[Words he had not uttered for a very long time lingered at the tip of his tongue as he heard movement.
"Where's Mycroft?"
The IV in his arm told him it was a hospital, not rehab. Not yet, at least. They were giving him something...
The voice, though. His eyes opened again, long enough to actually let the room come into focus. It looked so much like the one he'd dreamed about. Perhaps that was where he'd gotten it. Half memory, half invention... But that voice sounded like...]
John.
[There's genuine surprise in his voice as he looks at the man.
He had been so careful, traveled so discreetly throughout the maze of London. Yet here he was, lying in a hospital with John here.
Had... whatever had happened... been so severe that Mycroft had called John? He wouldn't dare. Would he?
Sherlock tried to remember, pushing himself into a sitting position. He felt the pang in his back and turned his head, half not daring to do so...
And he saw what he was afraid to see-- a grey wing, quivering when he notices it. He is perfectly silent-- for once in his life-- as he looks between the wing and John and the wing and John.
It is impossible. And yet, every sense is telling him it's true. This paradox has only been encountered once before, and he is not keen to accept the possibility.
And yet...
Sherlock draws in a quiet breath as the most chilling part of the realisation hits him. His voice is calm, though, lying about the prevailing uneasiness he feels.]
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"Where's Mycroft?"
The IV in his arm told him it was a hospital, not rehab. Not yet, at least. They were giving him something...
The voice, though. His eyes opened again, long enough to actually let the room come into focus. It looked so much like the one he'd dreamed about. Perhaps that was where he'd gotten it. Half memory, half invention... But that voice sounded like...]
John.
[There's genuine surprise in his voice as he looks at the man.
He had been so careful, traveled so discreetly throughout the maze of London. Yet here he was, lying in a hospital with John here.
Had... whatever had happened... been so severe that Mycroft had called John? He wouldn't dare. Would he?
Sherlock tried to remember, pushing himself into a sitting position. He felt the pang in his back and turned his head, half not daring to do so...
And he saw what he was afraid to see-- a grey wing, quivering when he notices it. He is perfectly silent-- for once in his life-- as he looks between the wing and John and the wing and John.
It is impossible. And yet, every sense is telling him it's true. This paradox has only been encountered once before, and he is not keen to accept the possibility.
And yet...
Sherlock draws in a quiet breath as the most chilling part of the realisation hits him. His voice is calm, though, lying about the prevailing uneasiness he feels.]
He was right.