Confused. Baffled. Surprised. Let's throw in worried into the jumble of things John Watson was feeling.
He sat, unharmed, in a moving car staring with wide eyes at a well-dressed (read: posh) man across from him twirling an umbrella. Confusion was aimed mainly at the man - honestly, who would carry an umbrella on such a lovely day? Completely unnecessary. The accessory made it seem like he knew it would rain later, giving off an air of a know-it-all. Oh, and the fact that the man hadn't yet killed John - making the boy completely baffled at the fact he was still alive.
"You should really wear your safety belt," commented the man.
John's eyes got wider. Here comes in the surprise. Surprise is a funny word, one with all sorts of slants and nuances that one could see in 'excited' or 'I have to talk to you.' This surprise, the one that John was currently feeling, was mainly 'it was such a normal day' and 'why am I not dead' with a dash of 'what about the groceries?'
"I'll have one of my people pick up new groceries before the end of the day," said the man, seemingly reading John's mind.
Worry. Several different types. Worried for his life, of course. For Sherlock, because obviously this was connected to him - things like this didn't just happen to John Watson after all. And for the immediate future, the car's destination.
"You must be wondering who I am?"
John nodded, still trying to process what had happened a minute before.
"My identity is not important, however, the time is. Do not worry, John, no harm will befall you."
John's attention was caught at that.
"What? You kidnap me off the street and I'm supposed to believe that? Who are you!"
"Like I said, not important-"
"Let me go," said John, leaning forward and staring at the man. "Let me go right now and I won't hurt you."
The man had the audacity to smirk at John, his posture completely relaxed.
"Really? Petty threats of physical violence? It would take one blow to your shoulder to immobilize you for quite sometime, and Sherlock wouldn't like having his... friend harmed."
John didn't back down. "How do you know Sherlock?"
"If you were to ask him, I would be his arch-enemy," the man said through his smirk.
"Arch-enemy? Is that even a real thing to have? Where are you taking me!?"
"One of two places," the man checked his watch, "but likely the second at this point. I suggest you calm down before you end up hurting yourself."
John didn't realize he was grasping the edge of the seat so hard until he looked down.
"And for goodness sake, put on your safety belt!"
Who turned on the lights, god they're bright. I shut my eyes.
Fuck, that hurts.
Migraine? Most definitely. I try to cover my eyes with a hand but stop before much progress is made.
Fuck, that hurts more. Focus. Where are you?
Hard ground, damp coat, pain, pain, pain, remembered glimpse of a tree - outside obviously. On the ground. I smell smoke and... blood? My own of course.
I was beaten up. Again.
How tedious.
I regain consciousness sometime later, thoroughly making sure that my migraine is gone before I attempt to open my eyes. Low light, blink, white ceiling, breathe in, hospital. I groan lightly.
A hand tightens around my own, a face above mine. John.
I open my mouth to speak but nothing comes out. John disappears and comes back with an ice chip, soothing my mouth. I blink in thanks.
John smiles, then frowns. He moves away, presumably to call for a nurse now that I'm conscious, and sure enough a nurse hovers over me within a minute. I fall asleep again.
This time I feel normal when I awake - as normal as I can feel anyway. I turn my head and John is there - always there - holding my hand again. I smile and blink sleepily.
"Joh-"
"WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING?"
John was upset.
"What do you mean?"
"What do I - Sherlock! You're in a HOSPITAL for Christ's sake, you were attacked and I wasn't there!"
"But I -"
"Would you like to know why I wasn't there? Hmmm?" He was pacing at this point. " I wasn't bloody THERE because I was bloody KIDNAPPED off the STREET - you IDIOT!"
He stopped mid-pace and turned to look at me. I didn't try to talk this time. "And look at you know," he said in a softer tone. "God, Sherlock - you're covered in bruises! Your shoulder was dislocated and two fingers broken!"
At the look of panic on my face he added "The right hand, don't worry." I couldn't stand not being able to play violin. And John knew that.
"This happened to you, and I wasn't there - for what Sherlock? Nothing's going to happen to those idiots now."
I shake my head minutely to avoid excess pain and begin to explain, but John covers my mouth with his. It was gentle, of course, and warm. And much too short.
"You idiot," he said (this time with a smile on his face), "You could've gotten yourself killed."
"I didn't mean to John, honestly." I respond.
John sighs. "I know."
I gesture weakly to the drawers across the room. "John, in my effects, the recorder. They confessed."
John wrestles with the bag and pulls out the recorder - still intact. "But if they confessed, why did they -?"
"Beat me up? Of course they did. I'm me. Anyway, everything we need to turn them in for Harrison's - and mine for that matter - beating is on that recorder." John slips it into his pocket. I yawn.
"Get some more rest," John said. "I'll be here when you wake up again."
Of course he will.