Chapter 4

As the sun came up on London a few days later, casting the already bustling capital city in a shadow of dark blue, Watson looked across at his friend lying in the bed opposite him. Sherlock's eyes were closed, and there was now a look of peace upon the young man's pale face to replace the look of alarm from a few days before. There was a drip feeding saline and a cocktail of medication into the back of his right hand, and he was breathing much easier now with the aid of an oxygen mask.

Sherlock had spent the past few days sedated and intubated in order to give his injured throat time to heal, and throughout this time John had been almost permanently glued to his side. He'd sat in the chair next to his friend's bed, eyes unmoving from his catatonic form as he'd watched the gentle rise and fall of Sherlock's chest, until his back had moulded itself to the shape of the seat which he'd occupied, and his wounded leg – which hadn't plagued him for such a long time now – began to ache. Periodically he would rise gingerly from his position in order to stretch, before checking Sherlock's vital signs, adjust his drip, check his chart, and return to his seat, where he would resume his tireless vidual.

Mrs Hudson, Mycroft and even Lestrade had been regular visits to the hospital throughout this time, although only Mrs Hudson and Lestrade had stayed for any length of time – Mycroft simply popping in between professional engagements in order to check on his brother's progress before popping out again with a somewhat mysterious and superior air. John didn't mind this so much, the few hours Mycroft had spent at his brother's bedside on the evening of his admission had been passed in uncomfortable silence, with the elder of the two Holmes brothers busy making arrangements and instructing Sherlock's numerous doctors and nurses on his younger brother's care. It had come as something of a relief to John when Mycroft had finally left early the following morning.

Mrs Hudson had spent numerous afternoons plying John with hot, sweet teas and coffees from the hospital vending machine, and fussing over Sherlock's unconscious form, whilst Lestrade had brought along a selection of case notes from Scotland Yard for Sherlock to leaf through, in order to keep him occupied once he regained consciousness.

In addition to keeping her two tenants's flat maintained in their absence John was also grateful to their kindly landlady for the long hours she too had spent keeping watch over the detective's bedside – fluffing his pillows and gently ruffling his hair as she gently stroked the stray locks of his messy black mop away from his clammy forehead – enabling John to get some much needed sleep, and to grab the occasional breath of fresh air.

As the days went on she had stayed for longer, spending whole days busying herself around Sherlock's hospital room and only returning to 221B late each evening in order to get some sleep herself. Lestrade visited twice a day, once before work, and again on his way home. John on the other hand never left his friend's bedside – the nurses had provided him with blankets and pillows, and one in particular who had seemed to take quite a shining to the two men had even slipped him meals when she could.

It had been a tense few days for all involved, but finally, almost a week later Sherlock's throat had finally recovered enough to enable him to be taken off the ventilator, and after a few hours he's eyes had opened for the first time since his admission to the hospital – to everyone's great relief.

He'd uttered just one word before his eyes had fluttered closed again as a more natural sleep had taken him.

"John..."

That had been late during the previous evening, and as John now stood at the bedroom window and looked down at the hospital car park below, and the view of the city on the horizon, he turned back to his friend and smiled.

It was going to be at least another week before Sherlock would be well enough to leave the hospital; his body had taken quite an unprecedented beating and was going to need time to fully recover. Despite the fact that the majority of the swelling had now gone down the detective's throat was still very bruised, and his neck was going to be remain painful for a few days to come.

He was also both physically and emotionally exhausted – and he wasn't the only one Watson thought silently to himself, as he cast his mind back over the past few days.

Sherlock Holmes stirred in his sleep, grimacing as a pained moan escaped him, and John sighed – abandoning his own moment of quiet contemplation he stepped over to his friend's side, adjusting his pillows and pulling the blankets further up towards his friend's chest in order to try and make him a little more comfortable. He then gently placed both of Sherlock's hands beneath the sheets, noticing that his fingers were pale and cold – being careful not to dislodge the drip in the process – and readjusted his oxygen mask.

Yes, it had been a tough week for all involved, but given time he now felt significantly assured that Sherlock was going to be just fine - he'd be back to his old self in no time.