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“Let me in. Now,” Sherlock growled at the cheery nurse.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Holmes, but the doctors have him on some pain relieving drugs and he’s unconscious. And besides, you should give him some space and time to heal. You can see him tomorrow morning.”
Sherlock internally screamed; he was so frustrated. Then he straightened up, and his mouth formed a silent “oh.” “Fine, I’ll come back tomorrow,” he said, walking away, leaving the nurse confused as to why he had given up so easily.
He strolled down the crowded hallway with his coat collar turned up. Sherlock paused and looked over his shoulder. “Oh, and your husband is cheating on you with your co-worker.” Every doctor in the hall stopped and stared at the nurse, who was no longer cheery. Her face had drained of color, and she stomped out the door, her oxford shoes squeaking down the hallway. Sherlock smiled a half smile and continued on his way.
The plan was simple, really. All Sherlock had to do was grab a coffee from the café downstairs, and “accidentally” spill it on some poor unsuspecting doctor. Then he would politely offer to take their doctor’s coat down to get it dry cleaned at the cleaners down the street and return it the next day. Snag some plastic gloves and a surgical mask (they could be found almost anywhere, really. It was a hospital, after all), and he would be pretty unrecognizable. Sherlock went down to the café and ordered a tall coffee, black, so it would make a really dark stain. After he had a steaming cup in his hands, he surveyed the lobby for a doctor. Any doctor. At last, he found one. Sherlock could tell this guy was young, and was starting his first year as a doctor. He was obviously really smart to be starting at such a young age and was determined to impress his superiors. He was trying too hard; Sherlock could tell from the pencil stuck behind his ear and his bloodshot eyes, definitely from studying late into the night. His highlighted brown hair was slicked back in a sort of Draco Malfoy style. Sherlock calculated his footsteps carefully. Two steps forward and they would collide in 5… 4… 3… 2… splash! Espresso went everywhere; especially on the young man’s coat. He stood stock still in disbelief. Then he slowly blinked, took his glasses off and shook coffee off his hands. Suddenly, he noticed his shoes. They were ruined.
“Oh my goodness, I am so sorry; I simply didn’t see you there! Here, let me take your coat. I’ll try to clean it for you, Dr. … Wilson,” said Sherlock, reading the badge.
Doctor Wilson was too preoccupied with his ruined shoes to hear. Sherlock slowly backed up a few steps, then ran into the bathroom. There he put on the coat and attempted to make his hair a bit neater. It didn’t work. He ditched the surgical mask idea for time’s sake. He hurried to John’s room, room 713. Hopefully the nurse from earlier was long gone.
When Sherlock arrived at John’s room, he was glad to see that the perky nurse had left. Instead, he could see the back of a different man, wearing a dark blue collared shirt. He was bent over a clipboard in his hand, making flurried notes. Sherlock could tell he probably wasn’t a doctor because he had no coat, so probably a male nurse? They weren’t that uncommon these days. Sherlock strode up to the man, and tapped on his shoulder. The man didn’t turn around.
Sherlock said in one breath, “Hi, I’m Dr. Wilson, John Watson’s doctor. I’m here to have a look at him; his blood pressure, if he’s eating, all that good stuff. So if you excuse me, I’ll just go in now; thank you nurse.” He started to open the door when the man said behind him, “No, there must be a mistake; I’m Doctor Wilson.” Sherlock turned around, which was a mistake.
He should have ignored the real Doctor Wilson and just walked in. Doctor Wilson recognized Sherlock immediately.
“Hey! You’re that bloke who ran into me earlier and spilled coffee on me! You ruined my new shoes! And is that my coat you’re wearing?!”
“Well, obviously,” Sherlock replied. “Don’t you see the badge and the giant coffee stain? Honestly, some people have no observation skills.” At this, the young doctor spluttered. “Look here, mister-,” he growled.
Sherlock put in one last jab. “Oh, and the greaser hairstyle? It’s so not working out.”
Doctor Wilson looked as if he wanted to throttle him, he was so livid. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
“Listen, sir,” he continued. “I don’t know who you are, but if you don’t return my coat and get out of here soon I will have to call security. You’re lucky I’m not making you pay for the shoes.”
Sherlock returned his coat, flicked up the collar of his own coat, and walked away.
But before he reached the end of the hallway, he turned around and said, “Oh, and I know you’re cheating with that nurse’s husband. Shame on you, stealing a coworker’s husband.” Sherlock turned around and left. He smiled as he heard a clipboard clatter to the floor.
It was time for plan B.
Sherlock pounded on Mrs. Hudson’s door. “Mrs. Hudson, are you there?” Thump thump thump! He banged on the door with his gloved fist two, three, four times, but there was no answer. Sherlock sighed. This was gonna go on his rent, but what choice did he have? He had to see John. Sherlock stepped back, aimed his foot at the door, and gave it a good strong kick. The blow didn’t knock the door down, but it did make a hole big enough for him to squeeze through.
Once he was through he scanned the room for any signs of Mrs. Hudson or where she could’ve gone. Aha. Her good shoes and favorite purple coat were gone. He strode over to the mirror. His suspicions were confirmed. Her red lipstick was still out, and there were traces of blush on the table. She was going on a date. But who with? She had worn makeup, so she wasn’t going somewhere casual like the park like she had last time with that store clerk. It wasn’t with the baker, either; he couldn’t possibly afford to take her to a place fancy enough for her to want to wear makeup. That narrowed it down to the banker she met last week.
Sherlock cursed aloud. This plan was going to be absolutely foolproof. Sherlock was going to get her to play a hysterical mother. She certainly looked the part, and she could definitely pretend to be hysterical. She got mad at Sherlock all the time, like the time when he ripped apart the couch in search of a searching device. (It was there, of course, but that wasn’t the point.) But since Mrs. Hudson had gone at the worst possible moment, Sherlock was going to have to use plan C, the one plan he was planning to use as an absolute last resort. He took out his mobile and dialed the number he knew by heart.“Hello, brother dearest. I need a favor."
“I’m sorry, Sherlock, but if the doctors say he isn’t well enough to see you, then he isn’t well enough to see you. I can’t do anything against a doctor’s word. Besides, don’t you want him to get better?” asked Mycroft when he answered the call that was from the person he least expected.
“Tell me, Mycroft,” Sherlock hissed over the phone. “Has the diet made you go over your head? Just because you managed to lose 4 pounds doesn’t mean to get to be a great, pompous, selfish cock.”
“Tut, tut, Sherlock,” Mycroft replied. “Taking jabs at me won’t make me any more eager to help you. And it was 5 pounds, not 4.”
“I DON’T CARE HOW MANY POUNDS IT WAS!! John is lying in a hospital, in very much pain and bored to death without me, and you want to discuss how much weight you’ve lost?! Don’t you understand? He is in the hospital, and it’s ALL MY FAULT! And if he dies, it will be on my conscience. And yours too. If you won’t help me, fine. I’ll find someone else to help. I’m sure Molly and Lestrade will be happy to help. Whatever. I’ll find a way. But he is definitely not dying alone.”
Mycroft held the phone away from his ear for the first bit when he was getting yelled at. He sighed.
“Wow, that was quite a speech, little brother. “
There was a huff from Sherlock on the other end.
“I didn’t know you felt that way about him. Of course I would’ve helped you. If you’d listened to me all the way through instead of insulting me, you would’ve known. I have a plan. I’ll help you, if you answer this question,” Mycroft added.
“What is it?” Sherlock asked.
“Do you love John?”
“Of course I love him!” Sherlock said. “I wouldn’t have put up with him for this long if I didn’t, would I?”
“No, I meant –“
“I know what you meant, Mycroft, “sighed Sherlock.
“And? Come on, spit it out,” Mycroft said.
“Why are you so eager to know? You were never the one for gossip.”
“Not when it comes to you, brother,” Mycroft replied. “If you two end up dating, I want to be the first to know.”
Sherlock groaned. “You just wanna get me back for telling everyone about you and Lestrade,” he grumbled. “And for the record, everyone could tell. How he would go on break for an hour at precisely 1:30 every afternoon and come back with his tie all-“
“Okay, that’s enough!” Mycroft cut in. Sherlock snickered. “Just answer the question, please, Sherlock,” sighed Mycroft.
“Fine, fine. You’re no fun,” said Sherlock.
“I care about John very much. I would die to save him. So yes, in a way, I guess I love him. And before you can tell me that I don’t love anyone, I love him in my own way. But do I love him romantically? No, not in that way. Besides, he insists so much that he’s straight, it wouldn’t matter anyway.”
“I see,” remarked Mycroft.
“Am I done here?” asked Sherlock.
“Yes,” replied Mycroft. “Quite. Get yourself to the hospital, Sherlock. You’ll find that you will be able to see your precious John,”
But there was silence on the other end of the line.
“…. Hello? Hellooo?”
But there was no answer. Mycroft sighed and rubbed at his eyes. “Nice doing business with you too, little brother.”
Sherlock hurtled through the doors of Westwood Hope hospital and raced to room 713. A young ginger nurse was there to greet him.
“Mr. Holmes, we’ve been expecting you,” she told him. “Your brother sent word.”
“Great. Excellent, excellent. Where’s Doctor Wilson?”
“Well, you see,” the nurse started explaining, “Dr. Wilson’s shoes-“
“Do I look like I care where he is?” Sherlock cut in impatiently.
“But- y-you-,” stammered the nurse.
“Yes, I did,” said Sherlock, fully prepared to launch into a long speech about what he deduced about her by just looking at her shoes.
But then he looked into her eyes. Her eyes… they reminded him of Molly’s. Startlingly striking, with a hint of something else. Worriment, perhaps. He couldn’t treat her like he had treated Molly. He couldn’t do that to this young girl, who was trying so desperately to please him, just as Molly had been doing all those years ago, before she gained some self-confidence.
He took a deep breath. “What I meant was,” Sherlock continued, “Thank you. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I would like some privacy with John.”
The nurse exhaled in relief. It was obvious she was grateful it had gone so well. She extended her hand, and Sherlock shook it. “I’m Wendy, by the way. Wendy Hooper.” She smiled. “Please, call me if you need anything.” With that, she left Sherlock alone to his thoughts.
“Wait,” Sherlock called after her. She turned around expectantly.
“Are you, by any chance, related to Molly Hooper?” he asked.
“Oh. She’s my cousin,” she replied. “Why do you ask? Do you know her?”
“Oh, no reason,” answered Sherlock.
Wendy grinned and continued on her way.
Sherlock turned and face the door. He put his hand on the doorknob and mentally prepared himself for what he might see.
He counted silently to three and turned the knob, and walked in.
The room was a dreary gray, with no spray-painted smiley face to cheer John up. There were no flowers or get-well cards; not yet.
Sherlock gulped when he saw John. There he was, Sherlock’s best friend John, lying on the bed, sleeping. He was hooked up to a heart monitor that was beeping steadily. Beep...beep…beep…
There were bruises on John’s face. Sherlock gazed downwards, searching, until there it was. John’s neck was still lightly red, and there were still traces of handprints where his attacker had tackled and choked him.
Sherlock approached the hospital bed. “It’s all my fault. As always,” he breathed. He placed a gloved hand on John’s bruised one- knuckles red from trying to defend himself.
“Hey, John. Must be so boring without me, huh? And I’m 70% sure the hospital food probably tastes worse than your cooking.”
Sherlock chuckled, and then continued. “And once you get out, you still won’t be able to do much. I’ll probably be stuck indoors with you, too. I can’t go solving cases on my own, can I? Not without my blogger. Dear God, I can already feel the boredom.”
“ But I deserve it. Well, maybe half of it was your fault for wandering off without me, but it’s still my fault,” Sherlock added.
“Here I am, talking to myself. How sane. But hey. When you get better I shall allow to hit me - yes hit me, in the face. How many ever times you want, and I won’t even resist.”
“So, I’m gonna head back to Baker Street. My time is almost up, and the only reason I can be here right now is all thanks to, as much as I hate to say it, Mycroft. I promise I’ll come by again soon, and I’ll bring Mrs. Hudson and the –“
“No, don’t leave yet,” mumbled John.
Sherlock whirled around. “Were you- you-“
“Awake the whole time? Yup,” John finished for him.
“Then why in the world would you let me ramble on like that? Are you in any pain? Want me to pump up the morphine?”
“It was rather sweet. And no, I’m fine thanks,” John laughed.
“ Sweet? ,” asked Sherlock, saying the word as if he had cough syrup in his mouth. “ Little fairy princesses and their bunny friends are sweet. I am not sweet.”
“If you say so,” John shrugged. “But just so you know, Sherlock, it was not your fault. None of it was.”
“But it was. I left you alone while the psycho was still out there, it’s my fault you got hurt.”
John shook his head. “Nope, I left you, remember? Remember when I got pissed? I don’t even remember why I was mad.”
“I kept running off and left you with the drunk waitress.”
“Oh yeah,” John said, and nodded absentmindedly. “So what’d you have to do to get Mycroft to let you come?”
“Oh, he asked me if I loved you,” Sherlock said, ever so casual. He turned his back to John.
John’s breath hitched. “And… ahem, what’d you say?” Sherlock could tell John was getting flustered; he had to clear his throat a lot.
“Do you want to know what I told him?”
“Ahem. Well yeah, considering it’s about me” replied John.
“I told him no, I loved you as a friend but nothing more.”
“But you know what? ,” asked Sherlock.
“What? ,” John said, a little nervously. He could see from where he was laying that Sherlock was shaking his hand rapidly, like the day he wanted his cigarettes.
Sherlock turned around and strode over to John until he was inches away.
“Holy… where is this going? ,” wondered John.
Sherlock was directly over John now. He leaned over, careful not to trip any important wires.
He then placed a cool hand on the side on John’s bruised face.
Sherlock hesitated, then leaned in and gave John a tiny peck on the lips.
“I lied,” said Sherlock. “I lied to Mycroft.
He looked at John, who hadn’t said anything. He was just laying there, his mouth open in shock.
This was clearly not the reaction he was expecting. “John? Oh my god, I’m so sorry-“
Sherlock was suddenly cut off by a pair of warm lips on his. John had pulled him in by the collar of his shirt and crashed their lips together. Sherlock stiffened in shock, but then relaxed into the kiss. Their lips moved together, in sync.
John reached up and tangled his hand in Sherlock’s curls. After a few seconds that felt like forever, the two men broke away for breath.
“What... was that?, “ John panted.
“That was obviously a kiss, John,” Sherlock answered, also struggling to breathe. “It’s what two people do when they like each other. Though sometimes-“
“I know what a kiss is, Sherlock, you idiot!” said John. “I meant you. And me. How long have you liked me? Did you know I liked you? Why did you never say anything?”
The questions spilled out of John’s mouth, one after the other.
“Why didn’t you say anything?!,” Sherlock countered. John started to explain, but got cut off by Sherlock.
“First of all,” said Sherlock. “I’ve liked you since the case when you saved my life from the cabbie.”
“But you said you were married-“
“I know what I said. I lied. And I didn’t know if you liked me. I could 40% sure you were gay, though. You were never satisfied after your date, I could tell.”
John cleared his throat. “So, are we dating now?”
Sherlock shook his head. “Nope.”
John’s face fell. “Oh, of course , the friendship thing. Wouldn’t want to get in the way-“
At this, Sherlock smirked. “Not yet.” He then grabbed his hand. “John,” he said.
“Will you please spare me the embarrassment and be my boyfriend?”
“Oh, God, yes,” John replied, and they both leaned in for another kiss when John pulled away at the last minute.
“Sherlock? What’s that red blinking dot in that corner? ,” he asked, pointing to the far left corner of the ceiling.
Sherlock groaned and turned to face the dot. “Hello Mycroft!” he said, waving to the dot. “Oh, I might as well say hi to Lestrade, too.”
“So you knew I was lying, didn’t you? Bet you weren’t expecting this!” And with that he grabbed John and kissed him vigorously. John responded with as much enthusiasm.
Sherlock said to John, “That ought to show him.”
John just grinned. “You’re an evil bastard, Sherlock.’
“Yes, but I’m your evil bastard.”
“Yes you are.”
And they both kissed one more time.
Meanwhile, Lestrade and Mycroft were on the couch in Mycroft’s home, mouths wide open in shock.
"Remind me not to ever spy on Sherlock again," said Mycroft weakly to Lestrade.
Lestrade, who was trying not to look at Sherlock and John passionately making out on the TV, replied, "Yeah, I can definitely do that."