All is Fair in Love and War

The Gambit

JOHN WATSON

Upon waking, John was confused, disoriented by the brightness that was definitely not his room on Elvanston Street. Then it came flooding back to him in a sickening wave: Moriarty, Mary, Sherlock, poison -

He sat up abruptly, pulling the needle from his wrist. He was a doctor and knew full well the nasty side effects that overexposure to Dimercaprol could have. He was also mildly disappointed to find that Sherlock was not sitting with him, before laughing mentally at his folly. The detective probably went back to the flat as soon as the ambulance had dropped them off instead of hanging around like he cared. He couldn't "logically" help by staying, after all.

That was before John heard Sherlock's voice on the other side of the door.

"I don't care what your visiting hours are - I told you I'm going in there!"

"You were in there all night," a nurse argued irritably. "Go home. He's not dying."

Generally, John would have been horrified by the nurse's bedside manner, but in this case recognized that Sherlock was probably a difficult, argumentative exception to Bart's rules of etiquette.

The doorknob turned, and John flopped back down against the pillow, feigning sleep. Two pairs of footsteps entered; the nurse fiddled with the instruments, set a glass on the side table, and exited with a long-suffering sigh. Sherlock, it sounded like, was standing right at the foot of the hospital bed, and John could only too well imagine the calculating look on the detective's face.

When the door swung shut behind the hospital trainee, Sherlock said, "It's nice to see you up."

With a small groan, John opened his eyes and sat himself back up.

"How'd you know I was awake?" he asked, rubbing his eyes. "The needle?"

"Besides the movement of your eyes behind the lids, changes in facial expression, sheets rumpled by movement, and forced deep breathing, yes, the dislodging of the IV was the most obvious indicator. You don't care for Dimercaprol?"

"Yeah, I'm not too thrilled about the idea of hypertension, myself," the doctor replied.

Sherlock chuckled, and then glanced at the door.

"Er," he cleared his throat. "How much of that did you overhear?"

"Not much," John said casually. "Just something about you having been here all night."

"Ah."

"So, were you?" John leaned forward, trying to keep his face from registering too much interest. "Here all night, I mean."

The detective cleared his throat again. "Yes."

"Even though you knew I would recover?"

"Well, I was... going to prevent Moriarty from trying to finish the job." It rather sounded as though Sherlock were floundering for an answer, and John didn't believe a word of it.

"You were worried!" he said with a triumphant grin.

Sherlock had the grace to look politely skeptical. "Me? Worried? You flatter yourself."

"You were," John insisted.

The detective raised his eyebrows. "You sound awfully sure of that."

John's smile faltered. "I thought, when I woke up and you weren't here, that you had left," he confessed.

Sherlock appeared genuinely puzzled. "Why would I have done that?"

"Well..." John was regretting having brought it up, even as he searched for an honest answer that didn't sound pathetically childish. "I suppose that you don't generally indulge in expressions of... concern."