John groaned as he slowly opened his eyes. Pain assaulted his body as he groaned louder and squeezed his eyes shut.
"Here, have some water." The soldier opened his mouth as a cold surface was pressed against his lips and refreshing cold liquid steadily flowed down his throat with each gulp and when the cup was empty, the object retreated from his lips and a calloused hand gently stroke his chin, picking up any stray water drops on the ends of his beard.
"I'm so sorry, John." A familiar baritone voice whispered, "If I knew he was going to do this… I would've never gotten myself involved in this the first place…" Hope that Sherlock was alive and scared that he might be going mad flared in his heart as he forced his eyes to open. There sitting next to him was a severely injured Sherlock Holmes wearing the patient's uniform. He looked even thinner than when he first met him at Bart's Lab and through the deep round neckline, dressings on his shoulder was visible. The fact that the contours of his face, collar bone and hands were more pronounced caught the doctor's eye than the fact that the consulting detective cut and dyed his hair to a scandalling shade of red with highlights of gold and black, flashing in the light.
"Are you… are you really…?" His throat too sore to make any coherent sounds and the dread that this might all be a dream fills his heart, but as it was if the clever man knew what he was saying.
"Yes John." Sherlock stood up, a look of pain passed through his features briefly before it hid behind a mask of tender caring, leaned down and using his left hand to rest his weight on the bed, he grimaced once more as he bent down and gently pressed his lips against John's. The texture of the now-ginger haired man was roughened and scratchy as his breathe tasted like cigarettes and coffee and tears formed as the doctor closed his eyes, the raw taste of his best friend, lover and flatmate, filled his senses as his heart soared and he felt as if he really did return home. Sherlock pulled back and gazed lovingly at the older man as he slightly grimaced while he lifted a hand to cut the soldier's cheek and whispered; "I'm home." As quickly as the relief, happiness and sense of triumph appeared, it diminished and in its place, intense rage and bitter betrayal bubbled up like a bonfire and without thinking, he raised a fist and it collided at the edge of the sharp cheekbones and an audible CRACK was heard as Sherlock yelped while he fell backwards, off the bed and onto his side, the injured side, on the floor.
"You bastard!" John yelled, "You bloody arsehole! You could've called, text, emailed, blogged or whatever way of contacting that's available to mankind to let me know you're alive!" John covered his eyes with his right hand as his left shoulder throbbed with pain, "You're smart and you've got a massive intellect so coming up with a plan to fake your death, it's not that hard." Sherlock bit his lip to stop himself from screaming against the waves upon waves of intense agony and torment ion his body is replying to the impact, "but to not come up with a way to contact me? I swear you'd even know how animals communicate each other! You could've used that if human ways of communication doesn't work or seems too dangerous." John removed his hand and sat himself up as he turned to glare at the man, "Are you even listening to_." He froze. "Sherlock?" The trembling body doesn't reply. "Sherlock!" He yelled as the door opened and Lestrade walked into the room. "Greg! Sherlock!" The pepper haired man looked at John once and flicked his head towards the ginger haired man and immediately went down to his knees and gently gathered Sherlock into his arms. Sweat flowed down his ashen face as little droplets of blood dripped down his chin. An angry black bruise was rapidly forming on his cheek.
"Are you alright Sherlock?" He asked gently. The thin man just nodded his head ever so slightly. "Do you need the medication?" A slight nod was all it took for the detective to dig into his coat pocket and appear with a dark glass bottle with a screwed on black lid and it took only a few seconds to unscrew it, drop out two pills and shove them in the tall man's mouth and he swallowed them dry. Colour started to return to his face, as the trembling started to lessen little by little until it completely ceased and the consulting detective sighed in relief.
"Greg, what's going on?" John asked attentively, his attentive eyes never leaving the ginger's face and then the grimaces on Sherlock's face flashed in his mind's eye and he groaned as he buries his face in the palm of his hands, "How severe is the injury on Sherlock's right shoulder, left leg and side?"
"It's a gun wound."
"What?"
"Lestrade!" Sherlock bellowed. The thin man looked weak and on the verge of dying before the grey-haired man even walked into the room, but now he looked stronger and even scarier than before. The detective didn't blink an eye or wince even slightly as he scooped Sherlock into his arms and stood up while carrying him bridal style.
"Look at you. You're even lighter than my little girl, Jasmine!" John just froze as he watched Lestrade walk towards the doorway, and stopped. He turned around and smiled sadly at the doctor.
"Sherlock's going to be with Mycroft for a couple of months, John." He spoke loudly and hesitantly, "He just wants to know what he's been doing." He turned away and walked through the open doorway.
"Wait! Lestrade!" the detective stopped, "Will I be able to see him again?" the middle-aged man turned around and smiled.
"Mycroft just wants to catch up with him." And with that remark, Lestrade walked out of the doorway with Sherlock. It was reported later that night, that a man called Sebastian Moran raided the Homes Mansion and when the police arrived, they discovered that the Detective Inspector Lestrade and Mycroft Holmes was severely injured to the point that they needed immediate surgery and the younger Holmes brother was nowhere to be found on the grounds. They never found the body or heard anything for Sebastian Moran.
John started his physiotherapy for his shoulder and legs and managed to safely discharge from the hospital a month later with a limp. He quitted his job at the local GP practice and after he sold all his belongings and gave all of Sherlock's belongings to Mycroft, he moved in with Harry and slowly, but surely began to drink all his problems and pains away.
It was like this that the doctor's detective returned from the dead.