SH - Bedside Manner

Waiting Room Part 2

    The approaching surgeon pulled down his mask. "Doctor Watson?"
    I nodded once, slowly.
    "Now, you're a medical man, so I'm sure you'll understand – you will have to be as careful and as quiet as you can – don't knock the bed, or touch the equipment – and he's not currently awake, but if you want to, you can see him anyway-"
    "Wait – what?" I asked, turning my head sharply to look at him. "See him? I can see him?"
    A sympathetic smile crossed the surgeon's tired face as he continued, "Yes, you can. Mr Sherlock Holmes is alive, and we expect him to wake up any minute now."
    Sherlock . . . .
    He's alive.
    It would have been easier to believe he'd died. It would have been more realistic. I hadn't thought real life had happy endings.
    Then how come I was getting mine?
    "Doctor Watson? Do you want to see him?"
    My voice wouldn't work.
    I was scared.
    No – I was terrified.
    I was terrified that I was making this up, delusional, that I'd been shot, was in a coma, or that any second Sherlock would have heart attack, a stroke due to a clot, react badly to the anaesthetic – and leave me forever.
    So I just nodded, then followed the silent surgeon down the pristine white corridors.
    Each step felt like it was taking me towards hell. Each time my footsteps echoed on the lino, I felt my fear increase. I couldn't bear it. I had to see him, touch him, hold him, know he was safe, alive, that he'd never leave me – he can't leave me, he can't, oh gods he can't . . .
    I'd protect him. By heaven above I'll protect him from every damn demon or disease that tried to hurt him. Sherlock will never bleed again. Not whilst I'm alive, and within one hundred miles of him . . .
    Eventually, the surgeon stopped by a door, and, smiling comfortingly, said "He just needs rest. If he wakes up, please call a nurse or a doctor. He's going to be fine."
    Once again, I nodded silently, and walked past him, into the room.
    He was sleeping.
    I'd barely ever seen him sleep.
    I wish I could see it more often. I've yet to see a sight more beautiful.
    Each dark, perfect curl had fallen into place effortlessly, contrasting with both the pure white pillow and his marble face. If it wasn't for the faint red flush to his cheeks, it would have been too easy to mistake him for a masterpiece by Michelangelo, the flawless complexion, the perfect cheek bones, heart-shaped lips, and the delicate, oval eyes.
    But it was the expression that completed the face, and I doubted even the greatest sculptor could have captured it. So soft a smile it was almost non-existent, and yet it still managed to light up his entire face. Sherlock Holmes, the man of action, the heartless man, simply shone.
    A good man? Sherlock Holmes has long surpassed that.
    I didn't realise I was smiling until opened my mouth to laugh at myself. How the hell did it take this long to realise I loved him?
    Without hesitation, I stepped forwards and slid into the seat beside the hospital bed.
    For an eternity I just watched him breath.
    Then my hand reached forwards and slid over his as it rested on the soft woollen quilt.
    The world could wait. I was going to stay here.
    
    I quite honestly don't know how long I sat there for. It felt like a while. But it was one of those times when you could easily stay still forever.
    But eventually, something had to move.
    Beneath my hand, I felt Sherlock's fingers shift, and with so small a movement, I was suddenly filled with relief, and fear.
    Relief because it proved he was fine. He really was going to recover.
    Fear – because reality finally struck me. How the hell am I meant to live and love him? He's Sherlock Holmes, the Great Detective, heartless, cold – how can this ever be good?
    But he took a bullet for me.
    "John . . ."
    My name. I looked up, and saw Sherlock's head roll over on the pillow, eyes still closed.
    "Sherlock?"
    "My . . ."
    My what? My stomach? Was he in pain? Concerned, I rose to my feet, and looked anxiously at the waking man. "Sherlock," I said, "Sherlock, are you okay?"
    "John."
    Sherlock's eyes finally opened, beautiful and depthless, and looking straight at me.
    And he smiled.
    I couldn't stay there. I couldn't survive that smile.
    "I'll go tell the doctor you're awake," I mumbled, stepping back hurriedly. I withdrew my hand from his, ignoring the way his hand rose, and turned, trying to hold it.
    I can't hope. Hope is deadly.
    I left the room as quickly as I could.
    When I got outside, I collapsed against the wall, blinking back tears.
    If you've never been in my position, you won't know what it's like. Being so desperately in love with someone that you just walk through your life searching for any sign of affection from them – then die whenever you find one, because you know it's not meant how you want it to be. That it never will be. Living with the one thing you breath being the harshest torture.
    That smile – oh gods . . . the way he looked honestly pleased to see me. Oh, couldn't he hate me? Couldn't he have scowled, turned away, sworn. And couldn't he have dropped my hand, withdrawn his, not tried to hold it?
    But he had, and now I couldn't stop thinking of that touch.
    How could I live like this?
    What am I going to do?
    I slid down onto the floor, and buried my face in my hands. What could I do? Tell him?
    I laughed humourlessly, the sound mixing strangely with the tears steadily trickling down my cheeks. Tell Sherlock? Seriously?
    But the longer the idea was in my head, the more I started to realise it was the only real option I had.
    If I told him – if he knew – how could it be worse than this? Either he'd be horrified and run a mile, and avoid me for the rest of my life, giving me the opportunity to get over him. Perhaps then I could live, if not happily, then at least without too much pain.
    Or perhaps he'd accept it – accept me. He took a bullet for me . . .
    Either way, it would be better than this. It's the uncertainty, the waiting that's the worst.
    Bring on hell, just get me out of purgatory.
    So I've got to tell you, whether it kills me or not.
    I calmly wiped away the tears. I blinked sternly, and rose to my feet. I felt like I was dreaming. I couldn't believe what I was doing, but I couldn't have stopped myself for the world. It was just something I had to do.
    I stepped through the doors, and Sherlock, now sitting up, looked up at me, smiling hesitantly – possibly nervous about my abrupt disappearance earlier.
    I've been to Afghanistan. I've watched people die in front of me. I've had people die at my hands, either because I couldn't save them, or I didn't want them to live. I'd acquired post-traumatic stress. I stood at my father's grave. I'd even survived Christmas Shopping with Harry.
    But none of those were harder than standing there and saying eight simple letters, three famous words.
    I just thought about his touch. His smile . . . and looked at him, licked my lips and just said it. "I love you."
    Silence.
    Sherlock's face changed so slowly. The nervous smile slipped down, and his eyes widened, stunned. His mouth fell open.
    I stayed still. I didn't move. I didn't breath. I almost didn't want him to say anything. I almost wanted to turn and walk out, and just leave him at that. Never have to face him again, but knowing I'd done my damned hardest to make my life the best it could be.
    "Um," said Sherlock. His voice was shaking – he'd clenched his hands into fists to stop them shaking, too. "Uh . . . d'you – do you think you could do that running over and kissing me thing?"
    "What?" I asked, for a moment so stunned I forgot to be nervous.
    Sherlock frowned, and looked down. "Um, I mean, I – I'm not really and expert on this – not at all – oh gods, this is going bad . . . but, um, isn't that what's meant to happen now? I - I'd run over to you, but I'm a bit stuck. . ."
    "Oh," I muttered. I felt so stupid. I looked down, avoiding looking at Sherlock. Trying not to let him see my cheeks burn red. Of course, I should have known this would happen . . . "You're mocking me."
    "No! Oh god no, I'm not!" I heard the rustle of fabric, and the bed creak.
    I peered up. Sherlock was climbing out of the hospital bed. With a stomach that had only just had a bullet taken out of it. "What the hell are you doing?" I yelled, stunned. "You'll ruin everything that the surgeons have just spent hours trying to fix!"
    "I don't care!" he said, staggering to his feet, and holding onto the monitor to stay upright. His face tightened with pain. "I'm not mocking you, John, god I'm not – I love-"
    "Get back into bed, now," I ordered, barely listening to him. Furious at the idiot, I stepped forwards, and grabbed his shoulders, trying to force him back into the hospital bed.
    "You don't believe me, do you?" he asked, grabbing me with his own hands. He was swaying dangerously in my hold, and wincing at every slight movement. I had to get him back lying down, and get a doctor – "You don't believe me . . ."
    "I do!" I protested, the words jumping from my mouth. Sherlock stared at me. I stared back. What the hell had I just said? "I do," I repeated slowly. And I started laughing. "Oh my god, I actually do . . . you love me . . ."
    "I do," repeated Sherlock, his hands clenched on my arms, his limbs shaking with pain, but joy covering each millimetre of his face. he was beaming. "And you love me, too. . ."
    I laughed again – before pulling him close to me, and pressing his grinning lips against mine.
    Heaven.
    But after only a few seconds, Sherlock winced, and muttered and 'ow' between out lips.
    "Oh, sorry," I whispered, pulling back and looking down at him. the bandage could just about be seen through the hospital gown. "You need to lie back down again."
    Sherlock didn't even complain, but nodded and gritted his teeth as I helped him climb back onto the bed.
    "You shouldn't have got out of it in the first place," I told him when he moaned some curse.
    Sherlock pulled at the duvet, then flashed a cheeky grin. "Yes I should," he countered.
    I grinned back.
    Like I had probably only an hour before, I let my hands slide over his. Only this time, when he tried to hold mine, I didn't take my hand away.
    There was a gentle knock on the door. We turned to look at it, and the doctor slid inside. He smiled, and said "You're up then, Mr Holmes?"
    I looked across at the wide eyed, smiling, brilliant detective. "Yeah," I said proudly, quietly, and squeezing Sherlock's hand, "he's awake."