John Watson looked dead.
The tale-tell rise and fall from his chest and violent shivering dispelled the assumption, but not the possibility.
His army tan had paled into a color rivaling corpse skin. Sweat and grime clung to his malnourished frame and every breath was a faint wheeze-in pant-out not capable of doing anything more than preventing immediate suffocation. A nasty hacking cough further challenged his ability to breath.
A quick pinch on the skin of his hand revealed probable severe dehydration from the way it hesitated to fall back in place.
Most of his wounds were heavily infected and his face flushed in fever.
The left leg is turned at an impossible angle, revealing a break, and a couple of John's ribs had followed suit. Wrists irritated and raw from bonds, yet the severity and position said he had likely been suspended from them.
Signs of all sorts of tools used, fish hooks, whips, sandpaper, etc.
Rat bites, spider bites, snake bites (likely used to inflict fear as vermin tend to cause spastic, horrified reactions from people). Bruises, broken nose, smell of death and piece of rotting flesh stuck to his shoulder suggest he was in close quarters with a corpse at one point, nailsbroken and bloody.
His state of starvation and injury created a vulnerable illusion, making Jock seem almost childishly small now.
"Sherlock, step back." Lestrade pushes him backwards gently with an arm. He hits a wall and watches paramedics run over to John.
He hadn't noticed that they had gotten here. How weird.
Emotions, he reasoned, must be subtracting from his usual awareness. Which was weird, as he'd seen John in a lot of bad situations.
Strapped to a bomb. Strapped down in front of a Chinese death trap. On his knees with a gun at his head.
Sherlock usually maintained focus. Perhaps he should have considered sleeping yesterday? It had been two, (three, four days?)since he'd passed out on the couch. Though he had dozed off for an hour yesterday.
Perhaps John's obsession with making him eat and rest wasn't all that pointless. He'd have to tell him that. Maybe. If John got better soon he'd consider it.
He watches them wheel said man into the ambulance on a stretcher with medical personnel still fluttering around him.
Oh. This is one of the first times he's seen John really hurt. And seriously to boot.
It occurs to Sherlock that John's life may be in danger. And that Sherlock can do utterly nothing to help fix this.
It's a very odd feeling. Very wrong and uncomfortable. He hates situations out of his control, they made him useless and anxious.
How terribly human to feel.
"Sherlock?" Lestrade had grabbed his shoulder and was shaking him lightly. "You okay?"
"Yes... Yes, I'm fine," he replies, not even looking at Gerald or whatever his name was.
"You sure? You seem a bit... Out of it," he comments and Sherlock shakes his hand off.
"Quite fine... Yes..." He needed to get to John. Make sure he was... Properly taken care of. Only problem was, where were they taking him? Maybe Garrywhatsit could tell him. He was with police, police knew things... Sometimes.
He turns to Gaven. "Where is that ambulance going?"
"Sorry?" Grayson seems caught off by his suddenly attention and question. How typical.
"John. In the ambulance. Where are they taking him?" He explains impatiently.
"Um, I suppose just the nearest hospital... Cromwell, I believe." Garfield answers slowly.
Info gathered. No longer useful.
He wisks away from Griffin and heads outside of the building.
"Hey! Wait!" Gimli calls. Insistent. Boring. Slow. Obviously needing an explanation, but Sherlock didn't care to waste time with one.
It's much darker out than he expected it would be. Unimportant, as cabs would still be out even at this hour. It doesn't take too long to flag one down and he's quickly on his way towards the hospital.
Hmm. An ordinary public hospital. How would he know if John was receiving the care necessary for a full recovery? Things went wrong at hospitals as well. What if one of those idiots made a mistake and killed John?
As improbable as it was, Sherlock wanted to make sure it wouldn't happen. He whips out his phone and, albeit reluctantly, dials Mycroft.
"Myc-"
"Yes brother dear, I already know the situation."
Sherlock resists making a comeback about his stalker tendencies and instead chooses to focus on the problem at hand. "John's life could be in danger."
"It isn't, I assure you."
"How can you know?" It annoyed him that Mycroft knew something about John's situation he didn't.
"I have connections little brother, as you already know so well. It isn't exactly spinal surgery to slip in one of my own as a nurse."
"So you'll ensure he's well cared for?"
"Of course."
Well alright. He could live with that.
He hangs up and turns to stare out the window.
John had looked dead.
He'd seen dozens of corpses, so why did a mistaken one bother him?
Because none of the others had been John.
.•∆•.
Pneumonia was one of the things he had neglected to deduct from John's condition. In hindsight, it had been fairly obvious. Perhaps he really did need sleep.
The infections inside and out over his already frail body had made him disastrously ill. He hadn't been able to keep anything down since they brought him in two days ago, which was very not good as he was already half starved to death and, as previously noted, dehydrated.
As a result John currently had a small collection of IVs and such poked into him.
The doctors had debated on sticking a tube down his throat to help with breathing, but had agreed that if he did fine the first night on only the oxygen mask they wouldn't do it. John had passed ,thankfully, with only one or two really bad choking fits.
Neither time had he been conscious. He, in fact, had not breached wakefulness even once during his stay. It worried Sherlock. Staying unconscious for two full days was usually bad, right?
Despite these things, it didn't appear that John was going to die.
Even his concussion would not cause a sudden and very cruel death in the night. His fever was no longer climbing to ridiculous heights, instead balancing at about 40°C. No longer a medical emergency as it had been when he was brought in at 42°C
So overall, John appeared to be recovering fairly alright.
Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and Molly all came by on more than one occasion, keeping Sherlock company and giving reassurances. Sherlock frankly didn't need their support, but kept quiet as the hospital was an incredibly boring place and they kept him from bothering the other patients or trying to steal equipment (Molly even made him dump out his pocket full of those little ear examiners. He had been so close too).
Regardless of how bored he was though, Sherlock was determined not to leave John alone.
After all, who knows what these buffoons will do to him without his supervision? Plus, John still had nightmares on bad nights about the war. Waking in a hospital after one might trigger a panic attack. Then there was also that nurse that mentioned patients visited by loved ones tended to recover faster. John was important, therefore a speedy recovery was not unwanted.
However, after several weeks of steady physical recovery John had not yet woken up.
Disturbing and unusual as by now he could very nearly be taken out of the hospital and taken care of at home. There was no reason for him to remain comatose, unless there was an underlying problem.
This theory was dispelled, however, when his pupils were checked for reactivity. They both dilated and shrunk as they were supposed to. Pain stimulus caused him to reflexively flinch as well. He couldn't possibly be classified to be in a true coma, and yet Dr. John Watson did not wake up.
"Perhaps he's hiding."
Sherlock turns to frown at the nurse. "What?"
"He's a victim of abuse, right?" She explained. "He might just be hiding in his mind, trying to protect himself from the world. I've heard that it can happen."
"So how do I bring him out?" Sherlock asks.
She smiles. "Just be there. Show him that it's safe to come out."
He scowls and turns back to John. The whole idea sounded very sentimental and romanticized, but then again, that's how John worked right? Besides, there wasn't exactly much of another choice, now was there?