Author's Note: Okay, I'm taking a stab at a possible conversation between John and Sherlock after the events of "The Great Game." I put Sherlock's candor down to him being on pain pills and sleepy. People tend to let their gaurd down and their tongues slip.
Disclaimer: Do not own these two wonderful characters. Gatiss, Moffat, and ACD do. Regretfully.
Review please and let me know what you think! Meanwhile I have to figure out to properly put in spaces here...
"I have to say Doctor Watson, you're a very lucky man to still be here."
John sighs as he hears those words. When he got shot and survived, the doctor that tended to him when he woke said the same thing.
"Lucky," he mutters. "Yeah."
He listens, sort of, to what Doctor Harkswell says, his mind only half here as he imagines what hell Sherlock may be putting his doctors through. If he was conscious that is. Sherlock hadn't been by the time John and he were strapped into ambulances.
That was three days ago.
The memory of what happened at the pool, when Moriarty came back, was somewhat fuzzy. It hasn't fully come back to him yet. Bits and pieces. Sherlock pointing the gun at the bomb. John grabbing Sherlock.
Sherlock pushing John out of the way.
It was like in Afghanistan almost.
John shoves that memory to the side as viciously as Sherlock can cut someone with just a few words.
"Can I see him?" John speaks up, realizing Doctor Harkswell was done. John needed to see Sherlock. To hell with Lestrade saying Sherlock was fine, to hell with everyone telling him that Sherlock was fine.
He wanted to see it for himself, dammit.
"I'm not sure-"
"He can, Doctor Harkswell," a smooth familiar voice cuts in. John notices Mycroft then. "I'm sure Sherlock would appreciate the company."
"So he's awake?" John asks hopefully as he hops down, mentally wincing as his body reminds him what he's been through. Somehow John made it out with some a few cuts, his right armed burned(but told it will heal), and a whole lot of bruising. Only thing that wasn't bruised on John was his neck.
Somehow, no concussion. Even as a doctor, John was surprised.
"Oh yes," Mycroft smiles, "and very grumpy."
John can't help but smile and carefully walks with Mycroft, mindful not to put too much weight on his legs. He can feel that bloody limp wanting to come back with a vengeance, but he wanted to walk into Sherlock's room without it.
It's not far of a walk, a blessing there, and Mycroft pushes open the door to Sherlock's room.
"Sherlock, you have a visitor."
"I told you I do not want visitors," the familiar, sulky, demanding voice snaps out.
"John?" Sherlock calls out. "They let you out?"
Mycroft steps to the side. "About bloody time," John grumbles and comes to a halt as he sees Sherlock.
He's laid up in the bed, one leg propped up, wrapped with bandages similar to what is on John's arms.
Sherlock's left arm is in a sling, with a cast.
And all over are cuts, bruises.
"I also have a fractured rib apparently," Sherlock adds, obviously guessing what John was doing. "And a concussion."
Sherlock somehow took the brunt of the damage.
John mentally shakes himself out of the surprise.
"Come sit John," he says in his usual drawl, "your leg must be sore.. well everything must be."
John comes over, sitting down in the chair next to Sherlock's bed. He hears the swing of a door shutting, indicating Mycroft left.
"Mycroft said you were grumpy."
"You would be too if you were like this," Sherlock sighs.
John pauses. "Do you remember?"
Sherlock makes a face, indicating he did not and he was not happy. "Too much going on," he taps his temple. "I think my hard drive is temporarily fried," he adds.
"Very much so," he murmurs.
"What about.. Moriarty?" John asks hesitantly.
Sherlock stays silent for a minute. "Mycroft said they found a body, burned, dead. Must be him. Their doing what they can to confirm it."
Deep down John doubts it.
He knows Sherlock does to.
"I meant what I said."
John blinks, focusing on Sherlock. "Pardon?"
"Back at the pool, when you.. offered... told me to run," Sherlock clarifies, his blue eyes distant for a minute, and then focusing on John. While they are their normal cool, there's something else as well.
"That it was good?"
Sherlock nods. Then frowns. "Why did you do it?"
John tilts his head, "What do you mean?"
"You were going to sacrifice yourself for me... for me. I'm a selfish, cold, sociopath of a bastard," Sherlock rattles off. "I'm hardly worth a sacrifice for John. Several others would tell you that."
John scowls, remembering how Sherlock is generally treated. True the man brings it on himself most of the time.. but it goes too far, such as with Donovan and Anderson. And now he wonders how many others have told Sherlock he would not be worth the sacrifice.
But he also remembers one man's words to him, during that fateful drugs bust during A Study In Pink.
Because Sherlock Holmes is a great man. And one day, if we're very very lucky, he'll be a good one too.
"You are worth it," John counters. "You are one of the most brilliant men in the world, and I'm not saying this to feed your ego. True you need to learn some social norms, and manners-"
"But London needs you," John continues. "The world needs you. Needs your mind, needs your focus, needs your attention. We all need you."
"And you don't think the world needs you? You were willing to sacrifice yourself for me."
John shrugs, feeling the weight of his lack of usefulness come down on him. "I'm ex soldier, a doctor who can only do basic healing. I don't have your talents. The world would not be lost without me."
Blue eyes burn into his. John senses anger in those eyes, as if his words angered the consulting detective. He is unable to look away.
"Yes it would," Sherlock says finally.
"You heard me," Sherlock says firmly. "John Watson, you are needed in this world."
John decides to not argue with him on that for now. No point to argue.
"Would you have run if you had the chance?" John asks, voicing a thought that had run through his mind since he first told Sherlock to run.
"Because you were still there."
John blinks, and then swallows hard, looks away. That was quite a statement from the man lying on the bed in front of him. He imagined it took a lot for Sherlock to say. Because Sherlock did not form attachments, he did not make friends.
Then what was John?
"My friend," Sherlock says softly, sounding like he's half asleep now, and strangely vulnerable. But still able to read his mind apparently. "Friend, colleague, and my blogger."
John didn't know what to do with this. This normally aloof, cold, cutting man.. a man that he has lived with and gotten to know and become loyal to in such a short amount of time.. (Mycroft was right about him being loyal.. he didn't know how or why, it just happened) was in his way, telling John that he considered him to be a friend. Sherlock didn't do emotions well, so this must be difficult for him.
He looks at Sherlock then, and he sees the uncertainty in those blue eyes. As if waiting for John to deny. Expecting it.
"So finally decided I'm a friend?" He asks, trying to lighten the mood, giving Sherlock a half smile.
He gets one in return. "I figured an upgrade would be useful. After all colleagues don't ten to try to sacrifice themselves for the other."
"No they don't I suppose." John takes a longer look at Sherlock. "You should sleep."
"I will if you stay."
"Don't want me to leave now either?"
"It'll keep Mycroft away."
John chuckles, and rests in the chair he's in. The room goes quiet, with the sound of Sherlock's breathing the only thing one can hear.
Just as John figures the detective is asleep, he hears Sherlock say something.
"I was wrong."
"What was that Sherlock?" He doubted he heard what he thought he did. Sherlock admitting he was wrong? Never.
"I was wrong," he murmurs.
Well, John needed to tell Lestrade this.
Sherlock sighs, his eyes opening again to meet his. "There are heroes in this world." He closes them, and the moments later the man is deep asleep.