A little TLC because I think the boys need it.
Twenty minutes after Mycroft has left a tall distinguished looking man in a dark suit turns up and takes up residence outside John and Sherlock's room. He is armed to the teeth and has the nurses looking very alarmed as they scurry past. He does slightly calm Sherlock's fear for his friend but not entirely nothing excepting having John clearly in his line of sight makes him feel entirely sure that something terrible is not happening to him.
It is some hours before they bring John back and Sherlock is relieved to see that he appears to be sleeping peacefully. But then again that had seemed the case after that first surgery for his knee as well and that had certainly not been a good day. 'Did you manage to fix it?' he asks the woman who wheels the bed in. They've tried, they got a very good surgeon in, if anyone can fix it he can. He'll need a lot of physiotherapy when it heels but if he works at it there's a good chance he will get mobility back.' She offers and in all that it is the uncertainty of words like 'tried' and 'good chance' when really what he wanted was an assurance that of course John would be perfectly healed again in no time.
He stands by John's bed feeling utterly drained when a neat box arrives delivered with a note from Mycroft. 'I saw it prepared myself. Eat it Sherlock. MH' it reads. Sherlock opens the box gingerly but he can tell by the smell even before he opens it what it contains. His favourite childhood meal, a strange combination spaghetti shapes and chicken meatballs that mummy had only condescended to when he had been ill and truly refusing to eat anything she deemed decent food. He had loved it.
How typical of Mycroft to think that he's tastes had not developed from that of his ten year old self. How can he think that Sherlock will be able to eat something so juvenile when John is stuck in bed unable to eat anything with the ventilator stuck down his throat, he questions inwardly and hates himself when he finds his hand unwillingly scooping up the soggy mess and stuffing it in his face. He east hungrily and angrily until it is all gone and it is a thoroughly strange feeling that something which makes him hate himself so much can also feel so good, a true paradox.
When he nearly falls asleep, drowsy with the heavy feeling of the food in his stomach and the draining effect of the temperature he's been running on and off he pushes off the bed and goes to stand by John again. He runs a hand through John's far too long hair. He hasn't been bothering to get it cut and it now lies in strangely long tendrils across his forehead in a slightly shorter, straighter and blonder imitation of Sherlock's own hair. He doesn't like it. Not because it is exactly unattractive but because it just isn't John, same as the facial hair which is progressing from a shadow to something resembling a beard.
Sherlock rings the nurse who comes bustling in and asks for shaving appliances. He can't do anything about John's hair that won't make it look even more of a mess but he can at least give him a good shave. When the woman returns with a disposable razor and a bowl of warm water he scowls at her. That had not been exactly what he had in mind but it would have to do. 'You're good to him.' She smiles sweetly and it makes Sherlock flinch. 'No I'm not, it's my fault he's in here in the first place and he clearly doesn't care what he looks like right now, what I'm doing is selfish' he says sadly and she shakes her head 'He'll care that you cared.' She sings sweetly patting Sherlock on the shoulder before leaving the room.
Sherlock sets to work. The left side of John's face is easy. His cheeks have good slack in sleep and it is smooth under Sherlock's hands. The right however proves a problem. He has to work around the tube of the ventilator as well as the jagged line left by the brick. It is healing but turning into a red scar that surely will not benefit from having the scabs shaved off for the sake of temporary vanity. Sherlock doesn't want John to have a permanent reminder on his face of these months and he searches his mind palace for remedies to prevent scarring. 'Vitamin E.' he finds tucked away in a drawer that contains ways to differentiate self harm from domestic abuse. Wiping John's face he rings the bell again.
He's probably making a nuisance of himself he muses but when the nurse arrives she gives him a wide grin and rushes out to return with handful of small ampules that look like pills. 'Break them in two, it's inside.' She instructs Sherlock who actually makes the effort to thank her. He smooths the oily substance over John's jaw making it glisten slightly. He wonders if there is anywhere else he should be applying the oil but the idea of taking John's clothes off to check makes him feel unpleasantly self-conscious and instead he settles for brushing a hand gently across John's temple. 'That's better.' He mumbles and is surprised to be greeted by a slight flutter of John's eyelashes.
'Thnksh' John mumbles around the ventilator tube and then his eyes close again and he is gone to the world once more.
'You're welcome John.' He says softly and settles down to wait for John to wake up properly.