Chapter Text
“Give me a call when he’s home,” Lestrade said. John nodded as the door closed, ending the steady stream of visitors they’d had throughout the day.
John sat uneasily, the steady rhythm of the heart monitor sounding from his right. The sound was probably the only thing keeping him sane at the moment; a reminder that the man in the bed was, in fact, still alive after their incident. His hand clenched at the memory, binding the fabric of the upholstery.
Sherlock Holmes; for a man that was so brilliant, there were times that he could be the most dense human being on the planet. He had to have known what could happen; his deductive abilities couldn’t have passed it over.
“John, duck!”
That was the last thing he’d said. In what could have very probably been his last moments, Sherlock had only thought to protect John. And it had probably saved his life; had he not ducked when Sherlock told him to, he probably would have gotten hit by several pieces of shrapnel.
Sherlock was probably very lucky to have survived himself; when the bomb went off, he was hit with glass, metal, stone… John’s blood still ran cold at the memory of seeing the slowly pooling blood beneath the limp body of his friend.
John punched the armrest. Why did he have to be the one to get hurt? The time that Sherlock could have been spent shielding himself was spent ensuring John’s safety instead. While he was incredibly thankful that he’d been saved, it still made him feel partly responsible for the man’s current condition.
John looked up at the wall, watching the clock tick. It’d been nearly three hours since he’d been wheeled into the hospital room, bandaged and bruised. He’d watched, almost detached, as they hooked him up to a breathing tube and went to work. The procedure hadn’t been long; Sherlock was still unconscious, and only the deepest cuts needed attention. John still shivered at the memory of the metal tray holding the bloody pieces of shrapnel.
John’s head snapped up as Sherlock shifted. He stretched, wincing in pain. John glanced towards the IV drip, pressed the dosage button on the painkillers. Sherlock relaxed, sighing as he fell back into the pillows. After a couple moments, he swallowed hard, and opened his eyes. He stared towards the ceiling, breath seeming to catch for a moment. His eyes darted around slightly, and then he turned his head towards John. John’s heart began to beat hard.
Sherlock’s eyes had an almost glazed look, not focusing on anything in particular. It looked all too similar to the look they’d had when he was rolled over at the warehouse, pieces of glass stuck to his skin.
“John?” he said quietly.
“I’m right here,” he replied.
Sherlock swallowed heavily. “John,” he said. “How bad are my injuries?”
“You’ll be alright. They weren’t that bad-“
“No, John, specifically. What happened to me?”
John sighed, forcing himself into a medical standpoint. “Well, you were fairly close to the blast. In all honesty, the wall separating you from the bomb was probably the only thing keeping you from being killed. The explosion knocked you back, probably giving you a concussion when you hit the ground. You were hit with quite a bit of shrapnel, but none of it dug too deep. I think you have some stitching on your chest and on your sides, but overall, you should just be left with some scarring.”
“Did any of the shrapnel hit my eyes?” he asked. John went cold; he knew what Sherlock was leading to.
“I’m not sure,” he said.
“I think you need to get the doctor,” he said quietly. “I can’t see.”
John listened numbly as the doctor explained the situation and Sherlock’s options. It seemed surreal; nothing like this could have ever happened to him.
“..Do you understand, Mr. Holmes?” he finished.
“Yes,” he said flatly. “As of right now, I have some fine shrapnel inside of my eyes. It’s already caused damage. Best case scenario, it can be removed, and I will have blurry vision that could be possibly corrected with glasses or contact lenses. Worst case scenario, which is the most likely one, the damage is permanent and I will be blind for the rest of my life.”
The doctor nodded. “Alright. We need some time to go over some of the test results. I’ll call you when we have definitive answers. For now, you can go home once the bandages are changed. As far as I know, you’ll be in good enough care with Doctor Watson.” The doctor gave John a smile before walking out of the room. John gave a long sigh before turning back to Sherlock.
“Are you alright?” he asked quietly.
“Yes,” he replied. His voice was still free of any emotion; carefully blank. This worried John. The only time Sherlock ever purposely covered any feeling he had was when he was at his most vulnerable; obviously the news had hit harder than he was willing to let on.
The nurse came in not long later, replacing Sherlock’s bandages. John cringed at the sight of all the lacerations; the damage was worse than he’d first thought.
“Let’s get you home,” John said. Sherlock stood, and John automatically stood to help him across the room. He stumbled a bit, placing a hand on the bed. John stepped closer, but Sherlock recoiled at his touch.
“I can do this myself,” he snapped. For just a moment, John could see just how upset Sherlock really was; a couple seconds later, however, his face went back to the careful blankness it had held before. John sighed, deciding to walk behind carefully. Sherlock tried to get a feel for the room, obviously getting more frustrated by the second.
“Turn to your left, then walk about eight paces. You’ll be in front of the door,” he whispered. Sherlock nodded, taking carefully measured steps. He fumbled for a moment, but quickly found the door handle.
John grabbed the walking cane leaning on the wall before stepping out behind him.