John sees.
He sees the pain in Sherlock's eyes, sees him wince and flinch at the touch, sees his lips twitch and shake. And although the detective doesn't utter a word (except "John" which the doctor decides not to count), John knows he's in pain. He sees the pleural drainage that helps clean out the punctured lung, sees the catheter bag, the long scar just above Sherlock's waist and knows what it means. He also knows there's a scar on Sherlock's left thigh where the third bullet had grazed his skin. John sees the struggle the pale body is fighting. And he knows that Sherlock is struggling because of him. Because he saved his life. Friends protect people. Who'd have thought? 'John – we all know. He faked his bloody death for you. Just accept it,' Lestrade had jested not long ago. Yes, Sherlock had faked his death and John had hated him for it. But two weeks ago, Sherlock had not faked anything. He would have given his life for John. He had risked so much. And he had suffered so much. If he knew - God, when he learns… John gulps and his grip on the thin fingers tightens as he feels sad, ashamed, happy, honoured, angry, all at once.