Sherlock didn't realize that he had fallen asleep until he woke up, his dreamless sleep disturbed by the alarming sounds of medical machines. He took some seconds to realize where he was, why he was there and what the noise could possibly mean. Appalled, Sherlock jumped up, but got entangled in the blanket which hadn't been there before, remembering Mycroft leaving the room, saying something about a pillow and a blanket, and wildly swore while he lost his patience, experiencing some difficulties to gain back his balance. The noises didn't make any sense, didn't fit to a cardiac arrest and not to breathing arrest – to the moment, when Sherlock managed to get rid of the blanket and looked at his friend who was ripping wires and hoses out of his arms and hands. Sherlock blinked in confusion, then hurried forwards, gripped Johns' wrists and shook his head to fortify his words. "No, John, stop it. John, stop it, come to your senses. John!" An elbow against the detective's jaw made him stumble backwards, loosing the grip on Johns' wrists.
Two male-nurses emerged from nowhere, weighing John down. At least they tried. The more force they used, the more strength John put in his resistance. Johns' moves, the look on his face, his eyes – they told a comprehensive story the detective easily read within seconds. Sadly, the nurses weren't able to read the man, actually, they didn't even try to. Instead, they went on pushing John down, tempting to administer a tranquilizer. Sherlock grabbed one nurse's arm and pulled the man backwards. "Leave him alone if you don't want to die, Patrick", he warned the man, glancing at the name tag.
Patrick dragged himself away and glared at Sherlock, his face reddened by the exercise. "Step back, we can handle the situation."
"A soldier, fighting for his life? I gravely doubt it. Let go of him and step back, both of you", Sherlock repeated his orders.
This time, the nurses listened. They stepped back and looked at Sherlock, concerned and suddenly a bit pale. "I'll fetch a security guard", Patrick whispered and paced backwards.
"No, you won't." Sherlock cocked his head and peered at his friend who sat in the bed, his muscles stretched to breaking point, his whole body shouting ready for attack. After a moment of silence, Sherlock harshly yelled: "Captain Watson! What the hell is going on! Did the sun burn the last piece of brain remained in your head! Answer me, Captain!" His heart winced at John's confused and lost eyes, watching his friend trying to put the pieces back together. After all, this John wasn't about to harm anyone. His shoulders slouching, the pale man sat on his bed and closed his eyes, desperately tempting to answer a question he didn't have the answer to.
"Excuse me, Sir ...", John quietly said, opening his eyes again.
"Excuse! My ass! Lay down and let those Corporals do their work, Captain, or I'll rip you a new one!"
John hesitated, briefly glanced at the nurses, but then cleared his throat and said: "Yes, Sir."
Patrick sighed in relief and paced to his patient to rewire him again. His colleague shook his head, sighed and mumbled: "I'll get Dr. Pearson, he has to recheck the sutures." While the door shut close behind the man, Sherlock leaned his back against the wall and watched Patrick patching his friend up who wasn't just keeping still, but dozed off. Blood stained the bandages on John's arm and hand, horripilation on his bare skin, cold sweat on his forehead. After a couple of minutes the sounds of the machines altered, switched from red alert to something calmer, yellowish. John's heart rate was elevated as well as his temperature and more blood kept percolating through the bandages.
When Dr. Pearson rushed in, Sherlock was told to leave the room. Reluctantly, Sherlock pushed off the wall and went outside, not only the room, but the clinic. He didn't plan to, but wasn't able to stop his feet from moving. He entered the clinic's garden, passed a group of chatting, smoking nurses and walked across the lawn until he reached a wooden bench. The detective watched the bench carefully, before he sat down and put his feet on the bench, bending his legs, embracing them with his arms. He laid his head on his knees and closed his eyes, concentrating on a solution to his still existing problem of a man wanting to capture, displace and interrogate him.
"Mr. Holmes, you should get back inside."
Sherlock opened his eyes and looked up, directly in Fraiser's worried face.
"Sir, you are shivering", the man quietly added, apologizing and explaining the reasons for bothering him.
Sherlock slowly nodded, put his feet on the ground and felt the coldness all over his body. Luckily, Fraiser had an eye on him and roused him from slumber before his sitting in the dark and cold night had unhealthy consequences. Sherlock pulled his coat and scarf tighter and started walking back to the clinic, accompanied by Fraiser. When he entered the clinic's warm and bright entrance hall, Sherlock squinted his eyes and inwardly groaned. The sudden warmth caused pain like thousands of sharp needles rushing over his skin.
They silently walked towards the elevator and went upstairs to John's room. The doors opened with a low pling and Fraiser looked down the corridor. "I'll get you a cup of tea, Sir."
Sherlock nodded, paced out of the elevator and to the only room with two black-suited security guards in front of it. He friendly ignored them and silently went inside the room. Almost every evidence of John's attempted escape was gone, but the remaining one was an eye-catcher.
"Stop staring, Sherlock. Unstrap me."
Sherlock noticed the slight annoyance and impatience in his friend's voice and briefly smiled. It was a good sign, wasn't it? If he had been sitting next to John all along, he would have been able to stop the nurses from immobilizing John by strapping him to the bed with soft belts, but at least that way John had no chance of doing something stupid; he simply had no other opportunity then keeping still and resting. Perhaps it would be the best for John's health, if ...
"Sherlock, don't you dare even thinking about letting me here like this! If you don't do this right now, I'm going to do it on my bloody own!"
Another smile rushed over Sherlock's face, before he stepped to John's bed and started to set him free. "You attacked the nurses", the detective said and glanced over the replaced bandages. They were white and clean, not the tiniest trace of blood.
"Apparently, not only them", John replied with a concerned look at Sherlock's bruised jaw. He pursed his lips, hesitated, but then added: "I'm sorry. I didn't intend to harm you."
"Au contraire. You definitely did." Sherlock finished unfastening John and sat down. Silence fell between them and Sherlock felt uncomfortable. He just didn't know what to tell John, much less how. He stood up again, paced to the window and looked out of the window. Stars sparkled in the dark sky, but besides them, nothing else from outside the building was visible. Instead, he saw a vague reflection of John, lying in his bed, staring at Sherlock's back.
"How did you do it?", John asked after a while.
"I faked my death by ..."
"No." John deliberately shook his head. "I'm not interested in this story."
"You just happened to ask about it." Maybe John was still a little bit confused, his thoughts incoherent. Sherlock examined John's reflection, but the stern look on his friend's face left no doubt: John was absolutely aware of his words. So, if John hadn't asked about how he faked his death ...
"He was going to kill me. They had the girl. And you. More then enough leverage. How did you convince them to let me live?"
"Actually, I only evolved your bluff. By the way, claiming the girl to be Mycroft's daughter – nice touch, John."
"Why do I get the sudden feeling that I won't like it?"
"It saved your life, didn't it?"
John sighed and laid his head down on the pillow. "Go ahead", he mumbled and closed his eyes.
"I put the idea of you being Mycroft's husband in his mind."
"Of course, you did … so instead of people stop talking about you and me, people are going to start talking about Mycroft and me. Marvelous." Suddenly, John raised an eyebrow. "Does Mycroft know about this? Please, just tell me you didn't tell him."
"I didn't tell him."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
"How did he take it? Let me guess: he was not amused."
"At least, this time wore my pants."
Both men started to giggle and Sherlock finally turned around, his hands in his pockets, tears of joy in his eyes. He dashed the tears away and looked at John who cleared his throat. "You know, I won't forget what you caused by not telling me. I won't let you off the hook that easily." He impishly smiled and added: "But I'm glad that you are back."
_The end : hope you enjoyed!_
