Hooked (teenlock)

Chapter Fifteen

Sirens. Flashing lights? The pavement was so chilly. Was it raining? I'd always liked the rain. It was raining! Pitter-patter. Pitter-patter.

"Pitter-patter, pitter-patter," I said quietly to myself. I giggled. It was a great sound. Why didn't everything sound like this? "Pitter-patter on the Londony roofs."

There was a lady standing above me. She was a pretty lady, as ladies go. Not that they were my favorite. John was my very very very favorite. She kept telling me to stay awake. "Stay awake, little boy," she'd said. "You'll be okay, little boy." How little was I? I didn't feel very little.

They sat me in the back of an ambulance. My blanket was orange. "Look, I'm in shock. I've got a blanket," I whispered, wrapping myself in it.

More people in the ambulance told me to stay awake. I don't know how they expected me to fall asleep anyways with all of those bright lights and crazy noises. I wasn't even sleepy.

Well.

I was a little sleepy.

--

When I awoke, I was sat in a bed that was quite obviously not my own. The white walls and pristine floors made it obvious to me where I was- a hospital.

Someone squeezed my left hand. I turned to have a look at my hand-holder.

John.

He was muttering to himself, eyes closed. When I cleared my throat, he looked up at me as though someone had told him that unicorns (which happen to be Scotland's national animal) existed.

Despite the look of surprise, he simply let out a breath, as though he'd been holding it in for years on end. "Sherlock. Oh god. Oh, Sherlock."

"John? What- What happened?"

"Fuck, Sherlock. I-" He pursed his lips, making it apparent that he was on the verge of tears. "I thought you wouldn't make it."

I gave him as much of a grin as I could muster, but I had to admit to myself how terrible I felt. "Don't worry, John, it's just a little-" I furrowed my brow. "Sorry, what exactly is it?"

"A closed head injury. Nothing major, just enough to have you unconscious for about..." He checked his watch. "Eighteen hours, now."

"You really thought I'd die from just a closed head injury? Please, John, have a little faith in me. You know my... Dramatic tendencies. My death will be far more interesting."

He pursed his lips. "Can we not talk about your death?"

I furrowed my brow. "Is that a touchy subject?"

John sighed, but he couldn't keep himself from smiling. "Yes, Sherlock. It is."

I nearly nodded before remembering my medical status. "Closed head injury, then. Remind me of the effects."

"Bit of confusion, bit of pain, a couple headaches. You'll be fine after a bit of recovery. Thankfully."

"John Watson, I hate to be picky, but for a future-doctor your medical vocabulary is rather weak."

He shook his head, laughing silently. "I'll work on it."

I grimaced as I felt a sharp pain in the back of my head. "What happened, anyways?"

John bit his lip, which was quite cute, if I was completely honest. "Jim Moriarty hit you over the head with an iron skillet, if I remember correctly. You cried out loudly enough for a passerby- Mary, her name was- to hear and call the police. It was lucky she did, really. When the cops got there, they just found you..." He dropped off, eyes cloudy.