One day, at the end of a case, John and Sherlock had walked back to their flat on Baker Street. Sherlock was fuming at himself—it's always that one thing—and John, normally reserved in giving his opinions, had stated, "Well, of course. You can't see—" and then cut himself off.

Sherlock, who was expecting something annoyingly patronizing like "you can't be perfect, Sherlock, even if you think you can" or "everyone misses something, you're already amazing as it is", did not miss how oddly he had phrased it, and had latched on immediately: "What do you mean?"

Like a turtle, John had withdrawn, attempting to wave it off as some slip of the tongue or simply lousy word choices, but Sherlock did not let him get away. Finally, John had reluctantly hinted, "There's a reason anything that can see has more than one eye. Brain can compensate for depth perception, you know. But there's a scotoma in every visual field, which is why you need two fields with different scotomas so that the rest of the fields make up for each other."

A scotoma was essentially a blind spot. That, Sherlock knew. What he didn't know was why John had answered this way. He knew that there was a very good reason. John was not as sharp as Sherlock, but there was always a depth to him. From the moment they met, Sherlock knew John was different, because John did not balk at Sherlock's idiosyncrasies. He took almost all of them in a stride, as if everything Sherlock did were normal and nothing to gawk at. It was as if John had known him, the moment he laid eyes on him, and saw behind what others would perceive as bizarre tendencies.

For a doctor, especially a former surgeon, John had always been unassuming. There were times when Sherlock would forget that John was even a physician. John was just John, a man Sherlock had liked from the start, quietly present and non-judgmental. It was what tied the two together so closely. Sherlock had always been judged, by his parents for his bizarre taste for the macabre, by his brother for being stupid, by his peers for being strange. Though John would remark and complain about something he would never have to put up with from anyone else, he was never demeaning, and Sherlock never felt belittled or forsaken for it. In this instance, the fact that John was a doctor would be very apparent. Not all doctors shared the same level of equanimity, but there was a profundity to him that came only from being in contact with many different personalities, and being acquainted with their life arcs. While Sherlock was gifted in predicting the immediate futures, the tiny details that could lead to one conclusion, John had a knack for telling long-term outcomes, the way personalities might click or drift apart, how neglect or attention would yield neglect or attention in return. Sherlock knew the surface aspects: John was an army doctor, was shot, craved danger—John knew the core: Sherlock was flighty, craved his own personality, and would fly, far far away, denouncing any ties that would hold him back and threaten his individuality. He had once stated, with great gravity, that if Sherlock's parents were ever ill, Sherlock would only visit them if he had nothing better to do, and the burden of caring for their parents would fall on Mycroft, both because he had the resources and because he would accept the duty. It was something that Sherlock knew to be quite true, of course. However, he had never specifically thought about it until John pointed it out.

So it was important to Sherlock when John said such things, such as equating his inability to perform 100% with something to do with blind spots and two eyes. He felt like it should be extremely simple—John was not a complex man, even if he was profound—but in his frustration and subsequent distraction, he never got around to answering it.

Now, left alone with Mycroft, Sherlock loaded John's blog on his phone. When he got to the section where John talked about his ignorance of the solar system, he paused. There was something about that part that nagged at him, though he could not say why. John was not the sort of man to be inconsiderate of other people's feelings. Quite the opposite. He had left out, for example, how Sherlock tested his hypothesis on John by attempting to drug John's tea, perhaps on the basis that Sherlock was wrong. Yet he had typed in this section, an obvious dig at Sherlock's intelligence, and then reacted as if Sherlock's anger had been unreasonable.

Sherlock could not fathom why.

John's voice spoke to him from the words, wry and full of humor, as if he were smiling. There was very little in the blog about John himself, though. It was mainly about Sherlock, his admiration for the detective, his amusement, occasional frustration, and a deep-seated gratitude. Short and to the point—"We don't waste words, not like GPs," John had said, "Just palpate your abdomen and go—" John was in his blog as he was in real life: unassuming, unobtrusive, inconspicuous.

"He seems so dull in the blog," Mycroft said thoughtfully. He had been reading Sherlock's phone from the side. "Why did you bring him on the first case?"

"A whim," said Sherlock. "I didn't know he would accept until he did."

"He should be paid for putting up with the sort of stunts you pull," Mycroft snorted. "Never thought I would meet a man who is remarkable for something as boring as patience."

"He's a wise man," Sherlock defended. "He is the one person I can learn from in this world."

"True enough," Mycroft agreed, to Sherlock's mild surprise. "He is a great man in his own right. Shame this world does not highlight qualities like his."

Sherlock did not speak. He stared at the blog, wishing it could reveal more about the man who was his colleague and friend and even brother. He wished John had kept journals from when he was a student, or a resident. Just…something that was more about himself.

Five years, he thought, looking at the clock. Tick tock.

13-1-1998, 21:14

On 24 hr call, damn it, and the cases finished by 1500. Why can't I be on call during a colectomy? At least I wouldn't feel all the hours like I could have gone home. But we debrided Thompson's hidradenitis, finally. It smelled like arse. My medical student nearly passed out. I sent her to get lunch. I wish someone could send me to get lunch. Being a resident is awful.

I'm starting in the wrong order. Today I woke up at 2:40 in the morning because we have 65 people on our list. I want to kill myself; they should have more than three general services when each of us is always at least 50. Thank god for the med students, because otherwise there was no way we could have seen everyone for rounds. And even then, rounds went over, and Dr. Speller was pissed, because he had to delay his first OR case. Of note, Mary White got a nice bout of atelectasis because she didn't know how to use her spirometer. It figures. She's probably not going home anytime soon. Wayne Bishop's bowels refuse to wake up, so he's still dependent on TPN. He's the most annoying bloke in the world; every time we go into his room he has a million questions and he's so emotional too, so a 2-minute visit takes 30. Does this guy have a brain? Because if he's just going to forget everything we've said to him anyway, then I want to just cut him off so we can see the 64 other patients. That guy can't leave soon enough.

Joan Watson was a sad case though. 32 yo F with colon cancer. Non-smoker, non-drinker, she's the cleanest whistle that ever whistled. Why does a nice girl like that get something like this? And she's handling post-op really poorly. 39.4 fever POD 4, and she's in so much pain that of course she gets a DVT. There's nothing much we can do for her except pump her full of heparin, at least until the pain's controlled enough for her to ambulate. And she gets to have a fucking ostomy when she gets out. Poor girl.

So after those cheerful roundings, with the ever pleasant Dr. Speller, I got to hang out with him in the cases today, because God loves tormenting his little mortals. Case-in-point: that stinking hidradenitis, and then the umbilical hernia, and my sweat dropped into the mesh while we were suturing it in. It's not my fault the room was so hot, but Speller shouted at me like I deliberately squirted it in. We had to take the mesh out and do it all over again with a different mesh and I had to stay far away from the op table because apparently, I'm a lousy surgeon. For sweating. I hate my life. Stupid hernias—I miss trauma, because at least those were interesting! Next case was hemorrhoid banding, at least, so we didn't have to be as sterile. Weird though, she was a skinny little Asian woman. Never figured that those folks would have a problem with fiber.

Fuck, my pager's off. I'm writing this down for the record: I'm betting that it's some seventy-year-old drunk who fell in the bathroom and gave himself a subdural hematoma. Likely? Likely. We shall see later. —John Watson

22:04

It totally was an SDH! But the lady had Parkinson's, so not so bad. Neurosurg gave me a lot of shit though. It's a SDH, there's no argument here! You have to admit her to your service! It's not like we idiot gen-surgs can do a craniotomy. Seriously, what is up with these residents? Even I don't go so far as to fight patients who actually need to be on my service.

Ugh, my pager's off again. It better not be another SDH. —John Watson

22:24

How the hell did I get a consult for "asymptomatic appendicitis"? I swear these ER docs get worse every year. This is a winner: 54 yo M who came in for abdominal pain—that resolved. The ER resident ordered an abdominal CT for some reason and the radiologist read that there "might be some inflammation of the appendix". The chap had no pain. Zero. Nothing. I was mashing on his belly and he didn't even flinch. I swear, they should fire everyone in the ER. "Asymptomatic appendicitis". What are they teaching in med schools these days?

Damn it, my pager is off again. Seriously? I'm not getting any sleep tonight, am I? —John Watson

03:47

Ex-lap. 23 yo bastard got fucking stabbed. The kicker was that he's been operated on before…for getting stabbed. There were adhesions everywhere, so of course this thing turns into a how many hours has it been? Holy shit we were in there for 5 hours? Oh my God. Well, I was planning on writing more of the actual day, but I have to pre-round. Maybe tomorrow. Or, uh, yeah. This is tomorrow. Already. So I guess the evening after, because I'm going straight to bed after rounds today. —John Watson.

Six hours later, almost on the dot, John's surgeon waltzed into the waiting room with a cap over his head and his mask still on his face.

"He did very well," he shook Sherlock's hand, as if this were something Sherlock ought to be personally proud of. "He's in PACU, and the nurses will let you know when he's headed up to the floors. Great job. Couldn't have gone better."

It was one obstacle over, and Sherlock found he could breathe. Though he knew the chances were smaller than his fears made them seem, surviving surgery was not an insubstantial victory. "Can I see him now?" he asked.

"Well, the anesthesiologists need to look over him first," said the surgeon, "so it'll be a while. We don't let people back there because when it gets cluttered, things get lost, things are confusing, and we really don't want that around our patients."

Sherlock turned to Mycroft, but it was clear his brother was not going to step in to bend the rules.

"It might take a while," said the surgeon, lifting a phone to his ear, "I gotta get started on the next case, but I'll be rounding on him later. Alright?"

Nearly three hours passed before John was wheeled up to the floors. He was covered with layers of warm blankets, which radiated heat in a way that made Sherlock suspect they had come out of some kind of oven or incubator. Mycroft secured a private room, so when the staff finished establishing everything, the three of them were left alone.

John was groggy from all the painkillers, but he lifted his gown to look at the drain coming out of his abdomen. Some blood collected along the tube poking from inside the man's belly, fixed in place by thick stitches that looked sharp and uncomfortable. The sight filled Sherlock with unease. Things were not supposed to come out of a living person.

"Huh," John looked at the bulb and the small collection of blood in it. "Not bad."

The wound itself was covered with white dressings. John did not allow Sherlock to take a look.

"They will stay on for 24 hours," he told Sherlock. "You can look at the staples later."

"Any pain?" he asked anxiously.

John shook his head. "Not really. Feel fuzzy, though." He looked up. "Did you get some sleep?"

Sherlock stared at him, speechless.

John glared at Mycroft. "You were supposed to think of something."

"He wouldn't have slept even if he went home," Mycroft pointed out, "and it's not like he had anything better to do at home."

John shook his head, but seemed to accept this.

"My throat feels awful," he exclaimed, "I wish I could drink. NPO really sucks."

John did not use so many medical abbreviations before. Sherlock was not sure whether he liked this new development. On the one hand, he thought it was annoying and unnecessary, but John did it so easily and naturally, and it was like watching his old self, which he had kept hidden all this time, unfold before Sherlock at last.

"How long before they let you eat?" Mycroft asked.

"Probably at least five to six days before they let me have clear liquids. Bowels need to wake up. They took quite a bashing." He turned his head to the side and closed his eyes.

Sherlock and Mycroft sat down in silence.

The nausea started late that night.

Perhaps it was more of a build. John did not elaborate. All Sherlock knew was that when the nurse came to take John's vitals, the man whimpered, and kept whimpering.

"What's wrong?" the nurse asked. Sherlock twitched his head to listen. Mycroft had left as the evening drew to a close, offering his car for Sherlock to return to 221B. Sherlock only had to think of the flat, empty with lifeless clutter, to rudely turn down Mycroft's offer.

"…sick."

"You feel nauseous?"

It's nauseated. Ugh. Learn English, for crying out loud. She was a healthcare provider, how could she not know? But Sherlock chose not to correct her in favor of looking at John, who nodded weakly.

"Okay, I'll page the surgeon on call to ask if we can increase your Zofran, okay?"

Sherlock suddenly had an image of John, starting at his pager, and then reluctantly drinking a shot of chocolate before reaching for the phone.

Sherlock did not often feel nauseated; in fact, it had been years since he had been sick. He did remember how potent it was, and got up from his next of blankets on the couch to check on John. Skin warm, though not too warm. Sherlock reached for his hand.

"Bad?" he asked.

John inhaled but did not reply.

Sherlock expected a doctor to come by, but the nurse entered moments later to start John's Zofran.

"It's just Zofran," John whispered, "they won't come."

He did not vomit. He just lied there, silently suffering, while Sherlock waited with bated breath for the antiemetic to do its work. When John finally fell asleep, there was a stillness to him that Sherlock did not like. He had never seen John like this before.

No puzzle. No creativity. Just a disease, cut out, along with parts that were not diseased. How dull. Boring.

Helpless.

How John could just accept all of this, with the kind of calm and serenity he had accepted everything else, was beyond Sherlock's comprehension. Sherlock's world was one where people came to misfortune only because they were too stupid to avoid it. Getting shot, stabbed, kidnapped, all of these things could be dodged, if one was sharp enough. He had even drugged himself up with no long-term consequence. Not this senseless, random blow from inside, despite doing everything right and being a good man. If Sherlock were in John's place, he wold have gone mad; to be confined to bed, waiting around for other people to do things and for things to happen, nauseated, unable to move, unable to think—he would probably kill someone.

"I've done amputations," John had told him once, "in the army, sometimes a limb has to go. Arm, leg, both. Doesn't matter. I never really felt all that much about it; it had to be done, no use thinking about it. And I didn't want to. Didn't want to think about how much harder it will be for these people. They're going to go everywhere and draw stares. They're going to have to crane their necks from their wheelchairs, go around the long way, or perhaps be trapped because there's no ramp at all. They can't put all of their groceries in one arm to open the door for themselves. You see people get by. They usually do. You adapt or you die, and once you come to terms with what has happened to your body, life is still worth living. But it is hard to watch, all the same. These…able-bodied, healthy men. All soldiers are healthy and fit, of course. They train, they exercise, they learn to do two hundred crutches, and all that power, packed in those muscles. You listen to their hearts and it's strong, it pounds at your stethoscope and through the earpieces, as if saying 'Mmph! Oh yes! I am here and I am working, ah-hah, I am working!' There is something about palpating abdomens too—it's different to palpate a young abdomen, whether it is male or female. You can feel it, and it's not just because of the skin texture—I could feel with gloves on. Young versus old, no matter the habitus. So you see such fine specimens of nature—nature had shaped these beautiful, healthy, strong bodies, with so much potential…and then this world ruins it. It hurts, to see that loss, because it's the death of a dream, and no matter which way you rationalize, you feel like you swung the axe."

Sherlock had taken it as inevitable that John would be with him till the end. The man craved danger, and would clearly make room in his life for Sherlock's cases—for Sherlock, no matter what happened in his life. He saw himself and John growing old, sitting on the park benches watching people, John listening to his deductions as always, though they were both old and grey. They fit, like two halves of a puzzle, two magnets opposite each other. Why would they ever separate, once they have found each other?

But John's still form seemed like a shadow before the real image. Seeing him actually sick made all of this more real, somehow. Before, John had been almost normal—not quite up to his usual stamina, perhaps, but that was hardly worth noticing. Vibrant and full of vitality, like a proper soldier.

He fell asleep at some point. He dreamed that he and John were walking home from a case, but then they were walking to someplace else, or at least John was. Sherlock tried to follow, but despite his best efforts, John was going further and further ahead of him. He cried out, calling for John to stop, but John kept going. Then Sherlock was alone, and he began searching, looking for John, examining every detail and looking for any sign of where the blonde man might have gone, but there were no signs, and he never found him.

15-1-1998, 19:00

Hemicolectomy procedure today. Dr. Mackey's patient, 43 yo M with no significant medical history. What's with all these young people getting colon cancers? Anyway, the lump was actually quite big. I'm surprised this guy didn't get a bowel obstruction. Nature of the human body never ceases to amaze me.

We were able to watch a little bit of the Winter Olympics today in the library, though I didn't see who won because I got paged. Bishop finally farted at around 13:00. Of course, because he's been on TPN all this time, we have to watch his phosphate when we transition him to oral. At least I see a light at the end of this tunnel. Shouldn't be long before that guy's out of here. At least we only spent 20 minutes in his room this am. Where does he get all the questions anyway?

Dan broke up with his girlfriend. I feel kind of glad that I'm single at the moment, because I'm not sure I can handle that kind of provocation. He's been fucking up his pre-rounds, so of course Speller yelled at him. Still, it's rough. He was really fond of her, and I can't imagine the breakup to have started from his end. Although he seems like such a nice fellow. Maybe he is more demanding at home, but he's a good resident, and I feel really sorry for him.

It's times like these when I kind of wish I had been interested in anything other than surgery. What would it have been like if I were in psych? I bet I'd have a life. Easy clinic hours in outpatient, and relatively sane inpatient hours. They're all about keeping everyone happy. I can use some of that. Here's some lithium. Want some Prozac? Having no procedures would drive me insane though. They don't even know how to put an IV in. Plus, if I have to talk to that many people and learn about their pet pooches, I might have a psychotic break. I don't care why you're an arse! I just care that you are, and I want you away from me or unconscious. Although I would also have time get laid…. This is so depressing. I don't know how our attendings have kids. They're also up at 3 in the morning, even if they don't come in. Though Mackey divorced at least once, and Adams is in the middle of a divorce. Which really bodes well for my marital future.

Still, if those OB/Gyn people can get married, shouldn't I be able to get a wife? I mean those guys are like Temper on steroids. You'd think those people would be happier, considering all their patients actually want to be here. Especially that third-year resident, Nancy. Oh my God, she's a terror. The little ones always are. I'm not an obstetrician, and yet she expects me to know all these esoteric facts when I'm just the dumb surgeon. The uterus and the baby in it belong to her. I just fiddle around with the bowels. Murph is nice though. I like him. It's too bad he's graduating this year, because that program sure could use someone like him as a nice buffer. It's actually not that hard to imagine that he has a wife and a one-year-old son. When I grow up, I want to be like him: sane.

I'll stop here. I really haven't been good about really updating on cases this week, but this week's call was brutal. I hate this service, there are way too many patients and too few residents to disperse. Have to wake up at 2 in the morning again, so calling it a night. —John Watson

They drew John's blood at 3. The surgeon came at 4. He did not take the dressing off, but he mashed around John's belly with his hand, checked the drains, and then waltzed off with instructions for John to "open up the lungs". Sherlock looked at the clock and wondered if these hospitals understood the concept of "healing sleep". There was certainly none of that here.

Mrs. Hudson came to visit the next morning, but John was still too queasy to take much advantage of her company. Instead, he spent most of the time lying there, listening to her talk, and occasionally exercising with his incentive spirometry. It looked difficult—he was supposed to inhale as forcefully as he could, and the suction should raise the block to a certain height, but every time it would just twitch a little bit, leaving John exhausted.

"Hate this," John whispered, looking a little green, but he never retched. Small mercies.

Mrs. Hudson took Sherlock down to the cafeteria to get breakfast. It was not the worst cafeteria Sherlock had seen, though he thought it was ironic that a hospital should serve such unhealthy menus to its visitors and staff. They ate in the cafeteria because they did not want the smell to provoke John's nausea.

"How are you doing, dear?" she asked, while Sherlock tried not to rush her—he had no appetite, and was pushing his food around restlessly.

"I'm fine."

"Oh Sherlock," she looked sympathetic and disappointed. "You don't look as happy as I thought you would about this. John looks a bit ill, but at least he's free of the cancer."

His elbow banged the table as he lifted it to cover his forehead. "We're fighting for years, not decades," he said.

"Well he certainly wouldn't live long with that kind of attitude," Mrs. Hudson reproached. "With the way you boys have been running around in London, how did you know that a bullet wouldn't take him out sooner? Besides, he initially had six months, Sherlock. Perhaps not even that long. Years is many times longer, and think of all the mischief you two could manage," she reached out and squeezed his hand with her wrinkled, dry ones. "I know this is overwhelming, Sherlock. I don't like to see him that ill either, but you mustn't lose heart, now. He's fighting, and he's not doing too badly."

John's nausea did ease later that day, and with it, Sherlock's own anxiety. John's spirometry began improving too, and he raised a thumb at Sherlock. "Wind averted," he told him.

Mike Stamford visited in the afternoon, when Mrs. Hudson had gone home.

"You're looking good," said Stamford.

"Better than I felt this morning," John agreed.

Sherlock kept himself out of their conversation, choosing instead to observe Stamford. Stamford was the reason Sherlock even met John, and had in fact deliberately brought the two together. Why the man decided to do this, Sherlock had neer examined before. He figured it was just a whim, but now he wondered if Stamford had been smarter than he let on. That he shared a little bit of John's wisdom, and had recognized how well the two would fit.

Either way, Sherlock would forever be in Stamford's debt.

"What do you think of talking to medical students once you're out?" Stamford asked.

John raised his eyebrows. "I don't know. I'll have to think about it."

"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked, for once not following.

"For lectures," said John, "Mike's asking me to go as a guest speaker. Talk about what it's like to be a patient. Not a bad idea, but I don't know. Teaching kids was never my thing."

"They're good kids, little horrors though they might be," Stamford insisted. "It's early, but I thought I'd ask you now and give you time to ponder. It's in a few months."

The IV machine started beeping obnoxiously. Sherlock caught sight of the words "Occlusion Downstream" before John straightened his elbow with a scowl and the beeping stopped.

John seemed to take that as a cue to start whinging.

"I hate this."

"I know." Mike seemed completely sympathetic.

"I forgot how badly hospitals smell. It smells like sweat and vomit and piss. That's one thing I don't miss. I hate this stupid gown—why not just give us a blanket, it functions about as much as a blanket would anyway!"

The two men started laughing. John cut himself off as he winced. "Not good."

Sherlock went to him quickly. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just not a good idea to have any pressure on the abdomen right now."

Stamford started laughing again once he was certain John was alright. "Man, of all people to be here, I didn't expect it to be you, John."

"Me neither."

"Figures that being a patient would be the one thing you would complain about," Stamford chuckled.

"I hate hospitals."

"Everyone does."

They laughed again, John more carefully, sharing something Sherlock could not deduce, because it was obvious and yet completely unknown to him. They were both doctors, had lived a certain life, and while Sherlock could know of it, he could never understand it, because he had never lived that life. He wondered if this was how John felt whenever he and Mycroft were together, communicating at that higher level of awareness, knowing of it but not sharing the insights.

After a few more words, Stamford left. John inhaled through his spirometer. This time, it went up quite high.

"Amazing stuff, Zofran," John smiled.

It was probably not wise, but Sherlock tried the spirometer as well, doing unsurprisingly better than John. John allowed him without comment, the way an older sibling might allow a child to take a toy away.