I KNOW I AM DREAMING. We lay together on a bed. Your bed, I know that, I've seen it when I pass your bedroom and the door is open. Water is slowly filling the room, although I can't see where it's coming from.

It's okay, though. I'm not afraid to drown, because you're here, and we'll die together. I'm suddenly aware that we're holding hands, and why are we holding hands?

"I'd die before I let anything happen to you, John." Your voice is distant, and I didn't see your lips move.

"I know." I turn my head toward yours, and I can feel your breath on my cheek. "I know you would."

The water is up to the side of the bed, pulsing over the mattress, soaking our clothing. It's almost up to our mouths, and we still don't move.

We'll die together. Here, with our heartbeats thudding in tandem until they beat their last. You move closer, my eyes shut, and . . .

I'm in a chair, my chair, the one I've made myself so comfortable in at the flat. You have your armchair, and I have mine. You always look angry when your brother visits and he takes my chair. I wonder why.

The room is white, with nothing else in it except the chair and me. Well, there's you, of course, standing there with your eyes shut as you play a sorrowful tune on your violin. I love your violin playing. It's always so mesmerizing.

"You've been unconscious for four days." You inform me, not even pausing in your playing as you speak. You do not look at me. "Today would be the fifth."

"Have I?" My voice sounds dazed, I realize, and I remember that I blacked out in the hallway to surgery. "But I survived the shot, then?"

"Yes." You say, and now you stop playing, your eyes focusing directly on me. "You're alive, but in a coma, of sorts. Your heart stopped."

It takes me a moment to process this information, and I'm stunned. My heart had stopped in the operating room? Good god. But you were telling me I was alive, so they must have managed to restart it somehow.

"But I'm alright." I said firmly, and you nodded, so I allowed myself to relax. "That's good. That's . . . good."

"You need to wake up, John." You say, walking over toward me. "You need to open your eyes, do you hear me? Wake. Up."

Your hand is on top of mine, and my entire world vanishes.

I am awake, and I know this. My eyes are open, and I'm staring at the white ceiling of a hospital room. White ceiling, white walls, the smell of chemicals assaulting my nostrils. Everything comes back to me in a sudden rush, and with a soaring feeling in my chest, I finally comprehend the fact that I'm alive.

The steady beeping of the machines I'm hooked up to helps to keep me grounded, and I finally look around the small room that I'm in. There's large windows over to my left. And to my right . . .

Oh.

A sofa, a rather uncomfortable-looking one at that. Your bare feet are pushed up against one of the armrests, and your head lies on the other, arms pillowed underneath your head as you sleep. You're using your coat as a sort of blanket, far too tall for the sofa, but making yourself fit anyways.

You look like you haven't slept well in days, or at least gotten a few minutes at a time, judging from the dark circles underneath your eyes. You haven't showered, either, as your hair has a greasy look to it underneath the fluorescent lighting. You've been here the entire time I've been unconscious, haven't you? You haven't gone back to 221B, those are still the same clothes from when I was shot. I can tell, there's blood on the cuff of your sleeve.

I turn my head away to look back up at the ceiling, slightly embarrassed at watching you sleep. Who does that, really? It's creepy, and I shouldn't.

I can hear the sofa creaking now, so you're probably getting up, or at least shifting. But I hear the sound of your bare feet hitting the linoleum, so it must be the former.

"John." Your voice is hoarse from sleep, but the sound of my name from it sends my heart fluttering, and my cheeks flush as I hear the heart monitor give a 'beep', hoping you didn't notice.

You're hovering over me within seconds, looking a bit unsure about what to say. And what do you say? I was shot, nearly died, and my heart stopped briefly on the operating table. But I'm fine, and I decide to tell you this.

"I'm fine." I say firmly. "I'm awake, and I'm alive. That's what matters."

You blink quickly, then fumble for the buttons to raise the bed so I'm in a sitting position. We stare at each other for a moment before I reach out and pull you into a tight embrace, which should be awkward considering that I'm sitting on a hospital bed and you're standing, but it isn't. You stoop slightly to get comfortable, but you don't mind.

"I'm glad you're alright, John." You mumble into my ear.

"Me too." I reply, before my nose crinkles. "Good god, Sherlock, you reek!"

We pull away and meet gazes for a second, before we both burst out laughing. And it feels good, really good. I'm laughing with you, something I thought I'd never get to do again, and it feels wonderful.

"Personal hygiene didn't seem like much of a priority when your life was at stake." You say, rubbing the back of your neck. "I didn't want to leave, you might have . . ."

"I know, Sherlock. I understand." I nod, then smile slightly. "But really. Go home, shower, change. Eat something, I know you haven't. I'll still be here when you get back."

You look slightly hesitant, but you nod anyways, grabbing your coat and shoes before walking barefoot out into the hallway. I watch you go, but I am not sad. I know you'll do everything as quickly as possible so you can get back here, and that's fine with me.

As long as you stay.