Waking You Up

Wake You Up XVIII

And then blinks again, because he's not in their flat. He's in a hospital bed, hooked up to far too many machines for his liking. John-bear is tucked under his arm, John's jumper is around his shoulders, and John – John is sitting beside him. 

"John," he says. It comes out a croak, and his throat feels strange, as though he hasn't used it in awhile. 

John's head jerks up. "Sherlock! You're awake!" His voice sounds strange, too, but in the opposite direction – hoarse from using it too much. 

Sherlock scowls. "Of course I'm awake. You wouldn't stop waking me." He pauses and looks around. "What happened?"

John is smiling at him, beaming, but instead of answering, he asks, "What do you remember?"

Sherlock frowns. "We were chasing Henrickson. He attacked us. You knocked him out, but you got stabbed. He woke up before help came, knocked me out. You fought him again." He glares at John. "Pulled the knife from your chest to kill him."

John winces slightly, but looks unapologetic. "That much is true. But how'd you know? You were unconscious for that last bit."

"Lestrade told me later," Sherlock says.

John frowns. "Yes, but you were unconscious then, too."

Sherlock shakes his head. "No, it was after I woke up. In an ambulance, at the crime scene. You didn't wake up. They'd come too late, you'd lost too much blood. You were gone and I – I kept dreaming of you. You insisted you weren't dead. Told me about the present you'd gotten me, where I could find it, to be careful of the claws, how you'd gotten it. It was all true. People thought I was crazy, but I knew, I knew you were out there." He smiles slightly, remembering the last good dream. "We went to the museum, the church, ice skating on the moon. You gave me your jumper." His smile fades. "Things got strange. I thought – maybe I was insane. But then you showed up, and told me to come back to you. So I did." His voice turns smug. "I was right. I found you."

John's staring at him like he's in shock. It's making Sherlock uncomfortable. That's not a good response, is it, just to stare at someone who's just told you everything was insane but they still believed in you? 

Finally, John says, "I was never dead." 

Sherlock feels a prickle of fear, because that's just what dream-John had said, but it fades quickly. He can tell that this is real in a way that was absent from the dreams. In a way that was absent in all of what happened since he woke up at the crime scene, actually. 

"You were the one who didn't wake up, Sherlock," John tells him. "I couldn't get to him fast enough, to get him off you. He – he did a lot of damage. You fell into a coma. I've been talking to you. There's speculation on whether or not that helps, but it doesn't hurt, and I was desperate." 

Things click into place now. Everything makes sense, the dreams, the strange conversations, the hallucinations. "Fascinating," Sherlock breathes. "I've never been in a coma." 

John laughs, sounding half amused and half exasperated. "No, no you hadn't. Well done you, another novel experience under your belt."

"You talked to me," Sherlock says, slightly amazed. "The dreams, you really told me those things."

"Yes," John says. "I gave you the bear, told you about it. So did Pete." He laughs a little. "Started promising to take you places if you'd just wake up. Gave you the jumper when you kept shivering."

"We were on the moon," Sherlock mutters. "It was cold."

John giggles, just as much in relief as in amusement, and Sherlock giggles helplessly along with him, because he can't do anything else when John is giggling and looking at him like that. Like there's nowhere else he'd rather be than right there.