(no subject)
Title: Missing the war.
Author: bodldops
Summary: And to think, he asked for this. They're right, what they say about volunteering.
Rating: PG...ish? Higher? Mrr?
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson (Sherlock)
Spoilers: For all three episodes, I'm sure.
Author's Note: Seriously, if you haven't seen this series yet, go do so. This is written for the prompt from two weeks ago, very late, but... yeah. >.> Oops?
Disclaimer: Characters aren’t mine, one pup may be mine at some future date but isn't yet. The fact the Beeb hasn't sent this over to America already is a crime in itself.
The fact he woke up at all is a bit of a surprise, he realizes, not processing what his eyes are telling him. He thought he'd be dead. He thought they'd all be dead, though it was a fair price to pay to put Moriarty out of this world. He'd briefly regretted not getting to know Sarah better, but there was nothing for it. Then the world faded away again, and he stopped being surprised.
The next time he woke up, he finds he hurts quite a bit. This seems rational, and he cannot for the life of him figure out why he didn't hurt last time, but... it doesn't really matter. He hurts, badly, worse than when he was shot. The pain makes his back arch and his lungs gasp, though there's no sound. He thinks there should be a sound, and then he realizes he can't, of course, because there's a tube in his mouth, cutting off air supply to the larynx, and his gasp, fighting the respirator, has deprived him of air. There are voices, gentle hands, suddenly surrounding him, but he doesn't stop fighting until the world fades away again into morphine dreams.
Third time now, and it's becoming a bit old hat, waking up to a battered body not under his control. There is still pain, but it seems further away now, and he can feel the weight of bandages and a blanket. He re-discovers the tube, but this time an experimental breath is not punished - assisted breathing, then, instead of total mechanized control. He must be doing better, and he consoles himself with that for a little while.
"John?" There's a voice, not one of the voices from before, but a voice he should know, he thinks. Someone's hands, warm, precise, inexperienced, wrap around his right, and he tries to curl his fingers in response. He's not sure if he succeeded.
"John?" The voice asks again, more insistent, and wonders if it's time to open his eyes again, realizing suddenly that they're closed, and the lids are impossibly heavy.
"John... I'm sorry." And it is wrong to hear that voice say that, that much he knows, but the effort of thinking all of these things has worn him out, and the world slips away again without his permission.
He opens his eyes, and after a few long, almost heart-stopping moments, the world resolves into the bleak surroundings of an intensive care ward. He recognizes the machines as old friends, or perhaps better thought of as old enemies. He hasn't seen them since he was pulled out of Afghanistan. They beep and trill and mutter to themselves, the sounds of a body healing. It's day - there's pallid light from outside spilling into the room from somewhere on his right, but no open window - the room reeks of disinfectants and other unpleasant things. The tube's gone, thank goodness, but he can taste the bitterly dry air of an oxygen line... and when he thinks about it, he can feel the pinch of a nasal line. If he squints, he can see the bandages and tubing of an IV line occupying the space above his right elbow - fluid support, probably with some sort of pain killer, nothing high grade - he doesn't have much tolerance, he knows. There are more bandages over his left side, some on the right but mostly the left, and for a moment he cannot think for the life of him how he got into this predicament in the first place.
Then it comes back.
That high, mocking voice.
The heavy suit of explosives he'd been forced to don at gunpoint.
Sherlock's obvious and somewhat surprising relief when that suit was ripped off.
The shared look between them, no need for words, when the snipers' guides had suddenly re-appeared on both of them.
Sherlock.
He struggles to sit up, to see if he can find his friend, his colleague, his comrade in arms, but the adrenaline only serves to get him half-way there before pain crashes back down on him, forcing a strangled cry from his throat. Suddenly (and he must have lost some time there, he didn't see her come in) there is a nurse, in clean pale-blue scrubs, easing him back down, adjusting something just out of his range of vision. She's berating him gently for moving, but he needs an question answered.
"Sherlock Holmes." He says, and his voice is not recognizable to his own ears, raspy from disuse and the tracheal tube. "Where is he? Did they bring him here?"
"Goodness dear, he was just here an hour ago, would have fallen asleep in that chair again if I hadn't sent him away. Comes in all hours, how he gets by security I don't even know. I've never met such a contrary fellow." This news is a bit stunning, and he quietly submits to the nurse's ministrations while he absorbs it. Not only is Sherlock alive, he's well enough to leave the hospital. Good. Perhaps a bit unfair, but good. On the heels of that question come a dozen more, and there's more after that he's sure, but his mind and body are becoming heavier again - the nurse had adjusted his opiate dose, he realizes muzzily. Sneaky. He approves from a medical standpoint, if not entirely in this case.
"Tell... Sherlock..." The words are hard to get out now as he sinks into oblivion, but she isn't listening to him, instead re-arranging his blanket so it lies more comfortably. As he slips away again, he takes comfort in the thought there will be time to tell Sherlock all sorts of things.
Starting with impressing upon him the need to stop garnering arch-enemies.
Author: bodldops
Summary: And to think, he asked for this. They're right, what they say about volunteering.
Rating: PG...ish? Higher? Mrr?
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson (Sherlock)
Spoilers: For all three episodes, I'm sure.
Author's Note: Seriously, if you haven't seen this series yet, go do so. This is written for the prompt from two weeks ago, very late, but... yeah. >.> Oops?
Disclaimer: Characters aren’t mine, one pup may be mine at some future date but isn't yet. The fact the Beeb hasn't sent this over to America already is a crime in itself.
The fact he woke up at all is a bit of a surprise, he realizes, not processing what his eyes are telling him. He thought he'd be dead. He thought they'd all be dead, though it was a fair price to pay to put Moriarty out of this world. He'd briefly regretted not getting to know Sarah better, but there was nothing for it. Then the world faded away again, and he stopped being surprised.
The next time he woke up, he finds he hurts quite a bit. This seems rational, and he cannot for the life of him figure out why he didn't hurt last time, but... it doesn't really matter. He hurts, badly, worse than when he was shot. The pain makes his back arch and his lungs gasp, though there's no sound. He thinks there should be a sound, and then he realizes he can't, of course, because there's a tube in his mouth, cutting off air supply to the larynx, and his gasp, fighting the respirator, has deprived him of air. There are voices, gentle hands, suddenly surrounding him, but he doesn't stop fighting until the world fades away again into morphine dreams.
Third time now, and it's becoming a bit old hat, waking up to a battered body not under his control. There is still pain, but it seems further away now, and he can feel the weight of bandages and a blanket. He re-discovers the tube, but this time an experimental breath is not punished - assisted breathing, then, instead of total mechanized control. He must be doing better, and he consoles himself with that for a little while.
"John?" There's a voice, not one of the voices from before, but a voice he should know, he thinks. Someone's hands, warm, precise, inexperienced, wrap around his right, and he tries to curl his fingers in response. He's not sure if he succeeded.
"John?" The voice asks again, more insistent, and wonders if it's time to open his eyes again, realizing suddenly that they're closed, and the lids are impossibly heavy.
"John... I'm sorry." And it is wrong to hear that voice say that, that much he knows, but the effort of thinking all of these things has worn him out, and the world slips away again without his permission.
He opens his eyes, and after a few long, almost heart-stopping moments, the world resolves into the bleak surroundings of an intensive care ward. He recognizes the machines as old friends, or perhaps better thought of as old enemies. He hasn't seen them since he was pulled out of Afghanistan. They beep and trill and mutter to themselves, the sounds of a body healing. It's day - there's pallid light from outside spilling into the room from somewhere on his right, but no open window - the room reeks of disinfectants and other unpleasant things. The tube's gone, thank goodness, but he can taste the bitterly dry air of an oxygen line... and when he thinks about it, he can feel the pinch of a nasal line. If he squints, he can see the bandages and tubing of an IV line occupying the space above his right elbow - fluid support, probably with some sort of pain killer, nothing high grade - he doesn't have much tolerance, he knows. There are more bandages over his left side, some on the right but mostly the left, and for a moment he cannot think for the life of him how he got into this predicament in the first place.
Then it comes back.
That high, mocking voice.
The heavy suit of explosives he'd been forced to don at gunpoint.
Sherlock's obvious and somewhat surprising relief when that suit was ripped off.
The shared look between them, no need for words, when the snipers' guides had suddenly re-appeared on both of them.
Sherlock.
He struggles to sit up, to see if he can find his friend, his colleague, his comrade in arms, but the adrenaline only serves to get him half-way there before pain crashes back down on him, forcing a strangled cry from his throat. Suddenly (and he must have lost some time there, he didn't see her come in) there is a nurse, in clean pale-blue scrubs, easing him back down, adjusting something just out of his range of vision. She's berating him gently for moving, but he needs an question answered.
"Sherlock Holmes." He says, and his voice is not recognizable to his own ears, raspy from disuse and the tracheal tube. "Where is he? Did they bring him here?"
"Goodness dear, he was just here an hour ago, would have fallen asleep in that chair again if I hadn't sent him away. Comes in all hours, how he gets by security I don't even know. I've never met such a contrary fellow." This news is a bit stunning, and he quietly submits to the nurse's ministrations while he absorbs it. Not only is Sherlock alive, he's well enough to leave the hospital. Good. Perhaps a bit unfair, but good. On the heels of that question come a dozen more, and there's more after that he's sure, but his mind and body are becoming heavier again - the nurse had adjusted his opiate dose, he realizes muzzily. Sneaky. He approves from a medical standpoint, if not entirely in this case.
"Tell... Sherlock..." The words are hard to get out now as he sinks into oblivion, but she isn't listening to him, instead re-arranging his blanket so it lies more comfortably. As he slips away again, he takes comfort in the thought there will be time to tell Sherlock all sorts of things.
Starting with impressing upon him the need to stop garnering arch-enemies.