Eastern Winds (JohnLock)

Chapter 27 - An Empty Vessel

Sherlock's P.O.V;

I followed the nurse down the narrow corridor before she came to a halt infront of the final doorway, she turned on her heels with an almost pitiful expression. "Mr. Holmes, Doctor Watson is still unconcious and will most likely remain so for a few days. He's also hooked up to a considerable number of support machines but there is almost no need to worry." I nodded stifly. I had the urge to swipe out her legs so she would let me to John's bedside but he would've only told me it was a bit not good... It took the woman damn near 30 seconds to usher me inside the hospital room, I could have done it in less than 10 just for my John.

As the woman sidestepped my view was no longer blocked. I inhaled deeply upon seeing the doctor settled in the bed before me. He was laid with the lavender blanket pulled up past his exposed chest with his arms resting above the knitted material. A cannula had been fitted into the back of his hand which was currently attatched to the morphine drip. There were countless wires connected to the man, some to replace the blood he had lost, most were for pain relif and a single colostomy bag was also discretely placed under the beg. Scanning his body for any signs of life and any signs of my flatmate until I felt my stomach lurch when I caught sight of the bandages protruding from the blanket. The dressing had been applied to the new wound, leaving the old gunshot wound he recieved in afghanistan exposed. That was always my favourite feature of John, it truly shows his bravery...

Finally my eyes rested upon his face. Observing his face you would say he looked untroubled, despite the last time he was concious he was being shot at by a raging pshycopath who was intent on destroying his lover's life brick by brick. Seeing his harmonious expression you would never have guessed this man had faced such tragic loss years before watching myself take the plunge from the rooftop of the very hospital we were now in, you would never have know he had endured war. The man on the bed was tranquill, but it was not my John. Not really, my John was a man who could say a thousand words by raising his brow, he was a man who I could read like an open book, he was the man who I loved and the man who's eyes I would often become lost in and who's hushed whispers of sweet nothings could steady my raging mind.

John wasn't here in the hospital room, his body was simply an empty vessel and it was my duty to bring him back. It was often John who remained strong throughout the years at Baker Street for my own sake, he made sure no harm would ever come to me even if his life was falling apart at the very seams. It was now my turn. I had to keep myself together, and I had to get John back to me so we could continue on solving crimes for Lestrade, so we could continue driving eachother to insanity and so we could continue falling deeper and deeper in love.

With a short sniff, I wiped the remenants of tears from my own cheeks and walked to where John's body lay. Positioning myself in the chair beside the bed I laced our fingers together pressing my lips softly on the cool flesh on the back of his hand. The nurse left the room so that we could be alone and the only sound was the machinery around us and the rythmic beat of the heart monitor.

And now, I must wait...