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John jerked awake, disoriented for a moment. Where…?
“Sorry Dr. Watson, I didn’t mean to wake you. Just checking his vitals. No change.”
He straightened, rolled his shoulders to try to work out the kinks from sleeping in the hard hospital chair. Why were they always so fucking uncomfortable?
“You should get some more sleep. There’s a cot in the nurse’s station. I’d come wake you the moment anything changes.” John had quickly bonded with the little, blond nurse since she had come on shift at midnight last night. She brought him endless cups of tea once she realized he was English, and quickly learned how he liked it. She made the tea from her own private store of Twining’s English Breakfast. It wasn’t PJ Tips, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. Since she was a Yank he couldn’t fault her too much, and it was light years better than the usual hospital tea. Hospital tea was vile worldwide from London to Helmand Province to New York.
Her hands on Sherlock had been gentle throughout the night, and she didn’t bother to try to reassure John since she knew he was a doctor. She offered to bring him food from time to time, but she didn’t make a fuss when he refused.
“Thanks, Kelly. I want to be here when he wakes up.” If he wakes up, John thought. No. Don’t even think it. It had been over twenty-four hours since the surgery. About thirty hours since things went to hell in New York. A friend of Lestrade’s from the NYPD, a serial killer, a chase through an alleyway, movement, shots, panic. Ambulance. Hours of surgery. Now stillness. Waiting. Watching Sherlock breathe. Drinking endless cups of tea.
“Sorry, what?” Kelly was speaking, but he had lost the thread.
“… a lot of food, so…” She paused. She put a hesitant, gentle hand on his shoulder. “It’s… Thanksgiving today. So people brought in a lot of food. If you’re not going to sleep, at least you should eat something.”
His throat closed. Thanksgiving. He thought about last year. Baker Street. He shook his head.
“A piece of pumpkin pie at least? Julio makes the best…”
Suddenly John felt a sob rising in his throat. No. No, he wouldn’t give in. He covered his mouth with a shaking hand.
Kelly stepped back, her face troubled. “Well, if you change your mind, press the call button.” She turned to fiddle unnecessarily with the sheet that covered Sherlock. Giving him time to get himself together.
“I’ve seen a lot of gunshot wounds, Doctor, and a lot of gunshot wounds to the head.” She didn’t turn to look at him. She gentled the sheet over Sherlock’s barely moving chest. Just the barest of movements. The barest of breaths. In and out. In and out.
John cleared his throat. “Me, too. Army surgeon. Used to be.” He paused. He had to say it, couldn’t keep it inside any longer. “Less than a 5% survival rate for gunshot trauma with cranial involvement."
“But you know what we all say. To each other. Not to the families of course, but to each other.”
John almost smiled. “Let me guess. Location, location, location?”
“Yep,” Kelly said. “I know it’s hard when it’s someone you love. You’re afraid to hope. But this was front to back. You know that’s better.”
What would have been better would have been Sherlock not being shot. Not being in New York. Never, never having come to bloody New York. It would be better to be in Baker Street right now. Everyone would be gathered for the annual Baker Street Thanksgiving Feast. Mrs. Hudson would be fussing with the Brussel sprouts, and Molly would be taking out the turkey. He looked at his watch. Mycroft and Lestrade would be setting the table and drinking Mycroft’s always exquisite wine. He sighed. But he was here. With Sherlock. A Sherlock who was, thank God, alive. He reached over and put his hand on the pale, white hand resting on the bed.
John looked at Kelly.
“Yes, definitely better,” he said. "And it was to the right side.”
“Not on the midline,” she said. “That’s definitely better. Single-lobe injury.”
John had been afraid to say anything. Afraid to hope. To hell with that. “And the bleeding to the brain stem wasn’t severe. And he’s breathing on his own now.”
“He’ll come out of it, Dr. Watson. He has a really good chance.”
“Exactly what his surgeon told me,” said a familiar voice from the doorway. John’s head whipped around.
“Mycroft!” John was surprised at the profound relief he felt that Mycroft was here. He would, of course, never hint at that fact to Mycroft.
“You’re blocking the door, mate." Lestrade looked rumpled, like he’s just gotten off a plane. Which he must have done. "God, John, I’m so sorry. Feel like it’s my fault for putting McClary onto Sherlock. Or Sherlock onto McClary. How’s he doing?”
Kelly drew herself up and spoke with the iron-clad tone perfected by generations of intensive care nurses, young and old.
“Hush. Both of you. You’re not allowed in here. How did you…?”
Suddenly Molly and Mrs. Hudson came in the door, Mrs. Hudson still dabbing at her eyes. “I was having a bit of a cry,” she said. “I don’t know what came over me.” She bustled over to John.
“Oh, John, you poor thing. You haven’t slept, I can tell. Or eaten. How is he?” She looked at Sherlock and teared up again.
Anthea came through the door, talking and jabbing at her cellphone. “The dinner from Zabar’s will be here at 2:00. The ambassador said to tell you that he got Chambers Street Wines to open for him and made the selection himself.”
“Out. All of you! This man is in a coma.”
“Then we won’t disturb him, will we?” Mycroft said smoothly. “And before you accuse me of heartlessness John, I reviewed Sherlock’s file on the way over and spoke to his surgeon twice. His prognosis is excellent. Dr. Augustine expects that he….”
There was a groan from the bed. John gasped and tightened his grip on Sherlock’s hand.
“I’ll get Dr. Augustine,” said Kelly.
“Right on time,” said Mycroft, ever smug.
“Thank God,” said Lestrade, putting an arm around his wife. Molly sobbed into his coat.
“My boys,” Mrs. Hudson beamed. “I knew it would be fine.” Not quite true, but the less said about the sobbing in the ladies’ room just now the better. She looked around the room. “If we’re having dinner in here, we’ll need a table. And more chairs.”
“The ambassador is downstairs with the wine,” said Anthea.
“Excellent,” said Mycroft.
Considering everything, Thanksgiving turned out fine that year. Zabar’s put on a nice spread. The American ambassador to Britain, home in New York for the holidays, turned out to have what even Mycroft admitted was adequate taste in wine. For an American. Mrs. Hudson thought her pumpkin pie was better than Zabar’s, which was perfectly true. Sherlock wasn’t fully conscious until the next day, so he missed most of it. He didn’t mind, since John insisted on saving him a slice of pie, and Mrs. Hudson had brought his favorite chocolate biscuits from home.
Home. John smiled a bit grimly. Next year they would all be home in Baker Street. He would see to that.