Here we are at chapter 3. I'm shocked at the amount of people who are actually interested in this story, so, if you're still here now, thank you! All reviews and comments are welcome, and I hope you enjoy... thank you to the awesome kodkodkittie for betaing :)


When Sherlock awoke, it was morning. He'd slept all night – strange, he thought. He'd never needed to sleep for this long before, but he had to admit it – he felt infinitely better. I should listen to John more, he decided, when he tells me to rest. At the thoughts of John, he blinked a few times, before stretching his neck and back. The goings-on of last night came flooding back to him, and he stared at his hand where it lay in John's. He liked the feeling, the callous, rough skin of John's well-used hands– he didn't know why he hadn't tried it before. The room was lighter now, and the window had been opened to allow fresh air inside. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, removing his hand gently from John's, and looked around. Someone had been here. Standing up, he made his way over to the door. He was just reaching for the handle when someone on the other side beat him too it. He jumped back as the door swung open, and a petite, brunette nurse entered. She jumped a little when she saw Sherlock, but quickly recovered and straightened her uniform.

"Ah, Mr Holmes, I presume?" she asked, walking over to John's bedside. She reached over and starting checking his vitals and Sherlock frowned at the mention of his name.

"Er, yes, but how-"he started to say, but was cut off as she turned and smiled at him.

"Someone got in touch with us – explained things." She smiled again, and made a few more notes on her clipboard. Sherlock smiled ruefully – that someone obviously had a lot of power. It had to be Mycroft. For once, Sherlock was almost felt gratitude towards his brother. That had to have been the reason why he had made it till morning without being kicked out. One mention of Mycroft's name and the position he held, and the hospital would feel inclined to let him stay. The nurse was busy writing on her clip board, but Sherlock saw her glance at John's sleeping form. She ran her eye along his body, obviously noting the rather well cut muscles beneath the gown and sheet and took maybe slightly longer than necessary running her hands over the bandages wrapped around him. Sherlock cleared his throat, and gave her a soft glare – nothing menacing, just….making his thoughts clear. "The doctor will be here in a minute, Mr Holmes. He'll explain everything too you. Please, make yourself comfortable." She blushed slightly as she said this, before bustling out of the door and back down the hallway. Sherlock smiled, taking his place by John's bed again. They were treating him like royalty…all thanks to Mycroft. Reaching into his trouser pocket he withdrew his phone and, after quickly typing in the password, navigated to his messages. Composing a new one, he sat with the screen blank before him, waiting for inspiration to come to him. What could he say? For a while, he stared at John, thinking of he would say. Just say thank you, he would tell Sherlock, put the past behind you and say 'oh hi Mycroft, just wanted to say thank you for everything you do,' it's simple Sherlock, you're meant to love your siblings. Yes, I know, me and Harry have had some rough times, but she's still my sister. Where would you be without Mycroft, anyway? He's really not that bad… Sherlock's lips curved upwards, half smile and half smirk. Just the sound of John Watson made Sherlock feel wonderful. His voice, though it was rough, and had that silly, high pitched quality to it whenever he laughed (No, giggled. Because that's what John did, he giggled,) was always something Sherlock looked forward to hearing. Even when John was shouting at him for not getting the milk, or leaving severed fingers in his favourite jam, Sherlock loved it. It showed so much emotion, let Sherlock see what John was feeling, no deductions needed. When it said his name, quiet and low, it sent chills up Sherlock's spine. Remembering all this, Sherlock's fingers flew to the keyboard without hesitation. He typed out the message, clicking send without thinking anymore about it. He tucked the phone away.

"You've made me nice, John Watson." He whispered, loud enough so only John would hear – and Sherlock really hoped he could. A cough from behind him brought him back to his senses. He turned his head sharply, rising from his seat to confront the intruder.

"It's okay, sit down. I'm only here to explain some things to you." The man was middle aged and balding. Behind his glasses, Sherlock could see his eyes were tired – probably from working late. There was stubble on his chin, showing the last time he shaved was a while ago. Maybe he was growing a beard…maybe he just didn't have time anymore. Resting 2 fingers behind his ear, Sherlock leant on his arm, his foot tapping out a constant rhythm on the tiles floor. He watched the doctor move across the room, noticed how he his uniform was slightly too small, short at the wrists and ankles. His arms were clutching a pile of papers. Probably scans of John's brain going by the thickness of the paper, Sherlock thought. His fingers were stubby and surprisingly well tanned – he must've been on holiday recently…perhaps with his family. When the doctor pulled up a chair on the opposite side of John's bed, Sherlock stopped deducing. He wanted to hear what the doctor had to say.

"So, as I'm sure you're aware, Mr Watson has had some rather severe head trauma." The doctor's voice was calm and clear. He'd probably had to deliver news like this nearly every day of his life.

"Dr Watson," Sherlock replied, leaning forward in his seat, "It's Dr Watson." The doctor looked at him for a moment, before pushing his glasses further up his nose and continuing.

"Yes, well, Dr Watson then. You must be Mr Holmes. I'm Doctor Franklin. I'll be monitoring Dr Watson for the rest of his stay here." Dull, Sherlock thought. Who cares for formalities, when John was still here and still hurting? He merely nodded marginally, signalling that the doctor should continue.

"I have with me some of John's brain scans, if you'd like to take a look. He's had quite a blow to the head, as you very well know. There's a lot of swelling, and will be very tender for him." The doctor handed Sherlock the scans, and he flicked through them, still listening to what the doctor had to say.

"It'd be helpful, Mr Holmes, if you could recount what actually happened that night? It'd be useful for diagnosis, and to determine what sort of time scale we're looking at here." Sherlock tensed. He really didn't want to talk about this. Putting the papers to one side, he sighed and glanced wearily at the doctor. This was for John's benefit, he reminded himself. Without this information, the doctors won't know what to do to save him. He took a deep breath, and then began.

"I assume you know the basics, so I won't go into detail," His voice was cool and distant, "Both me and John had known that Moriarty would come after us. He'd made that clear ever since the first crime we'd solved together. I didn't really take it seriously at first – I was more than happy to have something to not make me bored. The crimes were brilliant, extremely clever. You could almost say I was impressed. But this was Moriarty – and I knew he was dangerous. Before Moriarty, I was bored. Bored out of my mind. People don't understand, no one understands that I need the cases. Without them, I can't cope. So when Lestrade came to me for help…" Sherlock paused, remembering John's looks of disappointment. They haunted him. There are lives at stake, Sherlock! Actual human lives. Just so I know, do you care about that at all? "I was more than happy…finally, something to devote my attention too." His tone was bitter, and the doctor noticed his clenched fist and tense shoulders.

"It was at the pool when I realised just how much of a threat Moriarty posed. He-" his voice broke, and he took a deep breath. He could do this, "He had John. He took him, and Moriarty used him against me. He strapped a bomb to his chest and played with him. I had the missile plans, I tried to use them to save John, but Moriarty was happy to see me suffer. He had snipers. Then he left – he just walked out. The first thing I did was get the bomb off John. I slid it as far as I could, away from us both. But I think we both knew it couldn't be that easy – when Moriarty returned, I didn't have time to formulate a plan. Moriarty had killed enough people already. I had a gun with me," Yes, it was John's, Sherlock thought. John had saved him again. "John was stood next to me, and I had to get him to safety, he was the priority. I looked at him, and he knew what I was going to do." Sherlock smiled, remembering the look on John's face – it was the same face he used when he shouted at Sherlock, when he got annoyed and 'Needed some air'. Sherlock loved that face. When he'd seen it there, though…he hadn't loved it then. The reality of their predicament had become clearer to both men. They could die – it was simple, really. Sherlock had one chance, to save John. And to save himself.

"I took the gun. I shot the bomb." As he said this, the doctor raised his eyebrows. It was hard to believe either man had survived…

"My reaction was immediate – I grabbed John, and hurled him into the pool. His head hit the side before he went under. The sound it made…the sound was horrific. For a moment, I thought I'd killed him. I expected to see fragments of skull floating in the water by his body. I didn't have time to check. When John went under, I dived in after him. I'd already felt the heat burn my skin, I'd felt the shards of glass and brick pierce my body but all that mattered was John, was getting him to safety. I don't know what happened to Moriarty, or to the snipers. I was deafened by the sound, temporarily blinded by the heat and light of the explosion…" Sherlock trailed off, looking at Dr Franklin, who stared back. This man was damaged, the doctor thought. Damaged in the mind, that brilliant mind that worked like a machine, never stopping.

"Mr Holmes. I cannot guarantee that Dr Watson will be the same when he wakes. Amnesia, it's a difficult thing to work with…you never know exactly what's going to happen. We have no way of knowing if his memory will come back. He's sedated at the moment, for his own safety. And for yours." Doctor Franklin glanced at Sherlock. He was staring intently at John's face, as if his gaze would wake him. John wouldn't hurt him, Sherlock thought. He was John. John, brilliant John, who never failed to make Sherlock into a better person – he had given him a heart, given him a purpose. Sherlock's throat closed up and he choked a little as he realised the truth – John might not remember him. Sherlock Holmes would disappear from his life just as quickly as he'd entered it. He'd be alone again - Holmes without his Watson.