processing all the information he could: the text messages, the explosion, the smoke, the girl, his fall.

John watched this pause with deep concern, scribbling about this spacing with an exclamation point on the chart. He coughed once before asking "any lapses in memory?"

Sherlock blinked twice before turning back to John. "Not anymore."

John put down the chart, his eyes filling with worry. "Not anymore? Sherlock, are you—"

The hospital door swung open, and a figure in a white coat strode in. Sherlock glared coldly at the intruder before flashing back to John. The glare continued as this strange man strode over, holding his hand out with a stable gesture and a nod. Sherlock's eyes narrowed with aggravation at their familiarity.

"Dr. Frobisher, sir," John greeted, handing the chart over to the grey haired man. He glanced over the medical charts through wiry glasses and a dull countenance. "Sherlock, this is Dr. Richard Frobisher; he was actually one of my professors when I trained here. Sir, this is Sherlock Holmes, my flat mate."

Frobisher lifted an eyebrow. "My dear boy, I didn't know you were—"

"And platonic friend." John corrected with an embarrassed cough. "Anyways, I just wanted your secondary opinion on his condition."

"I am fine," Sherlock grumbled, to which both doctors glanced at him with doubtful expressions.

Turning back to the doctor, John continued. "I began the initial examination on mental facilities, and so far he seems to be functional…"

The old man nodded, flipping through a file and conversing with John about some x-rays and brain scans. In the meantime, Sherlock decided to do a test of his mental facilities on his own, this one on Dr. Richard Frobisher.

Obviously a neurologist; when it comes to the x-rays, his eyes never shift below the upper third portion of my anatomy. His hand is angled so the x-ray is almost vertical; he has no intention of viewing anything below the neck region. More inclined to view brain scans than x-rays, I might add; he's squinting at the x-rays simply because the prescription on his glasses are meant to analyze larger prints.

Arms are fairly toned, considering his age. His legs, however, are not built to the same standard as the arms. The backside of his neck is tan: he prefers an outside sport. So, he is consistently doing an activity that can be done at his age and done sitting down…rowing; he enjoys rowing in his spare time. He also enjoys seeing a nurse in his spare time at the office: there is a shade of lipstick on the edge of his collar, and only a nurse would leave the stink of antiseptic on top of his cologne. I know the antiseptic is from the nurse rather than from his own precautionary measures because he is not operating today, he is only attending; if he were operating, he would have taken off both his class and wedding ring.

Obviously his marriage isn't going too well, probably due to the fact that he is an alcoholic, indicated by the way he uses his pen. His hand is more horizontal than necessary to write on a clipboard, placing weight on the wrist to compensate for the tremors. However, the tremors are recent; a lifelong alcoholic would have adjusted to this much earlier in life. Alcoholism is attributed to a change in his environment…

Lung condition: he's been given a year to live. His general movements are all focused towards his own body: conversational hand gestures motion towards upper region of the chest; normal gestures are kept at arm level, so the hands would be inclined more towards the stomach rather than the chest area. It's unnatural; he's thinking about his own condition subconsciously. A year to live? Yes…the appointments on his clipboard don't surpass six months from now. Six months to work, six months to settle down; that's generally how people who know they are dying do it. Not that six months changes anything…

The lung condition is no surprise, as he is an avid smoker. The back pocket of his pants has the outline of a cigarette box; the fabric sinks along the edges of the box rather than remaining taut. He always puts the cigarettes in that pocket out of habit; the fabric has stretched due to said habit. Which reminds me: I want a smoke. I know there are some cigarettes somewhere around the flat…

"You are a neurologist with a bad marriage who enjoys rowing, smoking, drinking, and silly nurses and only has a year to live due to…lung cancer."

Immediately, the medical conference was paused. Dr. Frobisher was stunned into silence, as was John. Sherlock simply crossed his arms and leaned back on his pillow; how easily ordinary people lost their wits…

"Well?" Sherlock finally broke out. "Am I right?"

"On all accounts," Dr. Frobisher replied, his voice shaking. He slipped his glasses off with a trembling hand and looked at him with a tired frown. "How…how did you know all that?"

"Easy enough," Sherlock began, completely unfazed by the onslaught of visible emotion from Frobisher. "There's the…"

"Sir," John cut Sherlock off with a dark glare before turning to his mentor. "Why didn't you tell me? How long have you had this condition?"

"Long enough to know that my time is coming up, my dear boy. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a patient I must see." With that, Dr. Frobisher handed John the charts and made towards the door. However, he paused before he swung the door open. "Actually, John, your friend wouldn't happen to be a sociopath, now would he?"

"Erm, well—"

"High-functioning," Sherlock blurted without questioning.

"Ah," Dr. Frobisher gasped. "You see, there seems to be a correlation between sociopathic disorders and the width of the corpus callosum. Your friend here has a longer, narrower corpus callosum than the average specimen…would you mind if I conducted some tests on him?"

"Thank you, Dr. Frobisher," John announced nervously as he shoved the neurologist out into the hallway.

Once the door was shut, John turned to Sherlock, his head cocked with mild irritation. "You didn't have to show off," he muttered.

"I had to show you I was fine somehow," Sherlock groaned. "You said you were worried about my head; I just proved to you that my head is perfectly fine. Now, can we leave?"

"No."

"You can't keep me here, John," Sherlock warned.

"Actually, I can. As your attending physician, I want you here for one more night; just for observation," John added when he saw Sherlock's eyes roll. "Look, you can survive one more night."

"And what's stopping me from walking out of here of my own accord?" he threatened.

"In case you haven't noticed, you don't have clothes. I'm not bringing anything in until tomorrow morning, so have fun escaping in a hospital gown."

"Fine," Sherlock growled, flopping back on his pillow. John almost laughed at the sight; Sherlock was moping, a loose scowl forming on his lips. He was acting like a child. But for all John cared, he was awake, and that was good enough for him.

Good enough for him to disregard the tiny, singular dot that appeared on the frontal lobe of Sherlock's brain scans.