PC Thompson manoeuvred a pliant Sherlock through the foyer of the hospital. He'd spent the last few minutes trying not to react, as the consulting detective had told him that the long hours he was spending at work were already proving detrimental to his new marriage, judging by the state of the creases in his trousers and the remnants of his packed lunch. By the time he'd grabbed Sherlock by the arm, to lead him into the hospital, he was itching to punch him in the face.

"Can you tell me where DI Lestrade is?" He practically begged, rather than asked.

The nurse on reception looked bored, as if nothing coming through the A&E department was more important than the soduku puzzle in her magazine. To be fair, thought Tommo, if the selection of drunks and reprobates cluttering up the waiting room were anything to go by, not looking patients in the eye had become an exercise in self-preservation. She waved her hand towards a side room.

"Friends and relatives over there. Lestrade's in the first room."

"You'll get the sack if they find out you're siphoning supplies." Sherlock said calmly.

The nurse did look up then, shock painted on her face.

"Who the fu…?"

"Come'on you."

Tommo dragged Sherlock by the arm, towards the rooms off reception. If he stood and listened to how Sherlock knew the nurse was stealing, he'd probably have to investigate her theft and, judging by the murderous look she was giving Sherlock, her assault on the consulting detective; that was paperwork he could do without after tonight.

"Don't you want to know …?"

"Nope!" Tommo said, practically throwing him through the door. "DI Lestrade? A pain in the arse, courtesy of Sergeant Donovan." With that PC Thompson was gone.

Lestrade was sat beside a hunched John Watson, a comforting hand on his back. There were two untouched cups of tea and a mound of wet, bloodied paper towels on the table in front of them, which Greg had evidently used to clean John's hands. Lestrade looked up at Sherlock with red rimmed eyes, as the consulting detective entered the room.

"She's breathing again, they've got her in surgery." He practically whispered the news, as if talking might set John off wailing again.

"Sit" he said, gesturing to the seats opposite. They sat for a while in silence, but Sherlock kept fidgeting, opening his mouth as if to say something, then thinking better of it.

John was still staring at the floor, not crying, not moving, hardly even breathing. Sherlock could see him muttering under his breath though.

John Watson was praying.

Oh, how disappointing, his supposedly rational best friend turning to a mythical being for support. Sherlock opened his mouth again and went as far as to take a breath to speak this time, when Lestrade's head shot up and his eyes fixed him with a penetrating stare.

"Sherlock, I want you to go to your mind palace and stay there until we get news. No talking and no bloody thinking, right?"

Sherlock could have argued, he wanted to, but the look of despair and fear on Greg's face stopped him. He closed his mouth with an audible click and sat back, shutting his eyes and trying to find something in his head to focus on.

Sherlock was walking along the corridor of his mind palace and being pulled towards a door. He'd wanted to find his way to the laboratory, where he'd previously synthesised a compound that behaved like helium; if he could remember in which order he'd completed the combustion, he could give the formula to Mycroft. They might offer him the Nobel Prize for Science again, which he'd obviously take great pleasure in turning down, to spite his brother.

However, his hand was on the doorknob of another room, before he could even find his way to the lab. Since his return from the dead, he found himself coming to this room more often; he opened the door.

John was fresh out of the shower and in his dressing gown, he turned to him from the chair by the fire, as Sherlock walked in.

"Hey, I made tea." John said softly, with a smile, indicating two mugs on the table beside the chair.

"I'm sorry John, I didn't know they'd be there, I didn't want her to get hurt."

"It's alright Sherlock, I forgive you."

"What? Just like that? That's not normal John."

"We're not normal, Sherlock. Besides, there's nothing to forgive, she wanted to come along, I let her. If anything, it's my fault."

"I should go back and do this properly, you'll hate me otherwise." Sherlock could feel a lump in his throat and his mouth turning down at the corners. Interesting, he didn't expect that reaction from himself; the thought of John hating him was making him want to cry.

"No, stay. I'm not ready for that yet. You saw me back there, I can't take anything in right now. So tell me here Sherlock, I'll listen to you here. I'm here for you now, nobody else, just you, always you." John smiled and Sherlock relaxed.

"Lestrade says I need to be quiet for a while and not think. But I can't seem to clear my mind John."

"Then come here." John raised his hand and held it out to Sherlock.

Sherlock walked over, took John's hand and found himself pulled down. He knelt on the rug at John's feet and put his head in the doctor's lap.

John began stroking his fingers through Sherlock's hair, massaging his scalp and running his thumbs around the edges of his face and the back of his neck. The consulting detective sighed and let sensory information overtake rational thought. The fabric of John's dressing gown against his face was wonderfully soft, the slightly calloused skin of John's fingertips tickled slightly, sending waves of pleasure through his nerve endings. John's scent was comforting, like the air of a summers day. His skin bore the smell of his citrus shower gel and the metallic tang of his tan; it smelt like home.

John whispered to him in this room and it made Sherlock feel strange inside. It was a change from the sarcasm and reprimands he usually received from the doctor; Sherlock liked it. Sometimes, he wondered how John might react to a kiss. Not the type of kiss that was prelude to sex, just something that would connect them more deeply and then Sherlock might also find out how John tasted. However, the consulting detective never dared do this, even in his mind palace; John might take it the wrong way and get upset and that would break the illusion.

"Is this ok Sherlock?"

"S'fine, s'good," the consulting detective murmured, snuggling further into John's lap and wrapping his arms around his blogger's waist.

"You're a good man you know, amazing, fantastic. You should let me do this more often, help calm you down. I care about you so much Sherlock. Don't go back to the drugs to clear your mind, just let me do this for you."

"I care about you too," Sherlock murmured back.

Sherlock froze then, tensed up, had he really just revealed that? What would John say? He'd freak out wouldn't he? He'd …

He felt John raising his chin then and his bloggers face was just centimeters from his own. This might be an illusion, but Sherlock still couldn't look John in the eye after revealing his feelings.

"It's ok to express sentiment to me Sherlock. I love you, you idiot," John whispered and kissed him on the forehead. Sherlock was awestruck, but his surprise lasted just a few seconds.

Suddenly he was brought back to the hospital room by Lestrade shaking him and a stranger, a doctor, speaking from the doorway. John was on his feet, his left hand shaking uncontrollably.

"We got her through the surgery, but the bullet caused a lot of damage to the artery. Closing the initial wound, caused a build up of pressure elsewhere and an aneurysm, we sorted that, only to have others spring up and begin leaking. I'm so very sorry Doctor Watson, but you know what that means. There's nothing more we can do."

Greg was there once more, holding John up bodily. This time, however, the army doctor wasn't making a sound, just staring blankly into space, his whole body trembling.

"Have you removed the foetus?" Sherlock said, getting to his feet with a sense of urgency in his voice. "It'll give you better access to the artery and you could buy her some time with an artificial graft."

"Yes we tried that" the doctor looked faintly annoyed at the questioning of his medical skills. "There's not enough tissue integrity for a stent and …"

The doctor was interrupted by the sound of John retching into the sink and Lestrade shouting.

"For Christ's sake Sherlock!" The next thing the consulting detective knew, he was on his backside for the third time that night, Lestrade's fist having connected with his nose. Hot blood gushed down over his mouth and onto his shirt. Lestrade angrily pushed a bundle of paper towels into his hand, before going over to a sobbing John.

The doctor in the doorway looked confused.

"It appears only your team and sodding clever dick over there knew about the baby." Lestrade said angrily. "But don't worry, her husband knows now," he finished, sarcastically, as he rubbed John's back.

"I was … I was trying to help?" Sherlock tried.

Lestrade looked at him in disbelief, shaking his head.

"Right" the doctor blanched, probably thinking John, or Greg would put in a complaint about poor and insensitive communication. "Well, rather than get into the medical specifics, what I came to say was that Mary's heart is still beating, but she's losing blood and it's slowing, so if John would like to say goodbye, I suggest he does it now."

The doctor held the door open and a stricken John Watson limped forwards, still supported by Lestrade.

"Are the rest of her family on the way?" The doctor asked quietly.

"I've called them," Lestrade said defeated, "but they live in Surrey. I don't think they'll get here in time, even in the police car I sent."

Greg turned to look at Sherlock, still sat confused and bleeding on the floor.

"Come and pay your respects." Lestrade spat, looking for all the world like a furious father, reprimanding his child.

For the second time that night, Sherlock obeyed without question, even though every part of him wanted desperately to return to the John Watson sat in the chair, by the fire, in his head.

That John Watson was the broken soldier that Sherlock had fixed after his return from Afghanistan. That John Watson had craved exhilaration, not empathy and Sherlock could provide the former without even trying. That John Watson had been content to exist with Sherlock at 221B Baker Street and had been keen to put his best friend first in everything; they'd been like a couple of schoolboys on a permanent vacation - inseparable, incorrigible, indestructible. But the John Watson walking in front of him now was a broken man, with a life and emotions that the consulting detective couldn't even understand, let alone know how to begin fixing.

Sherlock felt a tearing sensation in his chest and his limbs became heavy. He pushed the paper towels more firmly against his bleeding nose and told himself that the watering of his eyes was down to his injury and not due to the fact that he could see the light around John fading and dying, just like the light in Mary's eyes.

For once in his life, Sherlock Holmes had no idea what to do.