Sherlock wanted to die.
That was his intention, that was his motive, that was his plan.
Should've been simple.
Now there were tubes in his arms, injecting things he had no interest in.
Well, except the morphine he convinced the nurse to give him, but that hadn't lasted long once Mycroft had found him.
He went off in his usual speech, calling Sherlock names under the guise of caring about him. Sherlock tried to not roll his eyes. He knew Mycroft expected more from him, expected him to be better, do better, but better was boring. Staying clean was boring, staying alive was boring. He would rather just- disappear.
"You can't be so careless, Sherlock."
"'M never careless." Sherlock mumbled.
"You're always careless. With everything."
Mycroft wasn't even sitting, just standing by Sherlock's bed, umbrella by his side, nose turned towards the fucking sky. Sherlock thought briefly about breaking said nose, letting blood drip onto his pressed suit, just to bring him back down to earth with the rest of the idiots.
"Thank you for your input. Can you leave now, so I can get back to my current life of Jell-o and day time television?"
"You're not clever, you know." He straightened his shoulders, taking a long sniff, "I'm placing a guard on you. To prevent any more... Accidents." His lip curled at the last word. He might think of Sherlock as something lesser, but he surely thought highly of himself.
"I don't need a babysitter." Sherlock let his eyes go cold and sharp. It wouldn't make Mycroft change his mind, at this point there was nothing that would, but he definitely wasn't going to make it easy. He had already mapped out all the exits, including the ones in the bathrooms and closets. It wouldn't be hard to get out and away if he needed to.
"Apparently, you do." He went to walk out the room, "He's all yours." He said to someone outside the door.
Sherlock's muscles tensed.
New, new, new, new, new-
As Mycroft walked out, in walked a blonde-haired, blue eyed man, shorter than Sherlock, broader than Sherlock. His lips were pinched with anxiety, and his fingers fidgeted at his sides.
All the facts Sherlock read hit him like bricks. Army, single, unarmed, definitely taking the job for the money, obviously had no clue who Sherlock was.
He could feel a smirk forming. He quickly looked down, busying himself with the blanket on top of him. He had no idea who Sherlock was, meaning he could be whoever he wanted to be.
"What was your accident, then?" Sherlock asked in a cool tone.
The man shuffled from foot to foot, his tongue darting out to brush over his lips, "Excuse me-? Your brother told you about me?"
Sherlock's smirk grew, "I had no idea you existed until this very moment. Are you going to answer my question?"
This is the part he loved. Just before he explained how his head worked, when his chest felt full and his eyes felt bright. When he felt the only power he had rush through his fingertips and legs, and spine.
"Never said I had an accident."
The man was getting defensive now, Sherlock was getting too close. He could almost laugh.
"I know, but I did." Sherlock said. Their eyes properly met and Sherlock swore everything was is full, saturated color.
The man cleared his throat, "Got shot."
He took a moment, "Army."
Sherlock waved his hand, "Know that, I mean where?" He gestured vaguely to the man's body.
He gave a weak nod, his hand instinctively reaching for his right shoulder.
"Got it." Sherlock said, "Would've expected somewhere lower."
The man squinted, "Are you gonna tell me how you do that or should I assume you're a mind reader?"
"Mind readers are fairytales. I don't need to read your mind to read you."
"Simple. I observe, I guess, I wait for something to stick. I'm usually right."
"And when you're not?"
"People get to revel in telling me so."
The man cracked a smile, "it all works out then."
The man held out his hand, "John Watson. If you didn't know already."
Sherlock stayed still. The man- John –was relaxing around him. How did he do that?
After a moment a silence John retracted his hand, his head dipping down. He felt awkward.
"Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes." He got out.
"Right." John pulled a chair from the wall and placed it next to Sherlock's bed, then sat down, "Guess I'm supposed to be looking out for you?"
"You don't have to."
"According to your brother, I do."
Sherlock shook his head, "I could leave and you could act like you had no idea. I'll do it anyway."
"Will you?" John kicked his feet up on the side of Sherlock's bed, "'S this okay?"
"I don't mind, and yes. I'll leave whether you know about it or not."
"You know what keeping an eye on you means right?" John asked, his hands behind his head.
"You know I've dealt with this before, right?"
"Haven't dealt with me."
"Oh?" Sherlock's head cocked just slightly, "How's that?"
John shook his head, "Not here to tell you about me."
"But it certainly makes it more entertaining."
"Obviously for me. Tell me, John Watson, who have you dealt with that reminds you of me?"
"Shouldn't you buy me dinner first?"
Sherlock's eyebrows knitted together, "Why would I buy you dinner?"