Strawberry Blood

Chapter Five

Sherlock woke up gasping for air, his hands coming up to his neck pulling at a rope that wasn't there. When he realized that the rope was a dream, he opened his eyes. Hospital, his brain provided for him. He looked around the room quickly then his eyes landed on John, a sob escaping his lips. John was hooked up to several machines, he was thin, pale and looked like death. His ears ringing, the steady beeping of the heart monitor comforting. John was alive, his John.

"John." Was all Sherlock could say. He was crying, which was very unlike him then came the hiccups. He didn't know how he'd gotten his own bed but he pushed himself out of it and straight over to John. His hands were shaking as he picked up John's left hand. He fell to his knees, hands hands gripping his John's hand as he sobbed into the bed.

Sherlock wasn't sure how long he had stayed on his knees crying into the bedsheet gripping the doctors hand but when he stood he groaned out in pain. His joints popped loudly and he wiped his eyes lazily. He turned around and shuffled back to his bed, his transport not completely recharged.

Once he got to his coat he rummaged around in his pockets and pulled his cellphone free. He vigorously typed out a message to Mycroft and unfortunately had to add a thank you. He wanted to puke. He tucked his phone back away in his pockets when his fingers touched a crumbled piece of paper. He scoffed audibly as he pulled it out and was about to throw it away when he actually looked at the ink covered scrap of paper.

It was a receipt, dated for a few weeks before the pips. Sherlock had actually bought dinner for the doctor, they shared a pleasant evening together. It was rare and just staring at what used to be made Sherlock want to cry some more. He carefully tucked it back into his pocket and crawled back into his bed. More sleep wouldn't hurt. He didn't want to think. It hurt to think. Sherlock pulled his coat over his body and fell into unconsciousness.

When Sherlock woke again there was a nurse standing over by the machines. His heart rate increased drastically and he shot up out of the bed. Questions flooded his mind but his transport wasn't cooperating so all that came out of his mouth was, "John okay?"

The nurse let out a sigh and shook her head. "Ah. You must be the one that was yelling then passed out in the hallway." She tutted and proceeded to annoyingly write on the clipboard in her grasp. "John will recover but we won't know fully what the damage is until he wakes up. We just have to wait for him to do so."

Sherlock's mind picked apart the nurse in under a minute. Thirty, single, unable to keep a steady partner due to her profession. Several cats at home and tends to drink heavily on the weekends.

Sherlock nodded in response before turning on his heel to move over to John. The doctor looked much the same, besides the slightest hint of pink to his cheeks. Sherlock let his fingertips graze the skin of John's forearm then he moved back away. He dramatically threw himself on his bed with a sigh. Mycroft had texted him back, his response was snarky but he complied to his wishes.

Over the next several hours Mycroft's men brought up several suit cases, Sherlock's violin, a bag of John favorite books and lastly an old green chair. It was the match to the one Sherlock had in the flat that he had store away when he acquired the red one John liked so much. Sherlock pranced around room, moving the chair into its perfect spot before picking up a book from the stack and plopping down. He had position the chair on John's left side, close enough to the bed Sherlock could just reach out and touch the sleeping doctor.

Sherlock stared down at the book in his lap. The book was well worn, dusty from sitting on the shelf. He thumbed at the pages then shook his head. Reading was tedious, reading aloud was tedious. But he knew John liked the sound of his voice, though the doctor would never admit it and he'd honestly do anything for the man laying in the hospital bed, even if it's boring. He sighed, opened the book and began to read aloud.

Day after day, week after week Mycroft witnessed his brother read nearly thirty books, write notes on every surface in the hospital room and run a dangerous experiment. The government official had to pull several strings to get the doctor moved to the most private room the hospital could provide and limit the activity of hospital personnel. With the staff happy and his brother he left his visits to once a week, for both of their sanity.

Sherlock was laid in bed as usual, one hand holding John's while the other one rested on his chest. He organized his mind palace. This was the tedious work he enjoyed, his mind was his escape from the reality and to try and forget just for a while that his doctor was still in a coma.

Hours passed and Sherlock stayed completely still, so deep in his mind palace that he didn't feel the tightening of John's grip. Sherlock slowly pushed himself out of the fog before he realized that John was squeezing his hand tighter. His whole body froze as he stared at the doctor, watching as John's forehead crinkled, then his nose.

Breathe Sherlock, his brain provided and he took a gasping breath. He needed to call the doctors to let them know John was awake but he couldn't get his body to move.

"Sherlock," John rasped.