I Am Sher-Locked Up

Heaven

John

John paces the hospital waiting room floor, too agitated to sit still. What was he thinking, leaving Sherlock at home?! Now he was in the hospital, barely breathing, possibly dying--
No, stop it John, he reprimands himself. He will not let his mid go down that road.
He stops pacing momentarily and stares hard at the heavy wood doors that lead to the main part of the hospital, as if he can will the doors open.
John gives a little jump when the doors actually do open, and a short black nurse with pretty streaked red hair pokes her head out. 

"Ah, John? John Wa--"

"That's me," John says, slightly out of breath with fear and anticipation.
The nurse--Tamara, according to the plastic card looped round her neck, looks slightly startled at John's anxiousness, but recovers quickly and gestures to the hallway behind her. 

"He's awake...not sure how, really, seeing as we heavily sedated him; wouldn't stop thrashing, poor bloke. Anyway," she continues hastily, seeing the alarm on the older man's face. "he's been asking for you. Come with me."

John swallows his fear, like he did when he was in the army.
Only this time, it's a different kind of war.

***

Sherlock

Black.
That's the first thing Sherlock sees. For a minute, he thinks he's dead, that he's finally done it. 

But isn't Heaven white? Or am I in Hell? Wouldn't that be red? What if there's nothing after death?

Sherlock had never believed in Heaven, or God, or the Devil, or any of that religious mumbo jumbo. He believed in what he could see, what he could deduce. The voices in his head had never told him about Heaven, and they've been right about everything else so far...
All this thinking is over in a split second, of course, but a split second is all it takes to bring reality crashing down on you. The pain in his forearms, especially his left one. The achiness of his head and eyes, the clenching of his empty stomach.
He forces one eye open, then the other. 

White. 

He focuses on the room, picking out objects and shapes that sharpen into focus after a few seconds. 

He was in a hospital. 

Sherlock tips his head back against the thin sheet stretched across the plastic encased foam of the hospital bed, and lets out an audible groan. He hated hospitals.
He looks down at himself, at his hospital gown-clad body covered by a thin cotton blanket. His rib cage is discernible even under the blanket, which shoots a little wave of satisfaction through him, even under the current circumstances.

A busty brunette nurse in kitten printed scrubs opens the door and Sherlock's head snaps up to see her, sending a wave of dizziness over him. The nurse breaks into an annoyingly fake smile and launches into a greeting.
Sherlock cuts her off, "I need to see John."
The nurse's smile freezes on her face, clearly annoyed that she was interrupted. Sherlock didn't care. 

"I need to see John," he repeats himself, "Now."

"O-okay," she hurries out of the room, clicking the door shut behind her.

***

John

The nurse and John navigate a warren of corridors and identical doors, familiar to John because he worked there. The stop at the one marked 221. John smiles  grimly despite himself.
Tamara opens the door and John enters, afraid at what he might see.

What he does see just about breaks his heart.

Sherlock is sitting on the bed, looking so small and broken and lost. He looks up at John through eyes heavy with shame and sadness and terrible, heart wrenching, soul-tearing pain.
Sherlock looked terrible. He was frighteningly thin, pale skinny arms attached to bony shoulders by nothing more than sinew, his rib cage clearly visible even beneath the hospital blankets. He was deathly pale, his eyes ringed with dark purple bruises, his normally curly, ebony hair falling into greasy clumps on his forehead. John's heart ached so badly he didn't think it would be possible to feel okay ever again.
How could he let this happen? How could he? He should have stopped him, should have forced him to eat something, he should have told him he loved him--

Wait. 

"John." 

Sherlock's voice cut through his inner chaos, hoarse and cracked from disuse.
"Y-yeah Sherl?"

"I'm--I'm sorry." Sherlock's voice came out small and broken, tears glistened (but did not fall) on the waterline of his icy blue eyes. Eyes that were now the color of a windless ocean. Gray. Flat. Dead. 

John couldn't take it any longer. He ran over to Sherlock and threw his arms around his flatmate. He hugs him as tight as he dares, mindful of the IV on his right arm and the bandages on his left. 

"Sherlock."

***

A/N

Okee, Sherlock is still alive! Yayy! I'm going to work on the next chapter right away! We just took the 9th grade English 1 STAAR test, so we are doing nothing for the rest of the day. Love you guys, thanks so much for over 100 reads (may not sound like much but hey it's 100 more than I expected!)!

-Hannah