I Am Sher-Locked Up

Dear John

John

It's been two weeks since John visited Sherlock.
Two long weeks of puttering about the flat, no new cases--not that he would be able to take them without Sherlock--and his boss was adamant that he was to stay away from the hospital until Sherlock recovers.
John had been planning to visit every day, but after the stunt he pulled last time, making him say he loved him and then refusing to say it back, John didn't want a repeat of that. He was content to write him letters, even though he never got any reply.
Sherlock was supposed to leave last Wednesday, but there was an incident involving smuggled razors and cheeked medication that ensured his stay for at least another month. John knows he can't expect Sherlock to recover overnight, but you'd think the bloke would at least try, you know? 

John looks at the clock: 6:45pm. 15 minutes till visiting hours....

He makes a split second decision and grabs his coat and walks out the door. After hailing a cab, he tells the cabbie to go to Riverside Hospital. He wasn't going to risk losing Sherlock just because he had been stupid enough to think that the man loved him. 

When John arrives, he waits patiently until a disgruntled Sherlock shuffles into the visiting room  

John is even more shocked than before to see Sherlock in the state he is. He was thinner than John thought was humanly possible, and his cheeks were sunken and hollow. John's heart twisted in his chest as he saw stained bandages peeking out from his flat mate's jumper.

"Hi." John says lamely.

"Hi." Sherlock replies, rather hesitantly.

"Um, how...how've you been?"

Sherlock nods, chewing on the question. "I've been all right, considering."

The two sit in silence for a moment before John blurts out, "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I don't know what went wrong at the last visit, but I don't want it to taint what good we have left. Please, I'm sorry..."

Sherlock nods again, the wheels in his brain turning slower than normal.

"I'm...I'm sorry too. John. I don't...I don't apologize a lot--or at all, really, but...I'm sorry." He finishes, the last two words a whisper.

After this, conversation turns to anecdotes and laughing, and it seems all is well with the world. However, Fate seemed determined to destroy the good they had.

***

Sherlock

It was truly funny how dramatically things can turn on you.

As Sherlock lays in his bed, the thin hospital sheets twisted round his legs and sweat beading in his forehead, he is plagued by flashing memories and feelings barreling through his brain.

I'm four years old and I just found out the voices in my head aren't real. Mother is crying and Father is yelling. Suddenly I'm in a sterile room with one bed and a desk. I don't see my parents for another week. I fall asleep crying, the voices screaming ever louder.

I'm thirteen years old and I'm screaming so hard I feel my vocal cords tearing. My limbs and torso are strapped down on a bed, a plastic helmet squeezing my head, a needle slides into my arm, turning my world black.

I'm fifteen years old and now the voices are now helping me. Jimmy Mitchell is 5'8" and has three different breeds of cats and his mother is a chronic smoker and his dad beats him and his dog has fleas. Lindsey Gonzales has undiagnosed appendicitis and her shoes are half a size too small and she burned herself making scrambled egg with a lot of pepper and no salt.

Suddenly Sherlock sits bolt upright and the pictures and memories stop and are replaced with one thing: John.

I'm twenty-six years old and the army doctor I met a few years ago is now living with me. Every morning he makes me breakfast and every morning I refuse. His eyes catch mine and I quickly look away, stifling whatever emotion I may feel for the man. Suddenly his eyes dull and he is lying dead on the floor, blood pouring from his forearms.

"No. Stop!" Sherlock cries out, the images dissolving and leaving him with a panicked look in his eyes as the night nurse opens his door.

"Mr. Holmes, are you all right?" He asks, one hand on the walkie talkie attached to his belt.

Sherlock has to swallow several times before he can make his voice work.

"I'm--I'm fine. Just a bad dream. Go away. Please..." he adds shakily.

The nurse nods, his hand leaving his belt. "Okay. Do you want to process with one of the counselors?"

"No. I'm fine. Go away." Sherlock snaps.

The nurse sighs and leaves, muttering something about being stubborn as a mule.

Sherlock leaps up and grabs  a piece of paper and a crayon (he was on a no sharps restriction) and begins to write by the light of the moon:

Dear John...

***

A/N

Hey guys, how was that? I tried to use some of y'alls suggestions, so here it is.  Feedback is appreciated!

-Hannah