Sherlocked

Rose

We arrived at the hospital, and Sherlock probably would have jumped from the car while it was still in motion if his hand weren’t still in mine. He was so silently adamant about not letting go of me that I had to exit the cab after him on his side so we remained in contact.

He rushed all the way to the front desk, where he demanded to know where Watson was. The lady, after a reassuring wry smile from me, told us that we would need to go to the OR waiting room because John was still in surgery, and we would have to wait until afterwards to visit him in his room.

We sat in the waiting room on cushioned chairs, his fingers still entwined with mine as he stared into space, obviously far away somewhere in his own head while I stared at the way my hand fit in his. He had the fingers of a musician, delicately muscled to the specific craft of a violinist. They were long and agile looking, with calluses on the pads of the fingers.

There was something very calming in the small study, and when I looked up again, Sherlock was staring at me, a peculiar expression on his face.

“What is it, Sherlock?” I asked, wondering if something was wrong, other than John being in the hospital, of course.

“Thank you, for being here. You didn’t have to,” he said, and it sounded awkward n his tongue as if he were testing out newly learned words.

“Yes,” I said, squeezing tighter onto his hand for a brief moment to reinforce my sincerity, “I did.”

________________________________________________________________________________

After nearly four hours of surgery, we were called up and given the good news; the surgery had been a complete success. The bullet was removed, and all the tissue had been successfully repaired. John Watson was a lucky man. He would make a full recovery, and other than the scars, little physical evidence of the injury would remain.

I led Sherlock into the room where John was being held, feeling his trepidation as we entered the door. Sherlock seemed to let out a large breath when we came through the door and were greeted by the steady beep of monitors, as well as a laugh.

John was obviously so heavily drugged on pain medication that he grinned from ear to ear. How much of this was actually due to medication and not Sherlock’s presence, I could not tell, but I knew John was ecstatic by the way his sleepy eyes seemed to light up when Sherlock entered the room.

As soon as we were through the door, Sherlock dropped my hand and stood awkwardly about two feet away from John’s bed. “Hello, John. How are you feeling?”

“Extraordinary!” John laughed. “I don’t know what they’ve given me, but it’s bloody brilliant.”

I couldn’t suppress the giggle that escaped my lips. John sounded like a drunken child in the best possible way. And even though I had never met him before, he had the kind of air about him that put me completely at ease. It was easy to see how Sherlock could become so attached to his friend.

“Hello,” John said, seeming to notice me for the first time. His eyebrows wagged flirtatiously, and I tried my best not to laugh again.

“Hi, I’m Rose. I’m Sherlock’s new flat mate. I’ve heard so much about you,” I said, knowing that it wasn’t entirely true. Sure, I had read his blog and pieced together some things from Sherlock, but he had never sat down and talked to me about his best friend and previous flat mate.

He smiled dopily at me before turning to Sherlock. “So, gone and got yourself a girlfriend while I was gone, did ya?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock said, his voice quick and low. Then he shut like a steel trap. Obviously nervous from John’s comment and the general anxiety that came with visiting a friend in the hospital, I stepped in to try and relieve some of the discomfort.

“You know, I’m starved, Sherlock. You mind hunting down a snack for me? I don’t suppose you’re hungry, but I could kill for some crisps. Don’t worry. I’ll guard Dr. Watson with my life while you’re gone,” I promised when he eyed me warily.

Sherlock left the room after a quick nod in my general direction, and I was left alone with John Watson.

“I think he needed that,” I said once he had left. “He’s very worried about you. He cares about people in such a quiet sort of way that I don’t think he knows how to handle situations like this. But I’m sure you know that already. You’re his best friend.”

“You seem to know him fairly well,” John commented, and I couldn’t tell whether or not he was happy about this.

“I’m good with people. It’s not like we really have heart-to-hearts or anything like that. But when you’re around someone enough, you start to pick up on the way they operate. And I have been around people similar to Sherlock before, in temperament if nothing else.”

“He’s a very unique man,” John said, almost defensively.

“I agree with you wholeheartedly. There certainly isn’t another man like him in all the world. I like that about him.”

John smiled then, and I knew that I had finally said something to win him over. I realized he was being protective of his friend, even from a hospital bed. He wanted to watch out for him.

“So what brings you here? Surely you didn’t plan to visit a complete stranger in the hospital on your free time.”

“Sherlock needed me. We’ve lived under the same roof for a month and a half now. He’s become my friend, and I know when a friend needs help, even when he would never admit to it.”

“It’s a good thing he has you to look after him. Sometimes I think he really needs that,” John said, smiling again.