As always, characters are not mine.

Furthermore: Warnings! I'm afraid I'm a rather fluffy person...

Unexpected Outcomes of Cases

Part 3

He was allowed to see Sherlock almost immediately after surgery, being his emergency contact, a nurse leading him to the hospital room Sherlock was going to spend the night in.

Trying to be as quiet as possible, John made himself comfortable - as comfortable as possible - in one of the chairs in the room and simply watched Sherlock, propped up on a few pillows, not yet awake, but still in the drug-induced haze. And not in pain, hopefully.

All had gone well, he had been ensured, all the bones were set again and no further complications had arisen during surgery, Sherlock's shoulder now neatly immobilised by a sling.

That was why it was bothering John to watch his friend with an oxygen mask on his face, fogging steadily in his deep sleep. Sherlock would have complained about this measure of precaution - for a precaution it was, as the doctor had confirmed -, and John found it oddly disturbing. Somehow, the mask made Sherlock look infinitely worse than he actually was. Because he was fine. Fine. Or would be, soon.

Which he would start telling John as soon as he woke up. When he finally woke up - which, considering the heavy pain medication constantly coursing through his system, might well take a while.

It did. For a while, John used to simply stare at Sherlock and notice the slight frown or the soft lines forming around his eyes and his nose as he slowly became more aware of his surroundings.

Lines forming. Frowning, even in his state of semi-unconsciousness.

John started chewing at his bottom lip when he heard the first small moan. He would probably have missed it if he hadn't known Sherlock so well, would have missed all the little tell-tale signs that his best friend was in pain, despite his being… well, drugged. Wrinkles of pain, noises of pain, without being fully awake.

Sherlock's right hand twitched slightly and then moved towards his face, only to flop down to the duvet before even half-finishing the movement.

"Easy," John heard himself whispering, his first words since ages. "It's alright, Sherlock, alright."

"Jhn?" Sherlock breathed barely understandable into the mask, his hand trembling and shifting again. Quickly, John took hold of Sherlock's hand, mindful of the IV line, and gripped it tightly. "Don't move. You've just had surgery, remember? Try to sleep a bit."

"J'hn…" Sherlock exhaled again, and this time, John understood. Not letting go of Sherlock's hand, he carefully removed the oxygen mask from his friend's face and rested it again his neck.

"Better?" he asked quietly.

Sherlock's eyelids fluttered for a moment, but didn't open; instead, another frown was spreading on his forehead.

John felt a strange lump build inside his throat upon that sight. Sherlock was obviously in pain, and he couldn't do a thing about it. Again.

"Sleep," he said again and hoped to sound encouraging.

This time, Sherlock fought his eyes half open with what seemed to be a huge effort. "You… stay?" he slurred, still halfway knocked out by anaesthesia and medication.

John had experienced quite a variety of ways of behaving from Sherlock this evening and night, from his normal self to being in pain after having been hit by a car, to being almost back to normal right before surgery and with pain medication in his system - and now. And somehow, this dazed version of Sherlock looking at him with bleary eyes and drooping eyelids, for once without his customary coolness and arrogance, but simply… vulnerable, touched John's heart in a way he had never thought it possible.

A tiny smile appeared on his face as he squeezed Sherlock's hand softly and nodded. "Told you before. Of course I will. And now sleep."

John was fine during the night. Really, he was. It was neither the most uncomfortable night he had spent in a hospital nor the most agonising one. So he was fine.

Sherlock remained oblivious throughout most of the night, fortunately not being up to resisting the dazing impact of the painkillers. The frown never disappeared, and from time to time, he shifted a bit and moaned then, his eyes never opening fully.

And although he had been thinking about it for at least five minutes, John never put the oxygen mask back on his friend's face, knowing that it would make both him and Sherlock - when awake, of course - feel somewhat awkward.

He even remembered to text Greg in the middle of the night, typing his message one-handedly since his left hand was still entwined with Sherlock's right one.

When Sherlock woke in the morning, apparently achy all over and hardly willing to move, John fetched him a glass of water and helped him to sit up further, enough to take a few small sips.

"So you…," Sherlock croaked and then attempted to clear his throat, avoiding John's gaze. "You've been here all night."

In the first instant, John wasn't sure whether this was a statement or a question, so he simply settled on a hoarse 'yeah'.

Sherlock cleared his throat again. "So I… I believe I asked for it, so…"

That was the moment when John understood. He had to bite back a chuckle as he placed the half empty glass on the nightstand again. "Yeah, you did. And I stayed."

Sherlock's eyelids were drooping yet again, but he still attempted to stay awake. "John… I… thank you."

Now the smile was inevitable. "Of course, Sherlock."

Well, John mused as Sherlock's eyes closed again, who would have assumed a thank you to be the outcome of this case?

Sherlock's still exhausted sleep became more restless as the time was passing and was finally ended with the arrival of the doctor, checking Sherlock over again. Being sure that everything was going to be fine, John left the room for that, using the loo and buying himself another cup of coffee in the cafeteria.

When he returned to Sherlock's room, the doctor was gone and Sherlock apparently on the verge of falling asleep again.

"So," John began, "what did he say?"

Sherlock sighed and blinked his eyes open. "'m fine," he mumbled.

John had to chuckle. "Yeah, absolutely. I can see that." Fine. Sherlock insisting on being fine. Back to normal, then. Luckily. "Listen, Sherlock…" John stopped for a moment, searching for the right words. "I think I should go home for a while, check on Mrs Hudson and get you a change of clothes…"

John had expected complaining, but not what he was to hear.

"Baker Street? Yes, perfect…" Sherlock raised his head a tiny bit. "Where are my clothes? I can't go home wearing… that."

John's brain in fact needed a few moments to catch up. "I don't… Wait, what? Go home? Sherlock, you can't go home, you need to stay here for at least… well, I don't know, a few days. You're bruised and battered all over, and you need to rest."

Sherlock sighed tiredly. "And I can't do this at home because…?"

John remained silent for exactly two seconds too long, two seconds in which he stared at Sherlock in disbelief.

"You know I would feel much more comfortable at home," Sherlock added, and John realised he had lost. Because Sherlock was right. And because John somehow couldn't bear the thought of leaving Sherlock behind, of not being the one with him when he was in pain or tired or…

"Fine," he stated curtly. "I'll see what I can do, but when we're at home - if! -, you're going to do what I tell you, and absolutely nothing else."

One and half an hour later, John found himself in the back of a cab, Sherlock by his side, his head resting against the window, more or less alseep.

Manoeuvring Sherlock from the hospital room into the cab had been difficult - and without any doubt exhausting - enough, but waking him up again and getting him out of the cab was even more difficult.

By the time John had paid the driver, Sherlock was swaying on his feet, leaning against their front door for support.

John barely managed to unlock the door, keeping a firm hold on Sherlock's right arm, leading him inside. The bag of medication he had been given at the hospital found its interim depository on the floor next to the stairs, with John being to busy with getting Sherlock safely upstairs. It took a while - minutes in which John was prepared to catch Sherlock twice, and had to do so in fact once, Sherlock stumbling backwards - but finally, they were in the living-room, on the sofa.

"Sit down," John ordered and removed Sherlock's right arm from his tattered coat. "Stay here, I'll just get the painkillers."

The noises they had made had of course attracted Mrs Hudson, hovering over the bag John had carelessly dropped and making a fuss as soon as John had told her quietly what had happened.

"It's fine, Mrs H," he ensured her. "Nothing to worry about."

Mrs Hudson shook her head and huffed. "Oh you. Stupid boys. You go back upstairs, I'll bring you tea and biscuits."

But when John got upstairs again, entering their living-room, he found his flatmate almost disappeared behind the pillows on the sofa, his feet still in his shoes and still on the floor, but deeply asleep.

John sighed, quickly removed Sherlock's shoes and then lifted his legs onto the sofa. Then he slightly rolled Sherlock over, taking pressure from his broken shoulder, and in that, happened to come in contact with his ungrazed right hand, only covered by a plaster because of the removed IV line. Cold, he noticed.

Cold and exhausted. Brilliant.

With a soft smile, John went to get a blanket to cover Sherlock and then made himself comfortable in his armchair. No doubt Sherlock would start complaining about boredom as soon as the waves of pain in his shoulder had disminished a bit, no doubt he would soon be back to his usual self, craving for distraction. Maybe Greg had some cold cases for Sherlock to work on, John pondered. But it was fine, it was all going to be fine. Sherlock would be fine. John had to smile again as his thoughts wandered back to when Sherlock, still a little dazed, had thanked him, almost clumsily, clearly embarrassed. Well, there was only one Sherlock Holmes. And John would make certain that it remained that way.

Massaging his stiff neck with his left hand, he locked his gaze on his sleeping flatmate on the sofa and smiled contently, waiting for Mrs Hudson, tea and biscuits.