November 25, 10am

When John awoke again, the world came back to him much more quickly than his first attempt. He blinked a few times. The light in the room was different. That same monotonous beeping - a heart rate monitor, he now realised. He still hurt, but it was duller. He managed a whisper.

"Sherlock?"

"John."

He tilted his head to the left a little, and his eyes found Sherlock sitting in a chair by his bedside. God, he looked terrible. He was still dressed in his suit and coat. Dark circles hung beneath his eyes, and never mind pale - his skin looked positively grey. His dark curls hung lank over his face. Despite all this, a small smile reached his eyes when he saw John awake.

"You -" His voice was a croak, his throat dry as a crisp. He swallowed before trying again. "You look bloody awful."

Sherlock exhaled shortly through his nose and one side of his mouth pulled up into a half-smile - as close to a laugh as was appropriate for a hospital bedside when your partner had been beaten to a pulp. At any rate, he was clearly reassured by John's ability to curse. He raised his eyebrow at John in a look that said I look awful? I should get you a mirror. Instead, his lips twitched back down to a position of concern and he became serious again.

"I've been waiting for you to wake." His hand reached out to rest on John's. His thumb smoothed over the skin. It was comforting. This was more intimate than they had ever been without a closed door between them and the rest of the world. Neither of them was a fan of public displays of affection - and even then, it wasn't as though they were ever overly affectionate in private either. They were forty-ish-year-old men, for goodness' sake (not that anybody who looked at Sherlock would know it - the git still managed to still look about five years younger than he actually was). Occasional touches of fingers to hair or shoulders were about as lovey-dovey as it got. Then again, as John looked around slowly, he realised that they did have a closed door between them and the rest of the world. He was in a private room. It seemed that Mycroft's name not only opened doors; it could close them too, if necessary.

"How long have I been out?"

"About fifteen hours. It's 10am," he paused. Concern wrinkled his usually smooth features and he studied John's face seriously. "How do you feel?"

"Like I've had the shit beaten out of me."

Sherlock grimaced, and silence fell between them. They sat like that for a few minutes, Sherlock's thumb still stroking the back of John's hand.

"Sherlock, how did you find me?"

Despite John's less-than-ideal state, Sherlock still couldn't resist rolling his eyes, although he lacked most of his usual attitude. "Please, John, I've had the homeless network tracking your every move since this whole thing began. As soon as you got into that car, I knew."

"Moran said he wanted revenge."

"Yes. He knew he was due to be arrested. He knew he didn't have much time."

"And, er, I assume that it's all... been sorted?"

"Yes. I was careful. No physical evidence. Nobody can trace it back to me. You'll have to give a statement, of course, but you were unconscious the whole time so there's not much you can say, really, is there? I pulled in a favour from some of the homeless network. The police are currently looking for a six-foot dark-skinned bald man wearing a raincoat and jeans that some hobos apparently saw go into the building where you were about the time Moran was killed. Moran had enemies - I'm not surprised one of them was following him. The killer must have run away just before I found you." Sherlock's tone was perfectly normal, but it was clear what he was really saying.

Silence fell again. When John spoke next, it was a whisper.

"Have you ever done that before?"

Sherlock feigned ignorance, jerking an eyebrow upwards.

"Done what?"

John just raised his eyebrows. Sherlock relented.

"No."

"Sherlock," John fixed him with as concerned a stare as he could pull together. "Are you okay? I mean, you killed a man. Snapped his neck. That's not something that just happens. It's natural to be bothered by it."

He knew the words brought back memories for the detective too. For a second, Sherlock even looked like he was tempted to say "Yes, but he wasn't a very nice man," just as John had the first time he killed for Sherlock, but he seemed to catch himself. His lips twitched as though he was trying not to laugh. Not particularly bothered by it, then, John thought. Sherlock collected himself, then fixed John with a rare look of complete sincerity. That miniscule smile meeting his eyes again. His hand squeezed John's.

"John, there is no realm of hell to which I would not gladly travel for you."