A/N- First off, apologies that it took me so long to get back to this! I'm in my senior year of high school- things are crazy, and that's not even mentioning family & health problems. But I'm back!
For those of you wondering, no, I am not going to frame Mary as the villain in here. I love her, and I think her marriage to John is a good thing. However, don't take this as me saying there won't be any JohnLock. Trust me, there will be- but it won't come at the cost of Mary's good character or the baby. So basically, what I'm saying, is you'll just have to wait and see what happens! :D Trust me, it's worth the wait.
Also, just a quick notice, I changed my username! This is for various reasons, but I wanted to let y'all know just so you don't get confused. It's also my tumblr url, .com!
Enjoy!
An annoying buzz filled Sherlock's ears as he slowly started to become aware. Moving through the dark was hard; it was thick and palpable and he distinctly felt as though he was breathing molasses instead of air. For a long time there was nothing but that. He didn't know who he was, where he could be, or why. It was not the most pleasant way to start his crawl back to consciousness.
The further he seemed to surface, the more he felt like he was tumbling head over heels, despite the fact that he couldn't actually feel either of those parts of him. The humming he heard grew louder and louder until it was enough to hurt, leaving him with no ability to drown it out. And then, as though someone had flipped a switch, the blackness around him popped and turned gray instead, the noise disappearing completely. Only a moment of absolute silence reigned before dull, muted sounds began to filter through. The buzzing was replaced with soft beeps, little pips from machines he felt he should recognize but couldn't.
Sensation began to bleed back into his body. Little pinpricks of pain assaulted him from what he thought was his hand, his chest rose and fell in a rhythm that was more clinical than personal, and he was barely warm, chilliness ready to assault him should he so much as shift. It was unpleasant, unwelcome, and he certainly was ready and willing to yell at John to get him another blanke-
John.
The name slammed full force into his thoughts, stopping any other processes or ideas he might have had. Of course, John! Memories flooded back to him. But… They weren't full memories. Instead, they were little snippets, snapshots from the day with nothing behind them. Tea and biscuits for breakfast, holding the violin but he wasn't sure if he actually played it, pacing- did he have lunch? Sherlock didn't know. And then… There had been John, for some reason, the two of them in a cab. Blonde hair, blood, something was inordinately funny, hands on his, the blaring of an ambulance, John. And then, nothing else. Just a rush of too-bright lights and overly saturated colors blending together on a gray, distorted canvas.
Time passed like that now, with hums and a gray room and the memory of misplaced sounds. It didn't last forever, though it felt like it might. Some time later, the gray darkened until he was left in inky black again. This time, though, it was different. He could move around in it, press forward. Through the snippets of memories that didn't improve, Sherlock eventually became aware of pain thumping through his head. It was to a rhythm that took him several moments to recognize as his own heartbeat.
The pain grew and grew until he felt as though he should be gasping. Whatever was keeping him breathing, though, wouldn't allow it. Irritated at that, Sherlock moved towards consciousness more forceful. The familiar cadence of voices refined itself into just one person talking, the melody of it soothing and well known.
Finally, finally, Sherlock was able to do more than just shift his mind. He felt his body more than before and pushed, pleased that the hand not enveloped in warmth gave a bit of a twitch. It was as though a barrier had been knocked down; suddenly, movement was possible again. The detective managed to get enough control of his body to flutter his eyes open, blinking against the harsh white lights that were, thankfully, dimmed down from what he knew to be their full capabilities.
Though squinting, a quiver ran through his chest as he recognized John beside the bed. The warmth made sense as he saw strong, calloused fingers curled around his hand. The soft voice was the doctor talking, not looking at Sherlock but rather where their skin touched, a thumb soothing over the chilled flesh.
"Can't believe you," John was mumbling. The detective wasn't surprised. It seemed Johnhad an affinity for talking to him when he couldn't right well answer. "I wouldn't be mad at you if this had happened because of a case. A criminal, y'know, something I could swing my fist at. But no. Of course you, Sherlock bloody Holmes, had to have a cyst by your brain."
Another twitch of his free fingers and Sherlock swallowed heavily. He realized absently that he had oxygen tubes in his nose tickling his cheeks and the beeping was from the machines that seemed to surround his head- the sensations that he hadn't managed to recognize when still pressed under the oppressive mask of unconsciousness. Managing to get his lips to work, he took a deeper breath of the sweet oxygen, then rasped out, "Joh'..."
The detective swore he could have heard the crack as the good doctor's head whipped up. "Sherlock," he breathed, leaning forward. Even through the haze that still clouded Sherlock's head, he could see relief etched into the other's face, a tension draining away from his muscles. "You're awake. That's- that's good. That's really good."
"Wh' 'appened…?"
The thumb that rubbed over his knuckles pressed a little more, pressure increasing just slightly. "You had a blood clot," John explained. "And a bloody cyst. But you still have that. The cyst, I mean." The man looked around a moment before grabbing a piece of paper. There was a copy of a CAT scan on it, but Sherlock's brow furrowed when he saw a large, black blotch on the right side of the scan. Somewhere it clicked for him that it meant whatever it was, was actually on his left side. "That's you. Right now, that's you. Or- it's in you. A cyst, Sherlock, a bloody primary arachnoid cyst. How the hell did no one ever catch it?"
The look on John's face was all he needed to realize that the man already knew- most cysts like this went undiagnosed as the majority of the people with one didn't show signs to indicate its presence. Certainly, with the way the detective acted, there was no reason to perform a scan like this. Without symptoms and without having ever sustained an injury that might have required a scan, it was very easy to miss it. John was a doctor after all, of course he would know- but he was still human. And certain questions would be asked by even the most knowledgeable of doctors. Not to mention that if Sherlock knew about this condition, John most definitely did as well.
A soft breath passed through his lips. Sherlock's hand turned so that he could twist their fingers together, searching out that little bit of comfort that he could. The motion did not make John draw back, though it did garner a pinch in his brow and a glance down at the point of contact. The scan was placed back on the nearby table, quickly forgotten about. "How are you feeling?" the man asked after a couple of quiet moments, worried eyes roving over his former flatmate with unconcealed concern.
He opened his mouth to answer but a cough wiggled its way out before he could, the weak thing rattling his chest as though it were nothing but a child's toy. John's muscles tensed; the detective got the fit under control as quickly as he could to hopefully prevent any sudden lurch towards the nurse's call button. "Thirsty," he gasped out. Immediately, John leaned over and grabbed a small cup from the same table he'd placed the scan on; with steadier hands than Sherlock imagined he might have had should their positions be switched, a small pink straw was maneuvered between his lips.
"Small sips," the army doctor directed gently, watching carefully to make sure Sherlock didn't accidentally choke himself on the liquid. "There you go. Just take it slow." Half the water disappeared before the cup was taken away. Tongue no longer feeling like an old piece of leather, Sherlock settled a little more comfortably against the scratchy hospital pillow, eyes fluttering just a bit.
"I wan' t' go home…" he mumbled, turning his head to the left side to rest. Immediately he regretted the action; a flash of silver hot pain raced through him, his body jerking faintly as his mouth opened to draw in a ragged gasp.
John's fingers abruptly splayed across his chest. How had John gotten up so fast to hover him while being silent enough that Sherlock hadn't realized it? "Sherlock," he said quickly, tension in his voice. "Sherlock, relax. You can't turn your head that way. That's where they opened you up. It's only going to hurt you if you do that, 'kay? Lay still or turn to the right." There was nothing else to be done about it. The detective did as he was told, pressing the opposite cheek into the starchy pillowcase, breathing hard through his nose. Eventually the pain faded away, but he couldn't help reaching a hand up to touch the tender area with as much gentility as he could muster. John allowed it if only just. His fingers left his chest. It wasn't pleasant- the touch had been comforting. But at least he returned to holding his hand. "Be careful about it," he murmured.
Sherlock didn't put any pressure behind his touch as he felt along the long, smooth arc of the incision from just in front of his ear to up a short distance from his temple. Stitches held the skin together, crusted blood only along the line and having been wiped away otherwise. At least his hair was still there, the patch of shaved skin only roughly two inches wide. The disturbance from taking out and returning a piece of his skull was enough to leave a divot just in front of his ear. The other side sported a similar dip as per the regular curvature of the skull, but this one was unnatural, the valley so much deeper and more drastic than the other was. He had the sudden thought that, if he wore glasses, the left side piece would be a flat surface with his skin, considering how dramatic the dip was. It was… Disconcerting. Hopefully it wouldn't be noticeable. Wincing at it, Sherlock quickly pulled his hand down, finding it better to settle his fingers on his stomach lightly.
"Yeah, doesn't look too good," John hummed softly. While there was sympathy there, Sherlock couldn't find a single trace of pity; it was a simple comfort in the midst of all of… This. "But it'll be fine. The doctor said you'd be out of here in a few days. Or- well." A bit of a grimace came over him and the detective found himself paying a bit more attention, trying to decipher what could sway that statement. "It's um, it's your brain, you know. So they're going to want to check you haven't lost any functions before you go. Y'know, speaking, walking, senses, fine motor skills, memory, stuff like that."
Ah. It wasn't exactly something he would like to be subjected to, but the sooner he proved himself, the sooner he could get out of here. After all, his brain was fine. It had to be fine. If it wasn't… No. Sherlock wouldn't allow himself the thought of that. Worrying was pointless, especially considering that he could hardly find the energy to squeeze John's hand in reassurance, much less gather himself up to try and check his mind palace at the moment.
"Sherlock?"
Baby blue eyes blinking a few times, Sherlock directed his gaze from where it had drifted somewhere off beyond John's shoulder back to the man's face. There was something there- more worry, perhaps. But what for? If the doctor said everything was going to be fine…?
"Look, normally I get that you're probably having a bit of a time processing this, but you can't do to me what you did with the whole best man thing. You had blood on your brain and you've said less than ten words. Talk to me. Please."
Oh.
John was a doctor. He'd want to see for himself that he was up to specks. Even if it did take a moment for him to find any semblance of thought worthy to voice. "Is Mycroft…?" When he trailed off, John stayed silent. His lips pursed together to create a thin white line. Right. Full sentences were needed here. Sherlock shifted, winced, and cleared his throat. "Is Mycroft in the hospital right now?"
Some note of disappointment sounded in Sherlock's chest when John shook his head. "No. Left about an hour ago; had to go back to his office, he said. He's supposed to be returning sometime this evening." That was better, he supposed. For all their bickering and spiteful fights, Sherlock was still frightened and Mycroft was still his older brother. He always would be.
But, not to settle on that train of thought, his eyes flickered to the door. "Mary?" Another moment of quiet, John silently goading him, and then he relented and rephrased his question. "Is Mary here, too?"
"Yeah. Outside the door, actually. I should probably go get-"
The sudden pressure on John's hand cut him off. "No," Sherlock murmured. "No, I… I think I'd like to rest." The mere idea of having to deal with another person was exhausting. And to frame that, he realized that his eyes had drifted partially shut. They were in rather precarious spots, threatening to cut him off from the world without his explicit permission.
The faintest smile curled at John's lips. He gave a small nod. "Yes, alright. Rest sounds good." John made to move and, without meaning to, Sherlock gripped harder again. A thread of fear clung to him; this time, John didn't make him voice this request. After all, neither of them were very good at this whole talking thing. "I'll stay," he assured in reply to the silent request. "Until you fall asleep, I'll be here."
Relief passed through him in a wave. If he was honest, he wasn't sure what he might have done if John had denied him that. It certainly wouldn't have been pleasant for either of them, he was sure, even though his options were limited by exhaustion, the clinging remnants of anaesthesia, and the pain throbbing at the side of his head. A faint nod, and then the light friction of John's thumb rubbing over his knuckles started up again.
"Rest, Sherlock," the doctor murmured. Within moments, Sherlock succumbed to darkness.
{...}
John watched as the detective drifted off. The monitors reflected that change, heart rate slowing down, oxygen becoming more level and deep. Good. That was… That was good. He stayed still for a moment longer, watching, his thumb continuing the circular motions. Hearing Sherlock's voice again was nice, but it was dampened by the faint slurring that had still tainted the edges of his words.
He couldn't stay there forever, though. Reluctantly, he drew his hand away, careful to be sure that the machines didn't register Sherlock rising back out of sleep in reaction. The man didn't so much as twitch. He couldn't blame him either, considering what he'd just gone through. Five hours of surgery was nothing to laugh at. A soft sigh escaped John's lips as he stood, careful not to let the chair scrape too loudly against the linoleum floor; he employed the same cautious behavior to slip out of the room, hand softening the shut of the door.
Mary was outside. John took in the sight of her, brow creased in worry, head bowed down and gaze intent on her clasped hands, lips pressed together tight, before stepping forward. The movement and the soft echo of his shoe on the tiles alerted her. Blue eyes met grey; whatever Mary saw in his expression seemed to send relief rushing through her. Before he'd so much as made it halfway across the hall she had pushed away from the wall to reach for his hands. "He's okay?"
John swallowed, then gave a small, sharp nod. "Yeah," he huffed, the corner of his lips twitching up. "Well- awake, in any case. He went back to sleep. Will be okay." A moment. "Hopefully."
"He will be." Her fingers laced with his, the pressure firm and understanding. A breath rushed out of John, his shoulders deflating a bit. She was there to step a little closer, the swell of her belly barely brushing against him. "John. Sherlock will be fine. He's not going to be felled by a bit of blood."
"I can't believe it. A bloody cyst!"
Her grip became a little bit tighter. "I know. I know. But he woke up. And now that we know about it, we can make sure nothing else goes wrong."
That was true. There were ways to track this- ways to make sure that the condition wasn't worsening and that there was a lower risk of another blood clot. Appointments could be made, tests could be taken, and preventative measures employed. There was no reason (barring a case of catastrophic self destruction on the part of Sherlock's body) that they would have to go back through this. And that, unfortunately, was most definitely possible.
"Neurologist said that if this happens again, they'll have to put in a shunt to drain the fluid." If she hadn't been holding his hands, he would have pressed them to his temples. "It's the size of my fist, Mary. My fist!"
"John." Her voice brought him back, stabilized him. That was one reason why he loved her- she was a grounding force, keeping him from drifting too far out of himself. "It's going to be fine. Just trust me about that. Alright?"
A second of hesitation, and then he nodded. "Alright."
The corners of her lips curled into a soft smile. "Phone Mycroft. I'll go out to the waiting room and pass the news to Greg." Mary snorted, little crinkles appearing at the corners of her eyes. "I can't believe that he told the chief superintendent to sod off."
"He's been here the whole time?"
"Yep."
"Damn. Right. I'm going to have to ask the history behind those two some day." There had to be a reason, after all, why the detective inspector would sit in a hospital for long over five hours for a man that simply helped him solve crimes. Yet, John's curiosity would have to be sated at a later date. He slipped his mobile from his pocket- still with roughly twenty percent battery, thank goodness -and selected Mycroft's contact. He leaned up against the wall Mary had vacated as she headed off down the hall.
Mycroft picked up after the first ring. Eager to stay updated on his brother's condition, John hoped. "Doctor Watson. Is all well?"
"Yeah, actually." He closed his eyes, letting his head tilt back to press against the solidness of the wall. It was grounding, keeping him in the moment instead of allowing his mind to shift back to the crime scene and what had happened there. "Sherlock just woke up, 'bout five minutes ago. Went back to sleep, but he was awake."
"Ah. Good. I suppose there's no need for me to come down yet, then?" If John wasn't wrong (though he often was in terms of the Holmes family, so who knew) he could detect a faint edge of worry to Mycroft's voice. The idea was only buoyed by the tiniest taint of tiredness in the words. Likely (again, if John wasn't wrong), the man hadn't slept at all during the night.
"Probably not. It'll be awhile before he wakes again, I think, considering the anesthetics they pumped into him. Damn idiot. His drug history made it hell on the anesthesiologist." A soft sigh escaped him; John's fingers found their way to his temple, rubbing to dispel the tension there, the action ending up entirely ineffectual. "I'm going to guess that you'll visit tomorrow, then? Or the day after?"
The briefest of pauses punctuated Mycroft's attempt to feign careful consideration. "Yes," he finally said. Even John could tell that he meant it, that it wasn't the exasperated and obligatory relent of a man with more important things to do. "As soon as he's lucid for an hour, I'll be there. Just- keep me updated. Yes?"
Had this been any other context, John would have laughed. He would have tried to document this, to put it to paper, that he was privy to the mighty Mr. Holmes' concern. But, like every other time he'd been subjected to it- the overdose on the airplane, the night of the cabbie's death, John's own apparent kidnapping just so that Mycroft could offer a bounty for information -he found no humor in the situation. Though the man couldn't see, he gave a short, firm nod. " 'Course," he promised. The brothers may not have been on perfect terms, but he wasn't going to be the one to encourage further distance between them. "I'll let you know whatever comes up as soon as I can."
"Good." Another pause, then, "I'm sending you Anthea's number. Let her know if there's anything you need. Think of it… Well. Think of it as my thanks to you."
John's lips curled up ever so slightly. "Ta. I'll keep that in mind."
"Goodbye, Doctor Watson."
"Cheers."
The soft click of the mobile signaled the end of the conversation. Slipping the device back into his pocket, John angled his head back, letting out a deep breath. He allowed himself only a few moments like that, eyes closed, trying (and failing) to loosen the tight knot in his chest, before he pushed himself away from the wall, spine straightening. He didn't have to put any thought into it as his feet led him straight back to Sherlock's bedside.