Relief. Relief first of all. Relief overtakes confusion, throws it into shadow. Because there is confusion there too. Of course there is. My best friend, unconscious and half-dead after being shot. My best friend, and yet the first word he utters after waking up is my wife's name.
She isn't here, of course. She's at home, resting because there's no point in the two of us maintaining a bedside vigil when she's pregnant. She's worrying enough already without being here by his side, seeing him with all of those wires and tubes running into his body, helping him to stay alive. (It's hard enough for me, knowing precisely what each line is there for. I wouldn't inflict that on her. He's her friend, too. Our best man.)
And yet his first word – groggy and hoarse, after intubation, after surgery, after almost-dying – is her name.
I tell him that she's at home, hoping that I'm right and it was a question as opposed to a statement. A question makes more sense anyway. Why else would he mention her, otherwise?
(I refuse to be disappointed that it's not me he asks for, though I am here beside him – still holding onto his hand, fingers still so cool – and have been all night. (Such a long night.))
How much he takes in from his surroundings, I don't know. His eyes are hazy from the drugs, the blood loss, the close call. He probably won't even remember this waking up and confusion. I likely won't even mention it to him later. It's irrelevant.
(Though why her name, of all names?)
There are more important things to worry about now. Possible complications being just a few, whoever did this could come back to finish the job. (I can't let that happen. Not now, not ever. Couldn't live with myself if it did. Grieving him once was more than enough for a lifetime.) Perhaps when he's stronger he'll tell us who did this. He has to know. And if he's not certain, then surely he has some deduction that will guide us to the culprit, to the would-be murderer who left him dying on an office floor, who only tried to kill him because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Because he picked this last night of all nights to fake-proposing and break into the office. If he had left it another night, or gone one night earlier, then we wouldn't be in this mess, with both of us half out of our minds – one with pain, one with worry. (There'd be someone else dead though, but not him, not Sherlock, so I can't bring myself to care much.)
(At least he's somewhat in the clear, for now.)
As he slips back into unconsciousness, I know that the fight isn't over yet.
And something tells me that it won't be for a while.