John had been left standing in the room, somehow lost and very confused. He climbed back onto his bed, a deep frown on his face. What the hell was going on here?! John tried to figure out every detail of the wholly suspicious incident that had just taken place, but was soon overwhelmed by a fitful sleep.
After a while he woke with a start. Slightly disoriented he looked around. There were just the two of them, Sherlock still asleep, the monotony of the beeps accompanying his every breath. The atmosphere would have been quite peaceful had there not been this nagging feeling that something important had been hidden from John – apart from the contents of the ominous syringe!
Suddenly, he recalled the thought that had woken him. When they had talked about who had been involved in the breeding of the petri-dishes, Mycroft had already known that Molly Hooper was ok. And he could only have known if he had already found out who had done the laboratory work. After all, he wouldn't just have dropped in incidentally at the morgue and asked her how she was. Why hadn't Mycroft told them? And why hadn't Sherlock noticed? Or had he, but simply hadn't said anything? Since modesty wasn't really Sherlock's forte, John considered this pretty unlikely.
The doctor hoped that his roommate would wake up soon and feel better to an extent that his deductive skills would work again – or that he would reveal anything he knew that John didn't to help clarify things a bit.
When it was time for the meal, a different nurse entered the room and brought an eat-off tray for John. On John's enquiry as to what had happened to Nurse Sunny, she simply stated that she had been assigned to other duties. John wasn't really surprised – no more so than he was at the fact that Dr Smith had not shown up again either. He had been replaced by a Dr Miller, a name as common or garden as Smith, John noticed.
John felt an urgent desire to leave the clinic. He knew, however, that he, and particularly Sherlock, hadn't recovered to the extent that it would be safe to be released. As strange as things were in this mysterious place, John's subconscious told him that they wouldn't be harmed. His conscious, however, said something different. On the one hand the ex-army man sensed that Mycroft had the best intentions concerning his brother, on the other hand he was being driven up the wall by the secretiveness about anything and everything.
In his desire to find out where they were, John had even tried to wander off one day to explore the building, but he hadn't got further than down the rather small hallway from their room. There weren't any other doors there apart from the main door, which was locked. John didn't know whether this was for their safety or to prevent them from going anywhere else; most likely both.
The hallway itself had a high ceiling and the same large window with the same featureless view as from their room. The light in the corridor was dazzling, so that John had to cover his eyes to protect them from it. When he managed to glimpse at the corners of the ceiling, he found what he had expected: CCTV. He wondered if there were any cameras in their room, too. Although he hadn't seen any as obvious as the one in the hallway, that didn't mean there weren't any. Maybe that was the reason why he felt a tiny little bit uncomfortable under the Queen's look…
For the time being, it seemed as if all of his attempts to find out anything useful had come to a dead end. The more time they spent in this clinic, the more confused and uneasy John felt. His feeling of safety was slowly replaced by a feeling of incarceration, despite the cosiness of their room. One could only become paranoid under such circumstances! All John's training in how to deal with being a hostage wasn't helping him in this situation as this was a different kind of war without the familiar rushes of adrenaline that preceded the actions he would take. However, there were no actions at all for him to take in this hospital; he wasn't even sure who the enemy was.
Sherlock slept for hours on end, sometimes so quietly and calmly that only the heart monitor gave proof that he was still alive. When he finally woke up, he looked much better than he had before.
From his bed the doctor gave him a scrutinizing glance.
"John, what's wrong? I am aware that I don't quite resemble my best self yet, but there's no need to stare at me."
"I'm not staring, I'm a doctor and I want to find out how you are doing; plus, I am your friend and as such I am the tiniest bit worried about you as well."
"You could just ask," Sherlock suggested.
"And you would just answer fine, which wouldn't help." John shot back.
"I am fine," the Consulting Detective replied.
To his own surprise, John actually believed him. Sherlock hadn't simply said he was fine – he actually looked fine–at least as much as was possible in view of what had happened.
The dark-haired man had recovered surprisingly fast and John wondered if that was due to the ominous drug. Soon permanent monitoring of Sherlock's vital signs as well as both their IVs could be abandoned, giving them much more freedom to move, if only about their own room.
Since without the IVs they had to take their daily doses of drugs orally, John had tried to find out about Sherlock's medication once more, but apart from some pills that looked pretty much like Paracetamol, he couldn't find anything. He himself had insisted on keeping his intake of Diazepam to the minimum dosage possible while being sufficient to prevent him from drifting into a depression. He preferred being a bit irritable but capable of thinking to being comfortable but with a brain like cotton wool.
What confused John, though, was that not only did his roommate take his pills without complaint or questioning, but he didn't show the faintest interest in clarifying what had been and still was going on either. Any time John tried to speak about it, Sherlock simply replied with something like "Too tired,", "We're safe here, so why worry now,", "Don't bother yourself with it, let others do the thinking," and some other more or less annoying statements that were so Sherlock-like, particularly in relation to the degree of irritation they could cause. It was, on the other hand, so unlike Sherlock to be so indifferent that John was really alarmed by it. Either his friend knew more than he would admit, or he really wasn't interested in solving this very personal case, which would be even worse, because the signs his roommate showed clearly resembled an upcoming depression. Usually Sherlock would be the one to tear down the walls to escape any room that he hadn't chosen to stay in himself, particularly if it was related to hospitals, but he seemed to be content. Although he was really getting better day by day, he didn't even gripe once about being bored. As much as John usually dreaded that situation coming up in Baker Street, the Consulting Detective getting silly ideas that were neither good for their flat nor for its inhabitants, he missed it now, because then he would know that Sherlock was alright.
Often Sherlock would just lay there on his bed, his hands folded on his chest, and say nothing at all. He seemed to have retreated to his mind palace, although he wouldn't usually be that calm in such circumstances, at least normally moving his hands a tiny little bit when arranging the information he was accessing. If only he talked, John could find out what was wrong with him. Dr Miller didn't seem to be worried at all; he insisted that Mr Holmes, the younger, was fine, and all his questioning only earned John annoyed glances from his flatmate.
Finally, John forced himself to give up asking, which was really unnerving, but he simply had to wait for a better opportunity to find out more.