First Sherlock fanfic for me to officially put into existence.

Yay. Clap for me. Don't own and the like.


The feeling of the soles of his shoes hitting the tile only proved to urge him on, reminding him that there was a very important reason for his haste.

Every smack against the floor was another dark image dredged up by his imagination.

It was thrusting even more adrenaline into his system and making him frantic.

He could distantly hear someone, Lestrade, speaking very loudly at him, trying to make him calm down.

He couldn't calm down. No.

There was no way Sherlock could possibly consider coming off his sudden giddy state.

Because John was alive! John was here!

And there was nothing was going to stop Sherlock Holmes from seeing him.

It was only after finally standing in the doorway where John was in clear view did he stop. He felt Lestrade stumble behind him, caught off by the sudden halt, but he dismisses it as unimportant.

What was important was the man laying unconscious in the hospital bed.

For anyone else, that moment would have been chock full of emotion, complete with a breakdown and running forward to clutch his hand, sobbing about how much he was missed.

However, Sherlock felt no inclination to do so. Whether he was or wasn't really a sociopath, it was clear his ability to love was quite maldeveloped. John was his best friend. One of the few people Sherlock took a liking to, but his way of caring was different. It was more possessive, more material.

John was one of his people, and Sherlock wanted to keep his things safe.

And now, for the first time in more than two years, Sherlock could content himself with the knowledge that what was his was not in immediate danger.

Not physically anyway. The state of his mentality remained unsure. He'd been unconscious when he had been found after all.

Sherlock guessed it had something to do with his back. The flesh was, after all, utterly mutilated into a mess of twisted knots of scars and infected tears. The state of the rest of his body wasn't much better. It looked too painful to imagine him moving without burning agony, which certainly explained the fetal position he had claimed.

Sherlock wondered vaguely if the marks marring his face would heal and fade eventually. It didn't look like they would.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade's carefully toned question reminds him that the rest of the world unfortunately still existed (although he did like Mrs. Hudson... And Mycroft had his uses... Maybe if they just did away with the annoying people like Anderson it would be ok) and that he had been standing in the doorway staring at John for several minutes now.

With a "hn," he moves to sit down by the bed, consequently allowing others access into the room. Disdainfully, he ignores them, instead focusing on John. He wonders if light physical interaction will cause him to wake up. Wanting to test the theory, Sherlock very gently slides his fingers around John's, watchful of the bruises and cuts, and blatantly chooses to ignore the consideration of what this may look like to another person.

"People will talk."

He had always found everything about people's talk annoying until it had become a bit of an inside joke between them.

Now the thought made him angry, because John wasn't conscious to lift the mood.

Because he was in pain. Because Sherlock had been incapable of keeping him from it. It was Sherlock's fault.

"Sherlock." He turns and faces Lestrade, not wanting to talk and making such clear on his face.

"It's been two full years since he was free... And, well, the doctors think that he may not be quite the same-"

"Of course I already know that! It's only totally obvious that this will have negative effects on him! Not many people can pull through two full bloody years of tort-" He cuts off at the feeling of movement. Once again focusing all attention on John, he watches the man as his muscles and face twitch in the start of waking.

Then his eyes open.

Sherlock studies those wide muddy blues, the ones that were just so tinted that it was difficult to distinguish the exact color, as they drowsily begin to adjust.

John was there, right? That was John in those eyes, right?

"John?"

Slowly, every movement made sluggish by sedatives and pain killers, John meets Sherlock's eyes.

It's like meeting a wall.

John's eyes were normally very much open and genuine, fitting his character and skill to lie (or lack of thereof). These eyes, however, are murky and shadowed.

"John, you're awake." Sherlock resists the urge to point out how downright obvious Lestrade's comment is, instead choosing to watch John as he turns at the sound of the noise.

"Hey. S'been a while," Lestrade says with a smile. John just stares for a moment before letting his gaze drift around the room, taking in his surroundings. "You, uh..." Lestrade swallows his awkwardness and continues, "You've been rescued. You're in a hospital now."

John doesn't seem interested in what he's saying, continuing to scan his new environment.

Why was his expression so... Blank? It was odd, and a bit unsettling. "John." A light squeeze of his fingers brings the muddy blues back to examine the person so nearby. "John, can you talk to us?" Sherlock asks, wanting to confirm that he's not been rendered mute by either psychological or physical damage.

John, however, has seemed to have grown pale and has begun to shiver softly. Of course. He's still weak.

"Go back to sleep then, " Sherlock tells him, but he's already shut his eyes. Its only moments later that his breathing evens slightly.

Everyone in the room is quiet for a while, each trying to correct the assuming thought perking in their minds.

"It's still too early to tell," Lestrade suggests helpfully.

"Yeah..." Everyone tries to cling to that excuse. Its unfortunate, however, that doubt it so hard to quell.