"Well, isn't this a sight? Two sleeping beauties."

Sherlock scowled without opening his eyes. "Not asleep," he told Lestrade.

"Yes, you were."

"I was, but not recently." He sat up and tried to run his hands through his hair, but only succeeded in getting his fingers caught in the snarls.

Lestrade picked up the awful plastic chair and brought it over closer to Sherlock. "How's he doing?" He nodded toward John, voice low so as not to wake him.

"Don't bother whispering. You won't wake him up and if you do, good. He's been asleep forever."

Lestrade frowned. "But he's been awake, right? Your text this morning said he was."

Sherlock nodded. "For a while, yes. He had some tests and then he ate lunch and he's been asleep ever since. It's been hours."

Lestrade shook his head. "Give the man a break. He's recovering and I'm sure he's on all sorts of drugs that're making him tired."

"So? I took drugs and I'm awake now, aren't I?"

"Wha—Sherlock, what did you take?" Lestrade flipped from concerned friend to investigating officer with barely a blink.

"No, nothing like that." He waved his hand at Lestrade. "Don't be stupid. I took some allergy medicine and slept for a few hours."

"Oh. All right." Lestrade relaxed again. Sherlock would've liked it if the other man had looked at least a little bit embarrassed at his false assumption, but he supposed Lestrade had dragged his half-conscious body from one too many drug dens for that.

"So, other than asleep, how is he?"

"He can't move his legs and he's in a lot of pain. He's pissing through a tube and he's on morphine and even the idea of that is making me feel a bit nauseated, and also a bit jealous. Did you just come by to chat?" Of course he didn't. He brought several duffel bags in with him, set them down by the door. John's things; he's been by Baker Street.

"I didn't think about him being in pain. I guess I thought he wouldn't be able to feel it."

"He fell two storeys and broke his back, Lestrade. Of course he's in pain. It wasn't just one small point of impact."

Lestrade shifted his weight back in the chair, glanced over at John. "What's the prognosis?"

"Not good." Sherlock leaned forward, elbows on knees, and dropped his head into his hands. His hair felt disgusting.

He didn't want to have to give Lestrade the details but it was better that he tell him now, instead of leaving it for John to do when he woke up. He thought back to everything the doctors had told him after the surgery and everything he'd been trying to ignore when John was being examined, spent a moment synthesizing it into something he could say without breaking down.

"His spinal cord was crushed, but not severed. That sounds promising, but it's really not. He can't control any muscles below the injury. It's the T-9 vertebra, which is just about here." Sherlock sat up straight and put two fingers on his own torso, just above his navel. "He has a little bit of sensation below the damage level—he can feel temperature in a few spots but not pressure. There may be some improvement once the spinal swelling goes down all the way, but that will take weeks and the improvement is likely to be minimal. Once he's discharged from hospital—which likely won't be for weeks yet—he'll have to go to an in-patient rehab centre. For at least a month, maybe two."

"Ah, Jesus, Sherlock." Lestrade blew out a breath. "I'm sorry."

Sherlock shrugged and shook his head. "How on earth is that apology supposed to do either of us any good?" He dropped his head again and clasped his hands together, his elbows resting on his knees. His hands were shaking. That made no sense. He wasn't even tired anymore. I just took two naps. He pressed his hands together harder, trying to make them stop.

"Hey. Sherlock."

Lestrade was no longer sitting in the chair—he was on the bed next to him. When had that happened? How? He was a bit too close; Sherlock pulled his knees in.

"You all right? You've been staring at your hands for the last five minutes."

"I." He blinked and more time must have passed because now Lestrade's hand was on his shoulder though he hadn't seen him move.

"Maybe you should get some more sleep, eh?"

"No. I'm not tired. It's just . . . thoughts."

"You want to talk about it?"

Sherlock swallowed and looked over at John, who was still sleeping, breathing evenly, his left hand tucked beneath the pillow, his right curled into a loose fist that bristled with plastic tubing. He didn't want to talk about it, he thought he might explode if he didn't, and he definitely didn't want John to overhear. He closed his eyes and said softly, "It was my fault. He followed me out onto the fire escape."

"No, Sherlock, don't think like that." Lestrade paused, then seemed to come to his senses. "What were you doing out there anyway?"

Sherlock shook his head. "I wanted to talk to the kid in the flat across the hall, but he ran when he saw us. I thought we could cut him off if we went out that way."

"Oh. You think he had something to do with it? Because the girlfriend confessed, but she could've had an accomplice." He sounded like he didn't think that was very likely.

"Don't humour me, Lestrade. I made a mistake and John paid for it. I was disappointed that there wasn't much of a case for us and I wanted to do something brilliant and daring to impress him. He likes running after me in the dark. You should see the looks he gives me afterwards." Gave me. His running after me days are over. Sherlock's whole body was shaking now; he tried to push himself up to get away but Lestrade's grip tightened on his shoulder.

"This is not your fault. It was just an accident. There was nothing you could've done to predict it or prevent it."

"I—"

"Not even you, Sherlock." Lestrade turned and folded him into a hug and Sherlock didn't stop him. He didn't stop him; he just hunched himself as small as he could and shook against the DI's chest, trying not to make any noise.

When Sherlock finally got himself back under control, Lestrade let go of him, careful not to meet Sherlock's eyes, and said, "It was just bad luck. It could've just as easily been you."

I'm supposed to say I wish it had been me. Instead he turned away from Lestrade and straightened his cuffs.

"We are trying to track down the building's owner for code violations. The landlord says he's been telling him for two years that fire escape was rusted out."

"Code violations." Sherlock's hands were shaking again, but this time he recognized anger behind the involuntary movement. Code violations. Maybe they would get the building's owner for code violations. He and John knew their lifestyle always had the risk of physical danger, but when someone threatened them they responded in kind; chase after the perpetrator, throw him up against the wall, make him bleed, make him hurt. Shoot him with John's gun if he was still a threat. Fining someone for a building code violation was not an acceptable alternative.

"Sherlock. Do you want—er, maybe I could talk to one of the doctors. See if they could give you something to help you calm down?"

"No."

"It's just, I know this isn't easy. I don't want you to do anything you'll regret." Lestrade looked as if he were torn between offering another hug and scampering out of Sherlock's reach.

"I'm not going to self-medicate, if that's what you're concerned about."

"Okay. Let me know if it gets too much, though, all right? You want to go home and have a shower and change your clothes? I'll stay with John."

"No. I'm not going home."

"Yeah, thought you might say that." Lestrade heaved himself up off the little bed and crossed the room. He lifted one of the bulging duffels. "That's why I packed a bag for you, too. At least, I think this one's all your stuff. Mrs Hudson helped. It was a little disturbing because we couldn't tell whose pants were whose."

"We both wear the same size. Saves time sorting."

"Don't want to know." He tossed the bag at Sherlock and pointed to the bathroom. "Go. Shower. I'll sit here in case he wakes up."

Sherlock was tempted, but the irrational fear that something horrible would happen if he left John's bedside was hard to shake. He hefted the bag. "I'm not sure—"

"Please have a shower." John hadn't moved but his eyes were open.

"Hey, look who's awake," Lestrade said. Sherlock would've mocked him for how stupid that statement sounded, but he found an equally stupid grin spreading across his face at the sound of John's voice. He leaned forward to cup his cheek and kiss him lightly on the forehead.

John said, "Mm. Shower."

"I'm not the only stinky one in this room."

"Yes, but I am likely to be getting a sponge bath soon and you are not." John gave him a sleepy smile that turned into a yawn. He stretched his arms out to either side and twisted his head back and forth on the pillow. "Christ, but I'm already sick of lying flat on my back. I need to sit up a little."

Sherlock reached for the button to incline the bed but John already had it in his hand. "Not too high," Sherlock cautioned, and John gave him a look that was part amused and part a bit pissed off.

"Yes, thank you, Dr Holmes." He raised the bed a little, as much as he was allowed, and then wiggled his shoulders, trying to scoot up higher on the pillow.

"Come on, John, you know you're not supposed to be moving around that much."

"I am barely moving, Sherlock. I'm just trying to get comfortable."

Sherlock watched, trying to resist the urge to step in and help. He knew John wouldn't be so helpless once he was cleared to move and he had time to build up his upper body strength, but seeing him now. God. After several seconds of watching, he stood up and bent over the bed, pushing and tugging at the pillow until John told him to stop.

"Thanks, but it doesn't really make much of a difference." John's eyes were closed, but he reached for Sherlock's hands, finding them without looking. "It's just uncomfortable." Sherlock watched as John's jaw clenched and unclenched. His hands were sweaty.

"Is it uncomfortable or does it hurt?"

"It's not unbearable."

Sherlock nodded toward the machine next to the bed "They've given you a PCA pump now."

"I know. I'll use it if I need to."

Sherlock picked up the small, corded button that allowed the patient to adjust the morphine dose and set it on the pillow next to John. The thought of being able to use it made his skin itch in a not entirely unpleasant way. He ran his hands over his scraggly face and into his knotted hair. Maybe he would have that shower. "You should at least let the nurse know that you're awake."

"I don't have to tell every time I wake up, Sherlock. They'll be in to check on me when they need to."

"That older nurse was in once while you were asleep. And then a young girl with terrible shoes brought you tea. I drank it."

"Thanks."

"You wouldn't have wanted it to go to waste." He smiled, relieved at the chance to have a normal, non-emotionally-overwhelming conversational exchange. "Lestrade here has brought us the entire contents of our flat."

"Shut up, you'll want all this stuff." Lestrade lifted a blue backpack that Sherlock didn't recall either of them owning. "This here bag's entirely full of electronics—laptops, someone's iPad, an iPod from about 1999—I figure it must be John's."

"The iPod debuted in 2001."

"You know that, but what's my first name, Sherlock? Oh, I also got all the phone chargers I could find and someone's reading glasses." He held up the frames, looking from John to Sherlock and back again.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and John snorted. "You really think he would admit it if he needed glasses?"

"Please. I am far too young to need reading glasses."

"He has grey hairs, Greg, but he snips them short so they hide beneath the curls."

"It's not to hide them. It's just that they're straighter and thicker than the brown so they stick out funny if I don't trim them. Also, they are silver, not grey."

Lestrade and John were both laughing openly now, John's laugh careful and controlled as he pressed a hand against his bruised ribs. With a huff Sherlock picked up the bag of his clothes and toiletries and stalked off into the bathroom. When he got inside he closed the door and then leaned back against it, feeling a thousand times better than he had in days, even if he did smell like a barn. He could still hear John laughing, gasping for breath just a bit. He listened until Lestrade started talking about football and then turned on the taps.

He showered and dressed as quickly as he could and then flung open the door. "Lestrade!"

Lestrade and John both looked up in alarm, and then John started giggling again. "Please, stop, it hurts to laugh. It really hurts."

"I'm sorry," he told John, and then glared at Lestrade.

"What?"

"Not only did you neglect to bring my conditioner, but you didn't even pack a comb. What am I supposed to do about this?" He pointed to his still-dripping hair that he'd been afraid to even towel-dry for fear of tangling it more.

"Ah, cut it off?" Lestrade suggested.

"Look in the cabinet above the sink," John suggested. "There might be a comb. They usually have basic toiletries for patients."

There was a comb, but it was small and flimsy and not much of a match for Sherlock's hair. He did the best he could and then came back out into the room.

"Also, jeans? Really?" He gestured down at his legs, clad in the unfamiliar fabric that for some reason he owned.

"I don't mind," John said. Ah, yes, that's why I own them.

"I thought you'd be upset if I shoved your suits into that bag," Lestrade said. "You should be thankful—I almost brought the pair of jogging bottoms that I saw in your bottom drawer."

Sherlock groaned. "Those are only for when I'm undercover."

Lestrade looked at him. He'd seen Sherlock in those trousers, and not undercover. Years ago, though, not since John. Lestrade seemed to understand and didn't say anything.

Sherlock shoved his fingers through his wet, half-combed hair one last, futile time and said, "I'm going to go find something to eat. Do you want anything, Lestrade?"

"Nah, I'm not anywhere near desperate enough to eat hospital canteen food."

"I am." He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten, but this was the first time in days that he felt hungry instead of sick to his stomach. "John, I'll get you a tea. Since I drank yours."

"Thanks, love."

Sherlock felt another stupid grin threatening and quickly excused himself from the room, resisting the urge to kiss John goodbye. He wanted to, but he was afraid a kiss would turn into a sloppy, heated exchange that didn't end until he climbed into bed next to John, embarrassing Lestrade and possibly hurting John in the process. There'd be time for that later. Right now he'd settle for a sandwich and the largest coffee he could find.

Author's Note: I've edited the last two chapters a bit to try to make the medical bits more realistic. I might end up compressing the timeline for John's recovery in the interest of moving the story along.