The first time the nurse had come back, John had tried to ask what was wrong with Buffy. He genuinely wanted to understand what illness could require that level of sedation - was she dangerous? Violent? She hadn't seemed it, but he didn't have a lot of information to go on. He could've been wrong.
The nurse had patronized him, giving him a vague reply. 'She's ill,' or something like it. He didn't appreciate being brushed off - even if he were in for shock, he wasn't an idiot. If they couldn't tell that he had his wits about him, they were terrible medical professionals. He hadn't argued, though. He hadn't wanted to get dosed with whatever they were injecting into Buffy.
John had been telling stories, off and on. He was completely aware that the girl across from him wasn't paying attention; with the medication Buffy was on, he might as well have been talking to himself. It didn't matter. When he wasn't watching the other patients or the hospital staff, he was recounting whatever tales came to mind. Ghost stories from childhood, tales of his medical school days, and autobiographical reminiscences about his time rooming with Sherlock.
It was during one of his talkative spells that he noticed a change in Buffy's expression. "So then he borrowed my mobile and---" Hmm. The vacant stare wasn't so vacant anymore. Watson halted his story immediately and glanced at the door. No orderlies, but that didn't mean they wouldn't be rounding the corner soon. He'd been paying attention to the medication schedule, but he hadn't thought to measure the time it took to get from his room to the lounge. Why should he? That morning, there hadn't been a reason.
The fact that Holmes would've counted his steps didn't make Watson feel any better.
"How do you feel about risk-taking?" John whispered.