Waiting's Even Worse

Lestrade slowed his footsteps as he approached the doorway. He knew no amount of noise would bring any response upon his entry, but somehow pretending he wasn't heard made him feel better.

In some absurd alignment of the stars, or perhaps Mycroft Holmes' humour, Watson had been assigned to room 21 on the second floor of the hospital. The plastic tag by the door read 221. The missing 'b' was a significant warning that this wasn't anything like 221b Baker St. Inside the room would be sterile, white and clean, but the real missing element was the life that usually pulsated and exploded from 221b even in its quieter moments.

Today the door was hanging open. The intelligent purpose or distraction of genius that would have given this significance back at Baker St. was no longer a factor. The door was left open because Sherlock didn't care either way. Lestrade stepped into the room.

Watson was in the hospital bed, white sheets tucked up to his armpits, scars on his forehead nearly healed over. The heart monitor kept up its steady rhythm, which at this point was just as depressing as cardiac arrest could have been. Lestrade bitterly wished John would make up his mind and either die or wake up. Anything would have been better than this.

Because… beside the bed there was a chair.

It was a nice chair. One of the kinder nurses had dragged it up from the waiting room when she realised the room's other occupant wasn't going anywhere. For the first three weeks, Sherlock had been agitated. He had paced and squirmed and even perched on John's bed, sometimes sitting tucked up beside the pillow, one hand gently tracing his friend's face as if his attention could dissect and dismiss a head injury. He never left the room. Not since he first regained consciousness, and dragged himself down the hall with broken ribs and a gunshot wound through his thigh. It took all of Lestrade's reassurance and persuasive power to convince Sherlock that it was alright to leave John's bed to occasionally use the adjoining bathroom for a shower and washing up.

And now it had been five months since the explosion and Lestrade had come to terms with losing the good doctor. It would probably always be a source of sleepless nights, but it wasn't something he could afford to lose himself in daily. He had to find a way to keep solving cases, and keep protecting the public from the monsters at large. He had to live with the loss of John Watson.

What was unbearable was the loss of Sherlock Holmes.

In the chair beside the hospital bed there was a young man. But even though Lestrade visited him on his way home from work each day, he couldn't really say he knew the man. This man was as thin and hollow eyed as Lestrade had seen Sherlock at his lowest, but he wasn't really Sherlock at all. There was no life in him. They had all seen his curiosity and interest in life pull further and further inside until there was barely any flicker of acknowledgement in his grey eyes when you spoke to him.

One of the greatest things about Sherlock was his will. Despite his worldly vocation, Lestrade had nearly believed the young man was invincible. If Sherlock wanted to do something, to understand or track down something, he would do it. Nothing would get in his way. His own flesh and bones seemed to be held together by an iron will, and burning curiosity. Now there was none of that left.

The longer John Watson slept through life, the further Sherlock Holmes drifted from it.

That was when Sally Donovan and Anderson stopped referring to him as a freak and a psychopath. Because even someone with Anderson's observation skills could identify a broken heart when they saw one. Lestrade's heart ached too. If only they could have had a little more time together. If John had helped Sherlock to see his relationships with Mrs. Hudson, his homeless informants and more seedy acquaintances, and even Lestrade himself for what they were. If only Sherlock could have opened his tightly guarded heart to more than one person, before it had been utterly crushed.

Donovan and Anderson wouldn't look back on the consulting detective with thoughts of anything less than annoyance and sometimes hatred, but they couldn't insult him anymore. They might not believe he was a great man, but it was undeniable that he was a good man.

The evidence from the explosion made it clear that Sherlock had used his own body to try and protect John from the blast. And it wasn't because John was useful or he boosted Sherlock's ego. You could move on from a friendship of convenience.

And now Mycroft's intrigue and Lestrade's most bizarre cases, and even the gloatings of Moriarty didn't matter. For Sherlock nothing would ever matter again. Not until the small army surgeon in the hospital bed woke up.

0 0 0

And then one day Lestrade stopped by the hospital after a particularly long day, and the conclusion of a horrible case. Some cases hit him particularly hard when he realised they should have been accompanied by a long coated figure and his ever present partner. This had been one of them, and one that would join the pile of cold cases that continually screamed out that the universe had been wrong to break up Watson and Holmes.

Now Lestrade rubbed a hand across his face and stepped into the room, dreading the minutes he would sit with the motionless pair. But the chair was empty.

The first emotion that hit him was anger. It was wrong that a great man like Sherlock had faded from life like this. If they had to lose him, he ought to have gone out like hero, and finally gotten some recognition. Then the heartache rose up and Lestrade stifled a strangled sob as he realised what a good man had died.

"Can I help you, sir?"

That was when Lestrade looked at the nurse standing in front of the bed. She looked at him kindly, and moved to offer him the empty chair.

"Are you here to see Mr. Watson?"

At the sound of her voice, John let out a groan, and blinked his eyes. Lestrade's jaw dropped.

"'oo's there?" John slurred.

The nurse moved to the side of the bed and helped to prop up its long-time occupant. "You have another visitor. Do you feel up to a little chat?"

John blinked again and scrubbed at his eyes with a shaky hand. "Lestrade? Is that you?"

Lestrade stepped closer and looked to the nurse. "He's awake."

"Yes. He woke up this morning, though he's been napping on and off ever since."

"Well, he's awake now." John said as pointedly as his unused voice would allow.

Lestrade dropped into the chair. "John. You're alright."

He received a wry smile in return, "I guess that's one way to put it. Apparently I've lost quite a bit of time snoozing here."

"But..." Lestrade shook his head to clear it, and then smiled. "Sorry. This is quite a shock. I'm glad to see you. We've missed you at the Yard. Was beginning to think you two wanted us to solve all our cases by ourselves."

John's weary smile faltered for a moment. "Has anyone been keeping an eye on Sherlock in my absence?"

Lestrade gripped the arms of the chair.

"He was here when I woke up." John continued. "He was sitting right there. But I never even got to talk to him. I guess he called the nurse-" He took a moment to close his eyes and rest. "Then the doctor came and all the checks and tests- I haven't seen him since."

The detective looked over at the army surgeon. He was pale, sometimes his words slurred, and he looked infinitely frail. But that steady reassuring life was in his eyes, and Lestrade knew that John Watson's will was just as strong as Sherlock's.

"How are you feeling?"

"You mean, do I feel up to hearing what Sherlock's gone and done?" John smiled, "That's what I've been saving up all my energy for. I have had a rather long nap."

"Well… he's been a bit of a wreck."

0 0 0

Lestrade found the consulting detective sprawled out on the couch in 221b Baker Street. All the windows were pushed open and a fresh layer of papers littered the floor. An empty tea cup and plate sat on one of Mrs. Hudson's trays. Lestrade peered at the sheath of papers balanced on Sherlock's stomach and recognised the various news clippings that Mycroft had baited his brother with, in an attempt to lure him from John's bedside. They were all possible links to Moriarty's organization.

The Scotland Yard Detective went upstairs to fetch a blanket from John's room, as he didn't dare open the door to Sherlock's room. There was no dust, and it looked like someone had recently made the bed, albeit in a rather awkward fashion. Four of John's favourite jumpers were hanging in the open window, airing in the sun. Lestrade smiled and took one of them downstairs with him. Sherlock snuffled quietly when Lestrade lifted his head to place the rolled up jumper underneath. He moved the papers to the coffee table and covered the younger man in the blanket. Sherlock gave a contented sigh, but didn't wake up.

Lestrade let himself out of the flat and walked out into the London air. It smelled sweeter than usual. John Watson and Sherlock Holmes were back, and all was right with the world.

This maudlin little piece is the result of insomnia, and not a prediction of how Sherlock would react in any given situation. A predictable Sherlock is no Sherlock at all.