Constellations Strung With a Shooting Star | Sherliam

Chapter Twenty-Nine

A lot of feelings panged William as he woke up. As though they were an explosive, slowly ticking until that very moment that his eyes flew open. Every one of them hit him all at once, and even he couldn't comprehend what was happening.

A slight hunger and thirst, how he can't see anything to his left, soreness wickedly trilling and trickling down his whole body, uneasiness, the quick realization that he has no clue where he is, or where Sherlock is, and oh god, he can't see anything to his left.

Though the overwhelming nature of it all has subsided since then, there's still some layer of panic residing in him. Especially the longer he goes without complete and full sight, the disadvantages like a heavy hail.

He'd torn off the patch that he'd found over his left eye, but that did no help in easing him. That only brought him to find that the eye has been stripped of any vision at all, though it's decently healed from whatever had caused that. And he could only presume what that had been.

He distinctly remembers the chilling feeling that enveloped him and his surroundings as he and Holmes had hit the water of the Thames. It wasn't so long after when he must have lost consciousness, and from there, many things could've caused this. A rock, some object in the water — but the specifics of it don't matter. Whatever which way, he still ended up with a single blind eye.

Though that's only one of his many, many concerns. The one that mostly jabbed at his mind had been where Sherlock could be — he didn't know where he himself was to begin with, so finding the ravenet would be an even grander challenge.

Unsteadily, he had risen up to his feet, an unwanted gasp betraying from his lips as a hand quickly finds something to balance, the closest being the support that the wall scantily gave. A painful numbness had quickly spread across his feet, as though they hadn't been used for an unhealthy amount of time. And the odds of that being the case are incredibly high.

He'd stumbled more on his heels, the hand on the wall slipping before recorrecting and gripping at whatever further surface he could. He dragged himself in the direction of the window standing relatively close to the bed, his weak and thin palm and fingers taking a tight grip on the ledge that the window provided. The other hand rested just beside that one, before gently pushing the thin curtains off to the side, bearing a view of what newly surrounded him.

Above anything else, it was abstractly clear that this wasn't London, nor was it anywhere in England to begin with. He could only guess that it'd be America, just based on the scenery as well as the consideration of distance. But why is he even here in the first place?

Some explanations came to mind, all trailing back to the very last moment that he can remember. The brief, bitter ecstasy that rushed through him as Sherlock held him before their bodies strongly crashed into the reckless currents of the Thames. In some obscure ways, he could almost see how that would land him here of all places.

Although that thought led him right back to deploring his mind into Sherlock himself. Where would Sherlock be in America? If he's even anywhere around here to begin with. Though that only proves to be more despairing than all other concerns that predeceased it.

His aches of worry had soon been settled, though, once a nurse had simply casually passed by his room. She'd then noticed William, awake, and immediately ran in to try and get him back into bed and explain as much as she could. When the blond had mumbled about Sherlock, she'd just smiled and merely explained that Holmes was away at work. More questions proceeded to worm their way in from that explanation alone, but it at least gave the blond a steady amount of relief. It at least means that he's alive. William didn't drag him into death.

Not many other explanations would follow, however, as the nurse only seemed to want to get William back into his bed, insisting that he's too weak to suddenly outpour so much movement so soon. And while those concerns are understandable, William knows he can handle himself. Or at least, he can thoroughly convince and push himself to. He wouldn't protest this to her face, but as soon as she'd left the room, he slowly got back to his feet and draped his shoulders with one of the clean blankets around the room.