"Behind every man now alive stand thirty ghosts, for that is the ratio by which the dead outnumber the living."

(opening line from 2001: A Space Odyssey by Arthur C. Clarke)

March 4th

Footsteps. The chime of an elevator. A murmur of conversation. Noises began to leak into Jane's slowly dawning consciousness. One voice was louder than the others – she recognized it happily. Stop badgering people, Sherlock; I'm coming back now. She wasn't sure where she'd gone, just that she'd been away. Where was she? Everything felt stiff and heavy… Jane gradually persuaded her eyes to open and look around. Hospital? Oh, definitely a hospital, and she was covered in bandages – well, shit. That's a cast. Is my ankle broken? Apparently. Cautiously, memories crept back in, and she stiffened in horror as Moriarty's face loomed before her mind's eye. Machines beeped annoyingly as her body went into a slight panic, her heart rate spiking and her mind rushing too fast to stop herself, finally recollecting why she was hospitalized.

He'd been fussing at the nurses again when the monitors burst into life, and he was back in Jane's room before the nurses had realized it was her going off.

"Jane?" he called, but he knew she wasn't hearing it. He laid his hand on her shoulder, but he felt her flinch, so he reluctantly pulled away. The nurses hurried in and set to work seeing if they could coax her down without having to sedate her.

Someone said her name, somewhere. Jane mentally flailed against the tidal wave of terrible images and feelings and taunting memories, fighting to recover the barricade she'd built several days earlier. He's gone. Sherlock's here. I'm safe. I'm alive. I need to function, dammit. Her eyes opened wide, unseeing at first. Forcing herself to take deep breaths, she dragged her mind up, away from the dark corners, and weakly waved the nurses away.

He watched as every shade of terror passed over Jane's face, then anger and frustration, and finally… nothing. She somehow managed to smooth her features into a blank mask.

"Well, back off, then, if she's waving you away, you idiots. Doctors hate being patients."

It seemed to take hours for the nurses to leave them alone, but his impatience likely tripled the length of time. When they left, however, he suddenly realized that he had no idea how to talk to her. Would she want to avoid serious conversation? Would being treated as fragile annoy her? Would she even want to talk to him at all? Doubt spun through his mind, but it seemed his natural spontaneity had decided to surface.

"Jane? Are you… alright?" The question came out before he could stop himself.

Jane battled her desire to scream impulsively. NO. NO I AM NOT ALRIGHT.

"… Yeah." Smile-and-nod it was, then. She watched Sherlock realizing what a ridiculous question it was, watched him trying to read her, watched him retreat in confusion as he saw nothing. She wanted to feel the need to reach out, to explain, but she didn't feel anything.

"God bless painkillers. I've just got a bit of a headache. You don't look to good, though. Haven't been eating, have you?" It wasn't what he meant, and she knew it. Avoiding certain discussions – Shouldn't it be Sherlock doing that?

"I – some. Mrs. Hudson, you know." Of course.

"How did you survive before you had me, Sherlock Holmes? Anyway, I'm going to get some rest. You should as well. Sit, breathe, relax." Jane turned her head away and closed her eyes, shutting him and the rest of the world out. He did as he was told.