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It was disconcerting to experience. One second, he was laying on the table, breathing in the gas that would make him sleep, the next, he was dragging his eyes open to look around the bright room, trying to wake up.
The room was too bright, too crowded yet somehow it was dark and empty at the same time. Other than what felt to be like a skip in time, no worries were made, no questions were formed other than one.
“John?”
Of course, that would be the word he said first, the name of the man he loved but would never confess it in explicit words. But John understood the ‘I’m thinking of you’ in the cup of tea that would appear on the bedside table in the morning, the ‘I’m sorry for scaring you’ in the reorganizing of the fridge and the ‘I love you’ in the simple word of John.
The word did escape his lips, maybe intentionally, maybe not, it was difficult to tell with the clouded mind, but it was not heard. There was no panic inside his chest, not yet, and a hand, smaller than his, was moving it’s thumb up and down the length of his finger.
John.
Of course it was. John would never leave him. Never leave his side. Even through the appointments where he spat in anger to the audiologists because they mentioned the loss he was suddenly undergoing. Even through the assessment process to see if he was able to get everything he needs to cope. Of course John Watson would stay with him.
Sleep quickly overwhelmed him again, another John muttered and unheard until the next time he could open his eyes. It was a different room, the recovery room in which he would spend the night. In utter boredom.
The drugs were still in his system and it was slow going for it to go away, his drowsiness skewing his observations, his limbs sluggish and clumsy. But it’s okay because John is by my side.
It was easier to keep his eyes open the next time he wanted to be awake and he smiled softly at John who was slumped in his chair, snoring softly. The wrinkled clothes that he had been wearing yesterday, the coffee cups almost hidden behind the overnight bag, yes. John had stayed.
The world was silent and, now that he had most of his mind in order and unaffected by the numbing drug through his system, Sherlock felt uncomfortable. There is no deep rushing of his breathing or the muted ticking of the clock on the wall. There is no steps of the passing nurses or the muffled talking of other patients. There is no sound.
“John.”
It’s instinctive, that word, to say it in times of both happiness and distress and it always got a response. John opened his eyes slowly, smiling softly at the awake Sherlock laying on the bed, a white bandage wrapped tightly around his head. His lips moved and Sherlock frowned, trying to follow, but the words passed by too quickly and without context.
“John?”
That word created a personal link between the two men. No words needed to be said, no action needed to be taken. It was understanding and communication in silence.
A pad of paper was placed into his hands.
The surgery was a success. In three months, you will have your switch on and you’ll be just like before.
When the three months of agonizing silence had passed, Sherlock was sat in a padded room, wires attached to the lapel of his suit, staring intently at John. There was a nod from the woman at the computer and beeps filled his ears. Carefully, Sherlock blinked slowly and allowed John to be the first person to be heard with these new ears.
“Will you marry me?”