Sherlock Chapter 11

His head lay in a hollow of soft, malleable fabric. He breathed deeply, clawing his way out of unconsciousness and shifting his exhausted form under the layers of disinfected sheets that were drawn up to his chin. His brain felt fuzzy and unprepared for the new surroundings that assaulted his senses as soon as he regained consciousness.

A heart monitor beeped lazily nearby while several streams of light, albeit dim but bright enough to cause him to wince, filtered through the thin curtains of a window on the right side of the room.

His brain felt not-all-there, trapped, and shaken. Upon his attempt to reach up and feel the inflated tube of plastic that ran across his cheek and under his nose, he found that his limbs were numb and almost unresponsive. He frowned.

Hospital room, most likely St. Bart's due to proximity and expertise. Head injury but nothing too serious. Probably a bit sore from exertion, His brained churned out at a disgustingly sluggish rate.

He wriggled and managed to free his right arm from the confines of the sheets with a brief gasp of pain. The back of his skull buzzed with a palpable ache that stemmed down his spine and branched off at the small of his back. He gritted his teeth and forced the uncomfortable feeling into the pit of his stomach. He took a moment to assess the rest of his condition.

His thin fingers explored the numerous wires plastered to his pale skin and he sighed as the pads of his fingers brushed against the rough fabric of a bandage wound around the circumference of his head. A cart rolled by, quite quickly, in the hallway, jingling with medical instruments and other glimmering tools. Instinctively, he whipped around to observe and craft possible deductions about his present situation. The movement sent the world askew and he let out a venomous hiss of irritation.

He attempted, once more, to turn his head from side to side. However, the moment he began the movement his eyes swam and the pain that he'd forced down into the bowels of his stomach threatened to rise into his throat.

He groaned and lay slack once more, and finally resorted to counting the peppered ceiling tiles, (there were 45; 9 across and 5 down). He entertained the idea of calling a nurse but he hardly felt like dealing with an average mind at the moment; especially when his wasn't in much better shape, which made him rather cross. He gnashed his teeth and fiddled with his medical robe. He recounted the tiles, deduced which tiles were old and which has been recently replaced, and fingered the red call button on the wall nearby.

No,he decided, still not worth the effort.

Frowning, he sighed and allowed his eyelids to slowly sink over the field of his vision.

"Brother, dear", there was the unmistakable sound of the plastic tip of an umbrella rapping against the smooth tile, "I do believe it's time you woke up."

Sherlock managed to voice an efflux of moans that sounded something like, "m'tired" and "do'wanna", followed by a gasp of pain as he shook his head from side to side.

"Sherlock", His brother's voice was smooth and collected, though his tone clearly reminded Sherlock that he could be a force to reckon with at times. Especially when they weren't on the detective's playing field.

He reluctantly pried an eye open. Mycroft lingered in the corner of his vision, the tip of his umbrella continuing to fill the room with a symphony of short taps.

"Stop that", Sherlock growled at his brother's composition. The noise ceased immediately, for once in his life. "How long was I asleep?" He asked, still staring at those damned ceiling tiles.

"You've been asleep for a full 48 hours, six of which you spent in a coma," Mycroft's eyes grazed over the bandage wound around his brother's mess of curls. "I do hope you can recall what happened before you went off and cracked that thick skull of yours."

"I assure you, I'm fine," Sherlock made a move to rise, only to flinch as Mycroft's umbrella whipped audibly through the air and applied a soft pressure to the detective's sternum, pushing him back into the confines of his bed.

"Ah, but you are forgetting something very important."

Sherlock craned his neck, quite painfully, to meet Mycroft's supercilious gaze.

"John?"

Mycroft's faithful umbrella returned to its master's side. However, Sherlock remained prostrate.

"Is he okay?"

"Dr. Watson is making a full recovery from his involuntary consumption of PCP. He actually seems a bit better off that you."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"You let Pippa slip right past your nose, Sherlock. I thought you'd have learned the dangers of impressing a woman the last time this happened. The last one was a simple dominatrix, this one was a serial killer, what's the next one going to be?"

"I was drugged, Mycroft. You can't possibly expect me to solve a case when I'm high, can you?"

"You've had your fair share of highs, both in and out of police work. Don't tell me Dr. Watson really succeeded in sobering you?"

Sherlock grumbled something inaudible and shifted into a more comfortable position.

Mycroft studied the tip of his umbrella with a bemused grin. "He's more loyal than I thought."

"When is he due to be released?" Sherlock questioned.

"You talk as if you were being held in a prison."

"Might as well be," Sherlock pouted audibly. "Confined to bed rest and being watched over by the doctors and nurses as well as the British government." The detective's eyes washed over his brother's form with scorn. "Is there a slot in the door for my food or will it be delivered to me by hand?"

Mycroft admired his brother's spite with a small grin and leaned on the handle of his umbrella. "John is due to be released at any time. I'm sure that he'll pop in as soon as possible for a quick chat." Mycroft's smile faded. "God knows the man will find some way to get in here. You two seem to be inseparable."

" I work better with him around." Sherlock grumbled with a roll of his eyes.

"Of course," Mycroft sighed, "What would you do without him?" He said a bit too pensively for Sherlock's taste. However, the detective held his tongue.

Mycroft stayed and chatted a bit longer before leaving his brother in much-anticipated peace.

Sherlock sank down into the confines of his hospital bed and flipped idly through the television channels until the constant noise gave him a headache. He flipped the television off with a click just as soon as the handle to his bedroom door jiggled and turned with an audible complaint from the hinges. He studied the hand gripping the door handle tightly.

Larger hands, definitely belonging to a man. Tanned but not rough from work, but weathered enough to insinuate past exertion. Paper cuts from several piles of paper work. Most likely works in an office of some kind.

His eyes lit up as he caught sight of a bandage, covering the incursion made with an IV.

John. Sherlock held his breath as the heart monitor began to give away the pounding tremors of his heart.

The doctor shut the door behind him with agonizing awareness, not in the stumbling fashion of a junkie as he might have done in the past few days. He turned on his heel. Their eyes grazed over one another's form; Sherlock taking in John's rumpled jumper and faded jeans while John studied the soft pattern of Sherlock's medical gown. He'd hardly ever witnessed the pale surface of Sherlock's skin as he usually donned long-sleeved shirts and, when he did encounter warmer climates, he only rolled his sleeves up to his elbows. The greatest glimpse he'd ever gotten of Sherlock's ghostly pallor happened with the sheet in Buckingham Palace and he prayed on several occasions that they would never had to repeat a blunder like that again.

The doctor straightened, butting out his chin and clearing his throat, as he found Sherlock staring him down, awaiting some kind of confrontation.

"Sherlock," John greeted with an air of hesitation, as if he wasn't sure if his presence was approved of, quite yet.

The detective nodded, welcoming John with a small inclination of his head. His eyes followed the doctor's movement with such precision that he could see the slight tremors in John's hand, a resulting factor from his army days.

"Sherlock, I-" John began, his voice breaking slightly.

"Stop it."

His brow furrowed. "I didn't even-"

"You were going to apologize. I don't want your apology and none of this, in any way, was your doing. So, just save your breath and stop before you begin."

John sighed, trying to hide the smile that was so obviously tugging at his thin lips. "I see the bump to the head didn't affect anything."

"'Course not," Sherlock smirked.

"Good. That's good," John muttered half-heartedly. He shifted his weight from side to side and advanced a bit further into the room. "How are you feeling?"

"Never better, thank you for asking."

"Liar."

"It was worth a try." Sherlock shrugged.

"Sherlock," John began, once more, after a long and pensive pause.

"John. Honestly, everything is fine."

"No," John shook his head as his tense, pale lips came to form a thin line, "No, everything is not fine. We can't keep sweeping things like this under the rug, Sherlock. It's not healthy, it's just not. . . right."

"What are you suggesting?" Sherlock questioned, though he already had at least two or three ideas about the direction that this conversation was barreling towards.

"Lestrade told me what happened in the morgue, when I punched you."

Ah, the second conclusion, then. This would be interesting to hear.

"That's hardly relevant. You were drugged, so was I. That's the end of the story."

"No, Sherlock. I don't think I was completely out of it when I was saying-"

"You were shouting, actually."

"Shouting, yeah, whatever." John's brow furrowed in frustration and Sherlock made a mental note not to butt in when it wasn't his turn again. "My point is, we need to tell each other things, Sherlock. We're friends, business partners if you'd like to look at it that way. I don't want any secrets anymore. No private conversations with Mycroft, no running off to chase a killer when I'm not with you, no sneaking suspected drugged substances into my coffee."

Sherlock smothered a smirk with the pads of his fingers.

"I don't want to be your confidante." John sighed. "I just want to be your friend."

John prepared himself for a long, arduous silence or maybe even a venomous retort to come spitting about between Sherlock's lips, but nothing of the sort occurred. Instead, Sherlock allowed his hands to drop into his lap as he raised himself into a sitting position.

"Alright." The detective replied in such casualty that John thought he'd mistaken his hearing for a brief moment. Sherlock must have seen John's eyebrows raise in surprise.

"That's fine." He repeated with a bit more emphasis.

"Just like that," John tried not to gape, "You'll tell me everything?"

"Well, assuming that it's nothing too personal. Though, you've already been through my drawers and seen me half-naked in a sheet, thanks to Mycroft." Sherlock rolled his eyes in obvious spite of his older brother.

"But, what about Reichenbach? What about the places that you've been for the last three years? You'll tell me that, as well?"

"Of course. If you'd have only asked, I would have told you much sooner than this."

John's brow doubled up on itself, once more. Sherlock looked up at him apologetically.

"You promise?" He finally asked.

There was a hesitant pause before Sherlock finally nodded his head, "Promise."