Organised Chaos - Sherlock x Reader

LXI • 61

John's POV:

I sat by his bed trying to stay strong. Even if I wasn't to blame, I still felt at least partially responsible for the two people I cared most for being in hospitals, hundreds of miles from each other.
I just wanted this misery to end.
I leaned forward and buried my face in my hands.
I didn't know how to fix this.
I'd always been able to help you when you were scared or hurt, but I couldn't fix this.
And Sherlock, I couldn't fix him either. I'd just gotten him back and now he was laid up in a hospital bed with a fresh bullet wound. The doctors had said he would likely pull through, but that didn't help the fact that I still felt responsible. I should've been able to take out Sebastian without his gun going off.
I knew what it was like; being shot. It was like an inferno in your body that couldn't be controlled. It was like being stabbed over and over in the same spot and there was no stopping your assailant.
I heard a soft rustle and looked up. I saw his hand move, and then his eyes fluttered open. He stared at me for a long moment, then he opened his mouth to speak, licked his lips, then tried again. "How is she?"
I couldn't help the small laugh of disbelief that escaped my own lips. He had just woken up from a near fatal bullet wound and that was the first thing he asked. It was unbelievable and inspiring at the same time.
"You got shot, you died, Sherlock. You barely made it through." I shook my head with a smile. "Do you ever think about yourself?"
He shook his head almost imperceptibly. "Not-" He winced, trying to sit up a little. "Not if she's still comatose."
I smiled again. It was so evident at this point that he loved you with everything he had. If there had been any doubt in my mind about your relationship with him being a good idea, the fact that he'd just taken a bullet for you and only cared about your well-being completely washed it away.
"She's no different- at least not from what I've heard. I had my parents stay with her while-"
"While you came to help me. Thank you." He paused, then, "How did you know where we were?"
I grinned. "I put a tracker on you before you left."
I saw the beginnings of a smile form on his lips. "I should've known."
"Yeah, no offense, but I knew you'd do something stupid."
Now he grinned. "You're right. Thank you John."
He tried moving a little and he winced again. I could see the pain all over his face, and it was truly difficult to watch.
"You gotta stop, Sherlock. Moving is only going to make it worse."
He made a small noise of acknowledgement, but still tried to move.
"Certainly no less stubborn." I muttered.
"I'll be-" He gasped in pain, then continued, "fine."
"Sherlock, you really need to stop saying your fine when you're seriously injured. You need humility in everything, and refusing to accept your limitations is not an exemplary display of that."
"I'm fine, I'll be fine." He repeated through gritted teeth.
I tried one more time. "What would (F/N) think if she were here? Would she want you pushing your limits, Sherlock?"
He stopped. "She's not here." He replied after a moment.
"But if she were." I insisted.
He stopped arguing and gave up moving.
"Thank you. Try to get some sleep. Your body is working extra hard to heal the wound that it wasn't expecting and you could use all the rest you can get. Trust me, I remember." The doctor in me came out when my loved ones were sick or injured, it was reflex.
He didn't respond, but allowed his eyes to fall shut and he finally fell asleep- something he'd not been doing enough of lately.
Maybe it was my medical training kicking in, but I felt that it was my responsibility to make sure he took care of himself, especially after he'd come home looking like a skeleton that had been beaten up.
He'd been so immensely malnourished that I'd almost been thankful that you wouldn't be able to see him. I really didn't want that being what you saw for the first time after he came back. He was still a working and thinking machine, but his appearance had changed entirely. He'd always been slim, but  never unhealthily so. His eyes, which had always been bright and eager, were dark and sunken. He'd been ghostly white and incredibly dehydrated. He'd had so many other health issues that the scars on his back shouldn't have been a surprise, and I knew I shouldn't have gotten angry, but just the fact that he'd been completely ignoring them was upsetting to me as a doctor.
As his doctor.