Data Doesn't Lie (Johnlock)

Chapter 3

JOHN

  Beep...beep...beep...beep

  The irritating drawl of a heart monitor suffocated  me in my sleep. I struggled to open my eyes, but no matter how hard I tried, all I felt was darkness. It was almost as if my eyes were swollen shut while my brain was wide open. Dammit, I thought with distaste. Not dead, only wounded. Dammit dammit dammit.

  I felt a numb sensation in my back where they must have removed the bullet. It was hard to concentrate, but still I tried uselessly to wake myself up. My voice screamed and thrashed without success in my head; my body didn't respond. I felt so dizzy lying in what could only be an uncomfortable hospital bed. I didn't want to wake up, but I knew I had to before the nightmares came. I wouldn't let them take control of me in a public hospital.

  But the terror was drawing near, and I could already hear his voice. That deep, baritone voice that rumbled like thunder within our flat, calling stubborn demands and aggravating requests. That voice that called my name each time I closed my eyes. I loved it, but I hated it all the same. He called. He ordered my attention, and I obeyed.

"John..."

SHERLOCK

  I stared down at my precious blogger, so peaceful in sleep. He looked years younger laying there, the steady beep of the heart moniter soothing me and troubling me all at the same time. I turned away quickly, by coat rippling in the air in one sharp movement as I continued to pace the polished white floors. I swiped at angry tears, trying hard to ignore the bubbling emotions under my mask of robotic indifference. I couldn't stand the thought of seeing my John after three years in what was supposed to be a happy reunion turned depressed hospital visit.

  I'd had quite some time to think in the car, and even as I marched into the hospital demanding to know what happened, I couldn't stop tears from springing to my eyes. That's how I knew...I cared about John, beyond recognition I cared for this one man. To the extent of which, I had no idea, which only frightened me further. It took three years to learn how I truly felt. Thee bloody years to figure it out and it had to be in this situation.

  I was furious, I was worried and angry and depressed and frustrated that I couldn't stop any of it from showing. All these feelings were starting to physically hurt me, as well.

  I couldn't sit still once allowed into the hospital room. I stomped around in circles, pacing viciously up and down the scale of the room. I'd long ago given up my poker-face, and stopped caring about the tears that fell or how hostile I appeared to the nurses. They were only obstacles in my way, keeping me from John.

  Why did everything in my life have to be an obstacle? Nurses and networks and friends and such. Why had I allowed myself to get mixed up in this internal madness?

  Of course I knew why, I always had. I'd done it for John. To help him, because he was my friend. My only friend. But was there more to that then I'd suspected? Perhaps, when John woke, I'd conduct an experiment. For old times sake.

  Mentally and physically exhausted, I collapsed in an uncomfortable cushion-less chair by John's bedside. I couldn't tear my gaze from the sleeping doctor. His eyelids fluttered restlessly, his nose twitching every once and awhile in a cute, almost rabbit-like way.

  Cute...? I really was going mad, wasn't I. Still, the observation stood.

  Finally, after what felt like an eternity watching my good doctor fight in his sleep, simply sitting in silence became too much.
 
  I couldn't keep the tears from falling, but thank God my voice came out level, stronger than I felt. I called out for my soldier, the first time awake and not in a nightmare.

  "John."

  It was all I could say without my voice cracking. I knew this would be the absolute last time I would allow these damned emotions to get to me. Ever. Pulled from my thoughts, I could have sworn I saw John stir. His closed eyes tightened, his brow furrowing and his head moving ever so slightly to the side. My breath caught in my throat.

  John's eyes flickered before opening completely. His light hazel eyes scanned the room in confusion before they settled on where I sat. "John," I started again, before he growled in dissatisfaction. "Not again," he groaned, his voice strained in pain and irritation. I stared, I hadn't been expecting such a reaction. But despite myself, seeing him awake and well had released the strangling feeling in my gut, and I released my breath, heavy with relief.

  John blinked a few times. "Odd. You're usually gone by now." He grimaced in my direction. "Piss off wil you?" he spat coldly. My face fell in hurt, John's were the only words who could create such a force from me. "John," I repeated dumbly, unsure of what to say. He dipped his head back into the hospital pillow, sighing deeply and wincing from the pain in his back he no-doubt was experiencing. "I'm dreaming then...otherwise you wouldn't be staying this long." He turned his eyes back to me, and his expression nearly broke me completely. His eyes were hollow, void of all their life and energy. His cheeks and eyes were sunken, his lips a thin, chapped frown to keep him from crying. He looked so hurt, so dead inside.

  And thanks to me...he was.

  I managed a smile, but it was no where near as warm or reassuring as I would have preferred it to look. "Of course not, John, honestly," I tried to joke. My voice softened further still as my strength began to wane. "I'm here ...I'm real, I promise you."

  John watched me wearily, but steadily his eyes widened with shock, then slowly, anger. The blood rushed to his face and he lunged at me without warning. I had no time to dodge as his fist connected with my face. Clutching my jaw, I hissed but said nothing. My already tear-blurred vision hazed even more.

  John seemed at a loss for words, huffing like a wild boar on the brink of murder. "You...complete...ARSE, SHERLOCK HOLMES!!" His eyes softened significantly, and he collapsed back onto the bed, running his fingers through his ruffled hair. "...how could you?" His voice came out as a hoarse whisper. "Sherlock...," he whined. I'd succumbed to my emotions completely, for the first and hopefully last time, placing one hand on John's arm and balling the other in a fist next to my head, which I lay on John's stomach to hide my tears. He didn't even attempt to move me.

  "Three years, Sherlock. You let me live like this for three years. You could've done anything, anything to show me you were alive."

  Somehow I found my voice, burying my head into his stomach in a failed attempt at affection. "I'm so sorry, John. It was for your protection. Moriarty had gunman on you, Lestrade, Mrs.Hudson. He would've killed you if I hadn't jumped. I couldn't let that happen John...I just couldn't."

  John didn't answer, instead he placed one hand atop my head. It was a strange gesture, but oddly soothing. I felt the IV in his arm rub against my forehead, a painful reminder of where we were and why. But it didn't matter, because I had John, and deep down somehow I knew, he had forgiven me.

  "I know, Sherlock," he breathed at last. "I know."