Apologies for the delay, I've been on vacation and working at a summer camp…hopefully this has been worth the wait!

-XXX-

A day later, somewhere around six in the morning, I receive a call. I blindly fish an arm out from beneath my duvet to reach for my cell, which is currently buzzing quite loudly on the nightstand. Grunting, I sit up, turning on the lamp as I answer groggily.

"Viola!" Mary Watson breathes. "Oh, thank God. It's Sherlock –"

"What?" Still not fully awake, I lean against the headboard.

"Sherlock's in the hospital. He's been shot."

Now I'm awake. For a minute, everything freezes. When I've finally processed her words with my sleep-addled brain, I speak slowly.

"What happened?"

"He and John," she says. "Being stupid. They were breaking into someone's office, and there was someone with a gun…oh, it's all very vague and messy."

"John," I say suddenly. "Is John alright?"

"He's fine," Mary reassures me, something in her voice breaking. "He wasn't in the room when they came across Sherlock, thank goodness. He's fine, just shaken."

Rising from the bed, I start towards the dresser, pulling out a pair of jeans and underwear. "H-how bad is it?" Now at the closet, I stare blankly at the blouses, sweaters, dresses and shoes. "Is he – Mary, will he be okay?"

She hesitates. "He's critical. He was dead for several minutes."

I gasp before she quickly cuts over me.

"But he's stable now. It was straight in the chest, Viola. He got help just in time, it could've been a lot worse. Listen, we're in the hospital now. You really should come down here. He'll be awake in a few hours and I think it would do him good to see you."

While I want to see Sherlock more than anything right now, there is something that stops me short. A barrier, of sorts, that I dare not approach.

"But Janine," I say. "They'll probably want time together, I don't want to intrude on that."

A certain tone enters Mary's voice. "Janine won't be a problem. I'm more than certain that they won't be seeing one another after this."

I've no clue what she means, but the force in her tone allows me to believe her without a doubt. Pulling on my jeans with one hand, listen as she instructs me as to where to meet her and John.

"I'll be there within an hour," I say, rushing to the kitchen to start some toast. "Please text me if anything changes."

"He won't wake up for at least another three hours," she says. "I'd bring some reading."

-XXX-

Thirty minutes later I'm ready – dressed, fed, and carrying a bag filled with reading materials . I'd had to force the toast down. It felt like sawdust, but I knew I would need the energy. My to-go mug of Earl Grey tastes little better. Still, I swallow it down like wine from the Holy Grail.

In the glass of the train window, I realize how very pathetic I look, with a baggy sweater, trainers, and red-rimmed eyes. Not the "so-hot-you-regret-breaking-up-with-me" look every ex strives for when meeting with their former significant other for the first time. But this isn't a party or dinner. Circumstances are very different. I doubt Sherlock will care what I'm wearing – though I have no doubt he'll analyze it.

At my stop I stumble onto the street, blinking back daylight. The hospital is still five blocks away. I need to get a little calmer before seeing John and Mary who are undoubtedly more shaken than me.

Once inside, it takes me sometime to find the waiting area where the Watsons have set up camp. I walk uneasily past nurses, peering into every room I pass with great trepidation. Finally I see them, arms cast around one another, sitting on uncomfortable waiting room chairs. Upon seeing me, both rise, Mary going in to hug me first. John is next. He appears very haggard.

"It's okay," he murmurs, squeezing me. "It's fine, he's fine."

I don't realize until Mary hands me a tissue from her bag that my face is wet with tears.

"I'm sorry, it just hit me now…oh, thank God you're alright, John!"

Mary leans up to press a kiss into her husband's cheek. "So am I."

"He's not awake yet, is he?" I wipe my eyes, sinking into one of the chairs across from theirs.

"Not yet. They'll tell us when."

In a few hours I have class. Mary and John convince me to go when Sherlock doesn't wake, telling me that they will text when he's able to receive visitors. I nervously part, knowing that the likelihood of me visiting will decrease greatly. He'll be fine, now. No need to see me.

-XXX-

"Oh, I'm sorry. I was told you were alone –"

The pretty woman with long chestnut hair – Janine – turns back to look at me. She blinks, confused. I back myself out to the hallway, making to close the door, cursing the nurse who gave me the okay to come on in. Sherlock's weary eyes lock onto mine before I can close the door.

"Viola. Stay," he commands.

"I was just leaving," Janine assures me, standing from the bed to offer the chair. "Please, come in. He could use your company."

I recognize her face. Not just from the wedding, but from the tabloid covers I saw in the gift shop only an hour or two ago. Recently her narrow features has been all over, bold letters ahead reading "Office Assistant Duped by Consulting Detective" or "He Was a Sleezebag: Janine Miller Speaks Out." I've recently seen promos on TV, too, promising exclusive interviews.

"Oh, no, I don't wish to interrupt." It had already taken a good deal of self-convincing to bring me down here – not to mention a number of pleading texts and phone calls from John after class. Seeing her is more than enough to show me that this was a terrible idea.

"No," she insists. "I was just saying goodbye, really. Come in."

Sherlock doesn't speak again as I move inside, but his eyes never flicker off of mine. Janine says a few soft words, hikes her purse onto her shoulder, and moves lightly past me, smiling. When she's gone, I stand with my back against the door, staring. In silence, we do little more than gaze at one another.

"Come here," he says softly.

I shake my head. "Fine here, thanks."

A sigh. "Viola."

"Funny that she's still coming to visit you after smearing your name across the media."

He looks away. "We had a few things to work out. There are no hard feelings."

"That's good." I do not mean to sound bitter.

Another sigh. "I did not expect you to come."

Behind my back, my hands curl to fists. "You were shot. Of course I came."

"How many times did John call you?" His brows rise.

"Four. But I still would've. I was here earlier, anyways. Mary called me this morning, right after you were brought in. I rushed down." Pushing myself off of the door, I move close to the bed, lowering myself onto the chair. "Despite your pig-headedness." I soften. "Sherlock. You almost died, you idiot."

He smiles mildly, looking back at me. "I knew it'd have to be quite the gesture to get you to come see me."

If he wasn't injured, I would have hit him. "Right," I say dryly. "Because it's not as though you proposed to Janine five minutes before you were shot. Just the romantic gesture every girl is looking for – expect, I'm not Janine, Sherl."

The detective visibly winces. "I can see you've spoken to John on matters besides my injury."

"Yes, and the poor bloke is out of his mind with worry. Drugs, Sherlock?" I shake my head. "I know you've probably been feeling a little neglected between your best mate's wedding and the baby, but if you need help – if you needed someone to talk to… I wouldn't have turned you away. Despite how angry I was."

"Was?"

"Am," I amend. "Because I am still very, very angry. Getting shot only tops it off, you know. What were you thinking? Was this about drugs?"

"No," he scoffs. "It was a case. It's all been around a case. Janine, the drugs, taking a break with you…."

"What case, Sherlock?"

He holds my gaze for a moment, calculating something. "Newspaper man. War of information….it's messy."

"I can tell," I say dryly, nodding to his chest, where his bandage is visible. "Are you going to be alright?""

"I will be." He says this as he's wincing, reaching for the morphine remote. "In time." There is a pause as he clicks the dial a few times. With a sigh, he sinks back onto the pillow. "Viola."

That's it. Simply my name. I stare at him, waiting, as he stares back openly. Impassive as ever. I have neither the energy nor the patience to attempt to decode what he might possibly be thinking. After several painfully awkward moments, I speak.

"I'm glad you're alright," I say quietly.

"As am I."

"Don't be a prick for a minute!" I glare. "For God's sake, Sherlock Holmes, you nearly died."

"But I didn't." He opens a hand. "I am glad to see you."

I accept the open palm, intertwining my fingers with his spidery digits. "And I you. Prick."

Sherlock grins sleepily. The morphine is kicking in. He turns his head to the window. "I didn't want to break up with you," he assures me, sounding far away. "But I needed to get Janine's trust, and I knew you wouldn't understand."

"You broke up with me to date her?"

He nods. "I needed her."

I frown, pressing his hand to my cheek. He normally doesn't allow for the level of contact. "If you'd explained, I would have understood," I tell him quietly.

"I couldn't count on that," he breathes. "Love makes people all kinds of ridiculous. And it was safer for you, anyways, if we were less associated."

"Safer how? From who?"

"Mmmm, Magnussen."

I touch his face, turning his head so that I might see his eyes. They're just slightly unfocused. Stroking his cheek, I lean down to kiss him lightly. "Who is Magnussen, Sherlock?"

He blinks. "We're not broken anymore?" he whispers. "Viola?"

I want to hesitate, but I don't give myself a chance. I can have second doubts and be angry with him later. "If you want."

"Good," he sighs. Sherlock is nearly completely gone when he lifts his head to brush my lips with a second kiss. The monitor beeps faintly when his heartbeat speeds up. I run one hand overs his mussed curls, pressing my forehead to his.

"Sleep. I'll see you tomorrow, okay? John and Mary are waiting to see you, but I'll tell them you're too tired." I kiss our combined hands, knowing that he hates such things, but doing it for my own sake. I stand, picking up my purse.

In his sleep, Sherlock looks moderately more relaxed. I smooth his forehead with one hand, pressing a final kiss on his cheek – something I've missed doing for almost two months. We won't simply fall back into old patterns – we can't, not again, not after a second estrangement. But this is something of a start. We are, at the very least, on a better footing than before. I leave, feeling a little lighter than when I came in.

-XXX-

The next evening I return to find that he's moved rooms. Concerned, I skid into the new room breathlessly, fully anticipating a more-critical Sherlock. Instead, I find him sitting up, dining on what appears to be a terrible tray of a grey Salisbury steak in an even grey-er gravey, peas, milk, and a Jell-o cup. He looks up when I enter, lifting a forkful of hamburger in greeting. A slightly exasperated John, who sits in the chair beside Sherlock's hospital bed, also lifts a hand. I approach warily.

"What's all this? When they told me they'd changed your room I thought you'd been upgraded to 'more-than-nearly-dead.'"

"Mmmh, nearly," Sherlock says before stabbing at his peas. "This is quite terrible."

"I'd expect so, yeah." I frown. "What do you mean, 'nearly?'"

"He means," John says wearily. "That your boyfriend decided to break out for a few hours yesterday and gave himself a bit internal bleeding."

Turning to Sherlock, I suppress the urge to slap him heartily. "Why in the bloody hell would you do that?"

"I had business to attend to," he replies vaguely. "Open this, would you?" He indicates the Jell-o with a wave. "Sick."

I pull up the tin lid without a word, slamming the plastic cut upon the tray when I've finished. He pointedly glances at me. I turn to John, having made the decision to defer all health-related questions to him. The poor man not only looks exhausted but a touch angry as well. Something tugs the corners of his mouth down unhappily. It strikes me that something beyond his best friend's second potential death in three years could be bothering him. I choose not to ask, knowing that he'll bring it up in time if he wishes.

"How is he? Stable?"

"Yeah. Called an ambulance, just in time. Ought to be out in about another four days or so."

Lightly, I hit Sherlock's shoulder. "You great git. The next time you need to pick up a paper let us know, eh? Don't rip out all of your surgeon's work."

"If he'd done good work I wouldn'tve suffered through internal bleeding only three hours out," the detective murmurs.

"They didn't stitch you up to send you back out to run about, Sherlock!" I sink to the foot of his bed, jostling his feet. "Don't be so stupid, please. I doubt any of us could take you nearly-dying again."

He sighs. "Very well. For the moment."

"Do you think you could handle four days without getting too bored?"

"I'll managed," he says.

I hardly believe him. With a sigh, I settle on the end of the bed. John rises, straightening his jacket.

"Now that you're here, I'll head out." He nods to both of us. As he walks out, I call back softly.

"Thank you, John. From both of us. And please tell Mary hello and thank you for me."

Something flashes over the young Doctor's face. Disgust. Discomfort. Anger. I nearly recoil from surprise. Then, it's gone, masked.

"Yeah," he says. "I will."

Then he leaves. After I'm sure he is well out of earshot, I turn to Sherlock.

"Is there something going on?" I ask delicately.

Sherlock doesn't look up from his dessert. "There's always something going on, Viola."

Impatient, I shake my head. "I mean with John and Mary. He seemed a little off…you know?"

"Every marriage has its struggles," he says, poking the red gelatin. "Even theirs. Especially in times such as these."

I narrow my eyes. "Sherlock Holmes, did you do something to John and Mary? Deduct some terrible secrets?"

He doesn't answer, choosing instead to push back his tray. "Ah, what I would give for some actual meat."

I choose to let my curiosity pass. "You must be truly injured," I say, amused. "I've never heard you verbally desire food before."

"The extremes I am pushed to," he laments.

With his dinner out of the way, I move to lay beside him on the bed. He scoots when I force him – not happily – and allows me to set my head on the pillow beside his. He laces fingers with mine when I offer forth a hand. I begin dozing off, glad that these last two emotionally draining and thoroughly terrifying days, feeling moderately relaxed for the first time in forty-eight hours.

"You called in to work?"

"Yeah," I murmur sleepily. The concern is unusual. I choose to appreciate it.

A short pause, then Sherlock turns his head to me. I can feel him shifting against the pillow. "You're mad with me."

"Not at the moment. But as soon as you're well again, you bet."

I can practically feel him smile. "Very well then."

-XXX-

And so all is resolved and forgiven!...or not. We've still got a ways to go!

Thank you, as always, for reading, and reviews would be smashing!