trashchildren | For Joan

Sherlock nods. It isn't much but at least she wasn't confused or frightened when she woke up. It gives hope that her mental faculties are undamaged by her ordeal.

"The chair reclines almost flat," Sherlock points out. "If you would like to go to sleep I can watch over her."

He will likely fall asleep as well eventually, but he can easily remain awake for a while yet.

"Yeah," Ted agrees, nodding. It's getting late, and he's had an ordeal today, to say the least. He finally lets go of Joan's hand, and gets to his feet, going to grab his crutch and the bag Beard brought. "I'm going to go find a bathroom and change," he says. He definitely does not think this suit will be conducive to sleep.

Sherlock nods. He himself is still wearing his waiter uniform, but while Ted is out of the room he sheds the vest and the button-down shirt, leaving his undershirt, and takes off his shoes. When Ted returns Sherlock is sitting quietly, watching Joan. There's a remarkable amount of tension in how he's holding himself. Ted has only ever seen Sherlock completely buttoned up, his shirts buttoned to the top button, with a jacket or a vest. Tshirts are what he wore when he was in the throes of his addiction and then at the beginning of his recovery. It's not a pleasant reminder, especially with the stress of Watson being laid low.

It takes Ted a bit to change - the cast does not make things easy. And while he's not quite as sore, his ribs aren't fully healed either, so changing shirts and such does take a little bit of work. He returns after a bit though, now in sweatpants and a soft sweater on top of his barbecue t-shirt, and with freshly brushed teeth.

He also makes sure to take some painkillers while he's not in the room with Sherlock. (He doesn't know the specifics of his addiction, but he knows it wasn't alcohol, so that narrows it down a little.)

Ted does a slight double-take when he sees Sherlock in a t-shirt though. Mostly because he wasn't expecting the tattoos. He doesn't comment on them though, instead just goes to sit down.

Sherlock catches that doubletake out of the corner of his eye and glances over, his eyes returning to Watson.

"Is it the tshirt or my tats?" he asks. He is gruff as usual, but not especially angry.

"The tattoos. They're cool though, just didn't know you had any," he answers. He'd love to hear about them, but it might be a conversation better suited for when they're both less tired and stressed.

"I have quite a few," he says, eyes still on Watson. "I'd be happy to show them to you some other time."

He's so focused on Watson and holding himself so rigidly, it's like he's fighting to not fall apart.

"I'd like that," Ted answers with a soft smile. He sits there watching Sherlock for a moment, so tightly-wound. Sherlock isn't particularly loose at the best of times, but this seems like... much more than that.

"You okay?" he prompts gently.

Sherlock is silent for a moment.

"I've always imagined that I would die first," he says finally, his voice quiet yet rough, still looking at Watson. "Whether meeting my end at the hands of a suspect, or merely being in the wrong place at the wrong time...or succumbing at long last to my addiction. In my will I leave everything I own to Watson. She is my constant. My North Star, about which the entire sky rotates. Seeing her like this...forces me to imagine what it would be like if for all these years I was wrong, and it is she who will leave this life first. I do not wish to imagine a world without her and yet I am compelled to."

Ted listens quietly, and his heart aches for Sherlock. It also brings such a depth to their relationship that Ted hadn't fully appreciated yet. Not only spoken so honestly, but also so poetically. As much as Ted loves Joan, and it's an awful lot, he thinks Sherlock might love her more. And it hurts to see him in pain like this.

It's hard to know what to say. There's nothing you can really say to truly make it better. Any platitude seems insufficient. And saying something mundane or inappropriate would almost be a disservice to what Sherlock just shared. It's hard being the one left behind, and he knows they both know this. But he doesn't have any truths to speak about it that would help.

He sits there in silence for several long moments, heart hurting for Sherlock, and for Joan, and his own part in this.

"You know," he says quietly, finally speaking up. "When Joan went back to New York, she was blaming herself for what happened to me. Thinking it was because of her." He assumes Sherlock has at the very least an inkling of this, though he doesn't know if the two of them discussed it.

"And now that it's reversed, it's... hard to not think the same way," he admits quietly. He swallows a bit, looking down at his hands. "I know all of this isn't my fault, but.. I don't know. I know I'm kind of an intruder on the life the two of you have together. And I know if it weren't for me, Joan wouldn't be here right now."

He pauses, then shakes his head a little. "I'm sorry, I don't know what I'm getting at," he says, voice tight. He just wanted to repay Sherlock by opening up a bit himself. Maybe even validate whatever bitterness Sherlock might feel towards him. But now it feels like he's making it about him instead.

"She loves you," Sherlock says, with an emphasis that implies it is the most important fact possible. "If she were to be the potential recipient of poisoned fare, I would have done exactly what she did. Her love is a gift. One that it took me a long time to recognize and longer to acknowledge. And your love for her is a gift. I can assure you that she is aware of and grateful for that gift. Our partnership is vitally important to us both, but her happiness is paramount to me. And you...you make her happy. She has never been keen to stay in London, and yet now she can't imagine leaving."

He sighs softly as he looks at her. He does love her, with all of his being, and knows that she loves him, too.

"It is unfortunately true that Watson will shoulder blame that does not truly belong to her, and sometimes that weighs her down, keeps her from moving forward. She is better than when I met her, however. When we met...I was dying. And she was drowning. We saved each other. Made each other better. But I am aware that there is much that I cannot give her, that you can give her."

He finally looks at Ted.

"You are not an intruder," he tells him softly. "You aren't even merely an invited guest any longer. You are family."

The longer Sherlock talks, the closer Ted gets to crying. His words are both incredibly insightful, and incredibly kind. It makes Ted feel unbelievably lucky and grateful to have Sherlock in his life. And so glad that they two of them have each other, not just because of the good it's done them, but also because otherwise there's a high probability Ted wouldn't know either of them.

When Sherlock finally looks at him, and says those words, his heart feels so full. And he knows that he'll easily come to love Sherlock too.

"Thank you," he answers softly, voice filled with emotion. "That means a lot. More than I could put words to."

"Yes, well," Sherlock says. The force of the shared emotion is uncomfortable for him, but he's doing his best to endure for the sake of this kind man who Watson loves. "Welcome to our life."

Joan stirs, and Sherlock's attention immediately goes to her, but she settles again. He lets out a breath with a sigh.

Ted smiles happily at the welcome. He appreciates it immensely - even more so because it doesn't come naturally to Sherlock.

He also sits up a little as Joan stirs, but as she settles, and both of them relax a little again, Ted chuckles softly at their reactions. "Going to be a long night..." he comments, leaning over to grab the pillow and the blanket that Beard brought.

"It is," he agrees. He looks at Ted. "Get some sleep. I promise to wake you if anything happens."

For as long as Sherlock is awake, of course, but that's likely to be for a while.

"Thanks." Ted nods in agreement, reclining the seat. It's actually decently comfortable, all things considered. Especially since he can't really sleep on his sides yet anyway. And look at that, Beard even packed him a sleep mask.

"Night, Sherlock," he says softly, settling in to do his best to get some sleep. It will definitely take a little while before he's successful, cause he can already tell his brain is cooking with thoughts, no matter how tired he is.

"Goodnight, Ted," Sherlock replies just as softly.

Sherlock is awake for several hours, into the wee hours of the morning, but eventually he falls asleep curled up on the couch. Sometime around dawn the doctor comes in to gently wake Joan and check on her. The doctor is very quiet, and Joan is as well, not wanting to wake up Sherlock and Ted. Joan is actually feeling much better, and the doctor is satisfied enough with her pulse ox numbers to graduate her from an oxygen mask to a cannula, and to remove some of the sensors that were tracking every electrical impulse of her heart.

When Ted wakes up he'll find Joan sitting up in bed, her face mostly uncovered, and with fewer wires leading from her to the machines. She's reading a book the nurse was able to find for her: The Tuesday Night Club by Agatha Christie. Sherlock is still asleep on the couch.

Ted wakes up slowly, not having the light to speed up the process. But as soon as he's conscious enough to remember where he is, he suddenly wakes up a lot faster, pushing the sleep mask up to check on Joan.

"Heeyy!" he says softly but excitedly, voice raspy with sleep as he sits up. He's so relieved and happy to see her awake and sitting up and.. looking a lot more like herself.

She's still a bit pale and weak, but she's definitely much better than she was when she was rushed to the hospital in the ambulance.

"Hey," she says softly, smiling at him. "I didn't want to wake you."

She knows he and Sherlock must have been watching over her, and wanted to let them rest.

Ted's still healing up himself, so really he needs all the rest he can get. Now however he's quickly tossing off the blanket and getting to his feet, looking at her, noting the missing sensors and wires and whatever else.

"Please say I can hug you now," he says, standing there already with his arms half lifted, like an excited puppy.

"Yes please,' she answers, lifting her own arms. She typically isn't one to focus on physical affection, but it's different with Ted. Touch is so important to him that it has become important to her as well. Making him happy has interestingly increased her own desire for physical contact. She would love to just have him in bed with her so he can hold her.

Ted immediately but carefully sits down on the side of the bed, leaning in to give her the warmest, coziest hug he can manage. He makes sure not to squeeze her too hard, but he buries his face in her neck and hair, closing his eyes and just holding onto her. It feels so good to have her in his arms. Like she's suddenly a lot more solid and real, and he feels so reassured that she's going to get better. He just stays like that for a while.

She holds onto him as tightly as she can, which she is discovering is not all that tight. That worries her, but she does her best to put it out of her mind and just lean against him, her arms circling his waist, feeling his warmth and breathing his scent.

"Come into bed with me?" she asks softly. They've already demonstrated that they can comfortably occupy a hospital bed together. And it will be nice to have that cozy nap together that he promised.

"Abso-friggin-tutely," he answers immediately, pulling back back from the hug so he can help her move over and adjust the blankets. He's trying to speak quietly so as not to wake Sherlock, who probably stayed awake a lot longer than Ted did.

It takes some careful finagling, especially making sure not to pull on any of the tubes and such Joan still has stuck to her, but soon enough Ted's settled in next to her, so she can curl up in the crook of his arm.

She's careful about the tubes and the wires, not wanting to do anything that would trip an alarm in the nurse's station. Once he's settled, she nestles against him, his arm around her, her head on his chest.

"I love you," she says softly.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject