AN:New with beta now.

Chapter 1: Twenty-seven

Twenty-seven days. It had taken them twenty-seven days to find him. John was angry, not really about the fact that Mycroft had needed twenty-seven days to locate the whereabouts of Sherlock or that his kidnapper had gotten away. It was that feeling he had had all those twenty-seven days. The feeling of being useless. John had not been able to do anything to help find Sherlock faster, he had not been able to help catch the kidnapper and the worst part of all was that now he couldn't do anything to heal Sherlock's wounds.

When Sherlock had been rescued, found in a warehouse on the docks, he had been unconscious. His body was covered in torture marks but the worst was the head injury. It looked like the kidnapper had tried to kill him by hitting him with a heavy object on the head.

They probably thought they had succeeded, because, when they found him, Sherlock looked as if he were dead, barley breathing and showing no signs of life, not reacting at all to anything or anybody. After Mycroft's team had recovered him, an ambulance had taken him to a private hospital nearby.

Sherlock lying totally still on a stretcher surrounded by doctors was rolled into surgery. And John was left behind, standing in front of the heavy doors leading to the surgery theater. Waiting again.

John had waited twenty-seven days to see his best friend again. Every night when he slept he had had nightmares. What was happening to his friend? Would he ever see him again? When he couldn't sleep, his mind did the same as his nightmares, showing him pictures of a dying detective, screaming in pain and calling John's name to save him. Seeing Sherlock's injuries, his nightmares had been right, but the truth was worse than his dreams had been.

Waiting for news, John sat in one of the hospital chairs in the waiting area, as uncomfortable as ever. Those chairs were not meant to make you feel better. Three hours later, John now at his fourth coffee, let the cup nearly fall as a doctor came to him and told him what John had already expected. Coma. Sherlock was in a coma, the prognosis being quite bad: the doctor would not say when or if his condition was to improve. Even worse, they were not sure if he was ever going to wake up again. They had treated all his injures and Sherlock had been brought to his room. If John would like to stay by his side, he was welcome to do it even after visiting hours. This was surely Mycroft's doing, John thought.

John followed a nurse to Sherlock's room, a private room with a sofa in one corner. John knew he would be sleeping on this sofa for many nights. There was no way he would leave his friend alone anytime soon. Hours passed, John hadn't moved after he had pushed one of the chairs as close as possible to Sherlock's bed and sat down. Sherlock was not breathing on his own. He was intubated and John watched the slow falling and rising of his chest brought by the ventilation machine. There was nothing he could do to help him except wait and be close to him. Let him feel he was not there alone. That someone was there with him.

Every hour a nurse came in and checked all monitors and Sherlock's vitals. Even if no one voiced it, everyone was waiting for him to die. But Sherlock didn't die, he started improving. On the second day in hospital Sherlock started to breathe on his own. They extubated him but still gave him breathing support with an oxygen mask as his sats were still too low. But he could do it alone. He was breathing by himself. One machine less was needed. His eyes started to move under his eyelids as if he was dreaming.

In the night when most of the patients slept and most of the staff was on call, John started to talk, not about something specific, he just said whatever went through his head and read to him from the daily newspapers. Most of his sentences ended with 'please wake up, Sherlock'. His wish came true but differently to what John had expected. On the third morning in hospital, John was in the chair on Sherlock's bedside again, watching him as he opened his eyes for the first time in days. John needed a few seconds until his brain had made the connection: open eyes = waking up.

Sherlock's eyes moved through the room, confused and unfocused. As they met with John's there was no recognition and John lost the smile on his face. There was nothing. This wasn't the Sherlock he knew. John saw only confusion in the eyes of his friend. John opened his mouth to then close it again. After a few seconds he tried again. "How are you feeling, Sherlock?"

An innocent question to check on his friend's mental health. John didn't move as he talked but Sherlock started to move away from him, or better he tried. His body was too weak and it had to hurt a lot. "Stop it, Sherlock, you can't move, you will get hurt. More than you already are."

Sherlock looked at him with hate in his eyes. "I don't talk to doctors and you are not allowed to touch me. I want Mycroft to come and get me. I want my brother!" He screamed.