A/N: Once again, thank you for the reviews. They mean a lot to me and are great motivation. Don't worry, I won't leave everyone hanging for too long.

Chapter Three

Holmes' investigation had come to a grinding halt. For all his deductive powers, the amount of evidence left behind in those three conjoined stores could have fit into his cigarette case. And, even when the tiniest details are the most important, there was nothing he could find that would tell him where they had gone or what their next move was going to be. Working with Lestrade did no more than frustrate him further, as the man was as clueless as ever.

The night he had chosen specifically to find out more about their operation had been a setup. There was no other way to look at things. He had been given false information and the informant murdered shortly thereafter. He and Watson had been led to that location for the sole purposes of removing them from the investigation. And, to add insult to injury, the places had already been emptied of everything but the six men that had caught them in the alley.

As one day became two and then two became three, Holmes found himself at a loss. At every turn he was battling against those random thoughts of his partner and friend. Watson continued to lay there unresponsive, and the doctor's optimism of eventual recovery faded. When Holmes found himself stalking the sitting room early one morning attempting to make sense of this case and his thoughts on the entire messy affair, he found himself talking to an empty chair beside the fire place. That talking ceased as he found himself glaring at that chair as if demanding it produce his flatmate.

Five days after he had woken in the hospital to Lestrade's less than pleasant company, Holmes found himself turning away clients. He was in no mood to deal with petty problems that were beneath him. Displaying a streak of maliciousness, he sent them specifically to Lestrade with his compliments. His investigation had all but collapsed and his attempts to pick up the pieces had failed utterly. At one point he had even found himself sitting in the Diogenes attempting to vocalize his thoughts with his brother. Mycroft, of course, had brushed off all of this with the same air of languid boredom that reminded him how insignificant his life and problems were in the grand scheme of things.

On the morning of the sixth day, Holmes found himself standing beside the last bed in the long row in the nearly empty hospital ward. He stared down at the peacefully sleeping form of his flatmate, partner, and friend. His rational mind was screaming at him to walk away, that he was wasting time standing here. His irrational mind was screaming at the man lying there to wake up and join him in their rooms at Baker Street. His brother's voice with such condescending words came drifting back through his thoughts. Mrs. Hudson's sad, stoic eyes gazed back at him. Lestrade's annoyed expressions and responses, the doctor's hollow words of apologies bordering on condolences...

Growling wordlessly, Holmes flopped himself into the chair he had at some point pulled over to the bed without realizing he had done so. The doctor had somewhere in the last few days told him talking to his friend might help. But Holmes' rational thoughts and knowledge of anatomy informed him it was ridiculous to assume this empty shell in front of him could hear anything. The stillness of his friend's sleep alone informed him nothing of Watson was present. Worse was the idea that even if Watson did wake up now, there was no telling who would wake up. Given the amount of brain injury suspected to have kept his friend in a coma this long, he could not help wondering if anything of Watson would be left. A part of him that had come to acknowledge this man as his friend recoiled in horror at the idea that Watson would not wake up Watson. That irrational fear filled him the longer his friend lay there insensate; as if he was slipping further and further away each day.

Huffing, Holmes fidgeted in his seat uncomfortably. He could feel every eye in the ward firmly fixed on his back. He felt like a fool. He was sitting here staring at a sleeping man. His mind was struggling to come up with something to say that did not sound as ridiculous as he now felt.

"Dr. Worth said you could hear me," Holmes finally started hesitantly. "I wonder if that is really the case. I really have no idea why I'm sitting here. It is rather rude of you to continue to ignore me."

Holmes paused, as if waiting for a response.

"I..."

He could think of nothing to say.

I'm sorry?

I need you?

It should have been me?

Nothing seemed appropriate and every one of those bore an element of the emotional that he found most incontinently irrational.

"You're supposed to tell me how to behave in these situations. I had informed you of my ignorance in the proper social behavior. I suppose visiting a comatose person in a hospital is normal?"

Holmes again waited, some tiny part of him desperately wishing for an answer. Again he was disappointed.

"Mycroft—my elder brother, by the way—says I'm simply infatuated with the idea of friendship. He is convinced I am as incapable of friendship as he. Do you believe that?"

Nothing.

Holmes slumped dejectedly in his chair. He really could not comprehend why he was here or what he was expecting. For all his knowledge of anatomy, he really had very little experience with the sick or injured. What little he had learned of people in comas these last few days, amounted to almost nothing. Of course, there was little to be done, as far as he could tell. Either the person would wake up or they wouldn't. Some in the medical fields theorized that it was less about the brain injury and more about a person's willingness to come back. But the horror stories of what some of them woke to find...

He repressed a shudder as he stood. He was wasting his time here.

"I do wish you would wake up and tell me, Watson."

For one, brief moment, he felt there was something more that needed to be said. Reasserting control of his rebellious thoughts, he shook his head. Silently he made his way down the row of beds and out the nearby door.

~o~o~o~

Much to his own surprise, Holmes found himself back in that hospital ward again the next day. And again, the day after that. He wasn't sure when it had become a habit. But with so little else to do with his time, he thought this at least some sort of diversion. He could feel the bleak emptiness tugging at this mind and soul. He so wanted to give in to it. And, he wanted to combat it with cocaine. There were times he just sat there, staring and wondering. His rational, scientific thoughts considered this a wonderful opportunity to study the human mind and the comatose. His irrational, emotional thoughts recoiled in horror at such callousness.

So he sat there, confused.

Lonely.

This thought brought him up short one day. But he could not deny its accuracy. He was lonely without his friend. He had grown more than just accustomed to Watson's presence in their rooms at Baker Street. It was a sort of silent comfort to know he was not alone there. Even when Watson spent a day or two alone in his rooms in a fit of occasional depression of his own, it was a sense of presence that seemed to help give life to their rooms. Of course, there was Mrs. Hudson.

But it is not the same.

Most of the time he didn't talk. Sometimes he would prattle on about this or that. On rare occasion he would find himself practically lecturing on one subject or another. None of it seemed right. It was all just so much useless noise.

Today, some three weeks after their fight in the alley, he was in a talkative mood. Even he had to admit there was something almost desperate in that need to fill the silence. The constant movement and shuffle of people and the sounds of the sick revolted him in a way that he didn't care contemplate. So he let his mouth drown out those sounds while not really knowing what he was talking about at all anymore.

Suddenly his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth. His gray eyes widened in disbelief as his heart stuttered. Those green eyes were open. They were empty and unfocused, but they were open!

Holmes next clear recollection was shouting for a doctor, a nurse, anyone that could prove he was not hallucinating. But, by the time someone arrived, the eyes had closed once again. Frowning darkly at hearing Holmes' babbling something about his comatose friend waking, Dr. Worth carefully pulled Watson's limp hand out from under the blanket. In seconds, his frown had cleared and something of a smile quirked his lips.

"His pulse rate has increased. He may very well be waking," the doctor informed him.

For several minutes Holmes could only stare blankly. When the doctor began to feel the discomfort of the silence combined with such a penetratingly keen pair of gray eyes, he nodded once and placed Watson's hand back beneath the blankets. Again Holmes found himself alone beside the bed of what he now almost dared to hope was his waking friend.

~o~o~o~

Following this, Holmes refused to leave. He showed blatant disregard for any form of policies or procedures they held within the hellish confines of this place of suffering. What did it matter to him if they had rules? He had Watson to consider. Besides, if he returned to his rooms at Baker Street now he was afraid he would wake to find that one moment of hope was nothing more than a dream.

But it wasn't.

Holmes spent the hours alternating between the occasional one-sided conversation of absolutely meaningless subjects, and silence. Often he was wrapped so thoroughly in his own thoughts he didn't notice the passage of time. But as the days continued to roll on by inexorably, Watson gave more and more signs of emergence from the coma. Sometimes his eyes would open. Other times his mustache would twitch or his brow would furrow. One time he even uttered a groan of pain that had Holmes once again fleeing the ward in search of a less than appreciative nurse in the late hours of the night.

Finally came the day those eyes opened and stayed open for more than a few seconds. They were still hollow and unfocused, but as the seconds ticked by and they did not close Holmes found himself battling a fear he did not want to put into words.

"Watson?" he asked, cursing the tremor in his voice.

The eyes blinked and then turned his direction. Those deep green orbs still did not focus, but at least there was some acknowledgement that he was aware on some level.

"Holmes?"

The relief at that curious, croaking voice creaking from disuse was enough that Holmes could not contain the smile that lit his face. In the bright, early morning sunlight of the ward it was all he could do not to make a spectacle of himself shouting with joy. Watson was awake! More importantly, he remembered!

"Good morning, dear fellow," Holmes greeting, forcing his voice to something distant and casual.

"Holmes?" Watson asked again, blinking rapidly. "Where..."

The first doubts began to creep into Holmes' mind as Watson freed a hand from beneath the blanket to rub at his eyes.

"You're in the hospital," Holmes informed him, suppressing the fear he was feeling.

"Why..."

As the hand fell away and Watson sat up suddenly, nearly toppling off the side of the bed Holmes jumped backward slightly startled. When Watson groaned and his face paled fearfully, Holmes quickly reached forward to steady him. Certain Watson was about to return to unconsciousness, he was surprised when his friend twitched away from him. Breathing rapidly and deeply, trying to force back the threatening unconsciousness, obviously, Watson shuddered before finally taking one deep breath and exhaling deliberately.

"Alright there, Watson?" Holmes asked, tentatively.

For a moment, Watson stared at his legs. Calm having returned to his features, he nodded slowly in acknowledgement to Holmes' question.

"What time is it?"

"It would be more appropriate to ask what day, dear chap," Holmes replied gently, not really certain how one tells a friend they've lost nearly a month of their life in a coma. "You were...you were in a coma."

"How long and what time is it?" Watson asked with more force, turning those unfocused green eyes penetratingly in Holmes' general direction.

"Twenty-seven days and ten minutes before nine in the morning."

Watson's eyes closed as if trying to conceal something behind that pained expression. Holmes suddenly felt a very deep certainty he was missing something. His friend again breathed deeply and deliberately as he forced his expression to smooth into something of a grin.

"How long have you been here?"

His face flushing, Holmes suddenly found the seat he'd been perched in for the last several days was deucedly uncomfortable. Clearing his throat, he shifted position. His mind formulated a number of evasive answers, though he could not fathom why.

"Five days."

Watson shook his head with something approaching bemusement. "Thank you."

Not understanding why Watson would be expressing any sort of gratitude, Holmes threw him a curious and questioning look. By this point Watson had turned his attention to the hands that he held very deliberately folded in his lap.

"What...what hospital?" Watson asked hesitantly, his face flushing.

"You don't recognize—"

"Holmes," Watson cut him off somewhat gruffly, "would you please fetch a doctor?"

"Watson?"

Watson again closed his eyes, a pained expression pinching his face for a moment. Holmes did not quite recognize that expression, as it did not reflect any physical pain that he could determine. Then the doctor did something that he was more than familiar with, and it did not sit well in Holmes' mind. He watched as Watson sat up straight, squaring his shoulders with all the military bearing that had been trained into him. Finally, that expression filled with determination and rigid control turned to him with those empty, unfocused eyes.

"I don't remember what happened, or how I came to be here. I cannot see anything. I would like to speak with a doctor, if you would be so kind."

Holmes felt the blood drain from his face as he took in those green, hollow eyes. The starkness of these statements had his heart stuttering for a moment. Without another word, he fled the ward doing just as his friend requested; if for no other reason than to deny Watson's claims.

~o~o~o~

Holmes' still reeling thoughts from these revelations had yet to calm themselves into something resembling order. His mind refused to accept what he had heard, what he could so clearly see for himself. He had brought back Dr. Worth who had frowned grimly. He watched in mute confusion and denial as the doctor inspected his friend, his head, his eyes. The two had traded some medical jargon Holmes' mind refused to interpret in the chaotic swirling panic of his thoughts. Finally Dr. Worth had patted Watson on the left shoulder in a way that was obviously meant to be comforting, but had only caused the man to wince painfully.

Then they were alone.

Watson was very deliberately keeping his face turned away from the detective he knew must be there. His thoughts had seemed to turn inward, though that rigid control of his expressions still belied the turmoil beneath.

"Five days," Watson said softly, jarring Holmes out of his contemplation.

"Yes," Holmes added, realizing that nodding was pointless.

"You've not slept, or likely eaten," Watson mused, as if to himself.

"No," Holmes replied hesitantly, wondering where his friend was leading with this.

"Then you should do so," Watson told him flatly. "Of course, I have an ulterior motive in the request."

Already having opened his mouth to protest for some reason he could not fathom, Holmes closed his mouth as he cocked his head curiously. "And what might that be?"

Watson forced a grin as he turned those sightless eyes back toward his friend. The expression, though Watson was not aware of it, was so half-hearted and false that it disturbed Holmes deeply. His friend was not one to be dishonest in any situation. To do so now seemed entirely out of character.

"Have you seen what they feed people here? I would dearly love some of Mrs. Hudson's cooking, if you would be so kind."

The pleading quality in his voice was enough to stir Holmes. In part, he knew Watson was sincere. But there was a greater part filled with fear that Holmes could not understand.

"Of course," Holmes answered quickly. "After all, I imagine you must be ravenous."

"Good man," Watson said distantly, turning his gaze back toward the windows, though he could not see them any more than he could see the morning light filtering through them.

Holmes shuddered visibly. He could not imagine being trapped in so much darkness. The very idea made him ill. And for it to be Watson...

Taking hold of himself, Holmes rose from his seat. "Very well, then. I shall be back shortly."

"Thank you."

These quiet words were filled with something Holmes could at last identify; and he did not like it one bit. Fear, confusion, loss, pain, hopelessness. Not sure what, if anything, he could say that would not either wound the doctor's obviously sensitive state, or sound completely meaningless, Holmes turned to walk back down the ward. Rounding the corner of the doorway, he spied a movement out of the corner of his vision. Stopping, he turned back toward that lonely figure of his friend on that last bed at the farthest end of the ward.

Watson had pulled his knees up to his chest as far as his war wounded leg would allow. Folding his arms atop his knees, he laid his head down atop them. He watched as his friend, his partner, fell apart silently. His shoulders shook as he fought for mastery of his emotions. Holmes could not tell if there were tears, but knowing Watson as he did, he suspected those eyes were dry. But the aura of vulnerability in that moment tugged at his heart in a way that he could not ignore. For a moment, Holmes found himself battling the urge to return to his friend's side.

Watson had sent him away so he would not be seen in such a vulnerable, openly emotional state. Returning now would only make things worse, and likely very uncomfortable for both of them. Much as he wanted to do something for that lone figure across the room, he could not ignore his own helplessness in the situation. He never had developed any skill at dealing with emotions; not his own, or anyone else's. And displays of emotion from others only served to remind him of his own deficiencies.

But then his mind reminded him he had a task, a request to fulfill. Nodding to himself, he turned and silently made his way down the corridors and out of the hospital.