Hello again!

Once more, a little bit later than I had planned. I am sorry.

Enjoy.

Dying Like That Is Stupid

10

Reassured

John woke in the next morning to someone shaking his shoulder, softly.

"Breakfast," a nurse announced.

Breakfast.

Surfacing to wakefulness very slowly, John realised that the oxygen mask was still on his face, that the heart monitor was still beeping, and that the IV line was still in place. And that Greg wasn't here either.

"I need to…," he began, fumbling for the mask with clumsy fingers.

"You need to eat," the nurse told him and assisted him. "A doctor will be here to talk to you in a few minutes."

"No!" John protested, doing his best to sort his thoughts. Sherlock, complications, warming, stable, breathing… Greg, where was Greg? "I need to…," he tried once more. "Where's my friend? Grey hair, police officer?"

"Having breakfast?" she suggested, gesturing towards the tray. "Eat."

John had no choice - he was too weak to get to his feet on his own, he had discovered, and was as well still attached to the heart monitor and hindered by the IV line and an urine catheter, impossible to get rid of with his bandaged and itching fingers - but to wait and complicatedly try to eat, his stomach clenching in fear.

Finally, a man, doctor, apparently, came in, didn't allow John to interrupt him and instead told him about how lucky he had been, about his body core temperature upon admittance, about his collapse, about frostbite of second degree, about how lucky he had been…

John didn't even pay attention.

"When can I leave?" was the first thing he uttered as soon as the other man had finished.

"In a few days, you should be recovered enough to…," the doctor began, scribbling something down.

"No," John interrupted him. "I need to see someone, it's…"

"Not possible, I'm afraid. You need rest."

And with that, John was left on his own once more.

By the time Greg returned, dark bags beneath his eyes and unshaven, John was fidgetting in his bed, barely resisting the urge to scratch his fingers and toes and ears and nose, or to pull out the IV. The electrodes, thankfully, had been removed by the doctor.

"How's Sherlock?" was his first question.

"He's stable, John, I told you…"

Hearing was definitely not enough, John decided. "Greg, you need to help me. I need to see him. Get a wheelchair or something…"

"I don't think that's a good idea…," Greg began, frowning. Seconds later, he shook his head and grinned. "Oh, sod it."

John was sweating by the time they had reached the ICU ward, sweating although he did nothing else but sitting in a wheelchair, wearing nothing but a hospital gown and socks, his hands bandaged, his feet bandaged, his nose and face feeling… uncomfortably hot.

Frostbite, he remembered the doctor's words hazily, it would take a while until he could use his hands normally again, but they would be fine.

John didn't even insist on getting to his feet as soon as they had arrived outside of Sherlock's room - he didn't think his itching feet could bear the strain.

"The patient's sleeping," a nurse had told them. "Woke for a bit a while ago. Best not to disturb him."

Sleeping. Woke for a bit.

John had seen Sherlock sleep a few times - inevitable when one shares a flat -, but he had never looked so… dead while sleeping.

His pallidness had not disappeared yet, his nose and lips had not yet resumed their normal colour, his heartbeat, displayed by a monitor, was still too slow.

John exhaled, not taking his eyes from his best friend.

Suddenly, John felt a hand on his shoulder, a comforting hand. "Don't worry," Greg told him huskily.

He did worry, of course, when he indeed got the opportunity to talk to a doctor who told him that they had treated Sherlock with warmed IV fluids and humidified oxygen, with warmed peritoneal lavage, had needed dialysis because of acute renal failure, that his kidneys were improving, according to the levels of electrolytes in his urine, that it had been close for a while, that they had discovered fluids in his lungs, but had the situation under control, that his room had far more than average temperature, that he had suffered second degree frostbite which was likely to heal with minimal tissue damage.

He suddenly found he was rather relieved that he had been unconscious during that period of time, that he had not been in the position to witness all of it, or to anxiously wait for news.

And yet, as he kept staring at his best friend's prone form and the tubes around him, he couldn't help it, relief suddenly overwhelming him, relief and joy and… he simply started giggling. After a few moments, Greg hesitantly joined in.

John was completey out of breath by the time Greg insisted on taking him back to his room, not ready to leave Sherlock yet, but for once knowing that he needed sleep, and that there was nothing he could do, nothing he had to do.

No other complications, so far. A bunch of luck.

Sherlock would be OK. Probably.

Of course he would.

OK.

"Greg," John croaked, doing his best to turn around in the wheelchair. Greg, without whose actions he would not be here right now. Sherlock would not be. "Thank you."

"I think I'm going back to the hotel, if you don't mind," Greg told John as soon as he had settled back in bed, surprisingly tired and thankful for the cosy warmth. "A bit more comfortable than hospital chairs."

John nodded, stifling a yawn. "Sure," he replied.

Greg grinned awkwardly for a moment.

"Listen, Greg…," John began again, trailing off when a thought suddenly occurred to him. "Oh God, I need to call Mary!"

Greg's grin flickered. "Want my phone?" he asked.

John rubbed a hand over his face and sighed. "No… It's early in the morning, she'll be at work…" Suddenly, he understood the full meaning of Greg's words. "Wait, your phone?"

"Yeah," Lestrade agreed. "Made sure you and Sherlock were… well, alive, then headed back to the hotel for a moment, to change my clothes, and grab my charger." He pointed towards the power socket next to the door. "Wanted to be prepared for anything that might still happen," he explained.

John could simply stare at him for a moment, not knowing what to think. Greg kept grinning, and suddenly, John felt as if at least one half of the enormous weight had been lifted from his shoulders and his chest. He began to giggle once more - and could not stop.

"Alright," he managed to breathe finally, already feeling a tiny bit light-headed. "Alright…"

Greg shook his head, as if unbelieving. "God, John," he mumbled. "We made it, eh? We truly made it."

John nodded, gasping for breath.

Greg ran a hand through his hair. "That could have ended bloody differently," he added darkly.

John did no longer want to think about that, really didn't. "It's OK," he told Greg, yawning involuntarily. "Because you managed to find help…"

"With a lot of luck," Greg replied. "If I hadn't…"

Then he would not be here right now, and even if, not with Sherlock. John shuddered. "It's fine," he repeated, remembering Sherlock as he had looked a few minutes ago. Alive. Really alive.

Greg shrugged and seemed to collect himself. "Sorry," he mumbled. "Anything you need when I come back in the evening?" he wanted to know, trying to find his usual casual behaviour.

Need… "Clothes," John answered. "Anything you can find, just… something else than this… hospital gown."

"Sure," Greg replied, slowly getting up from his chair. "I'll be back then," he stated.

John nodded, sleepily by now, trying to find a comfortable position with the annoying IV in the back of his hand.

"See you, John," he heard Greg's voice from the distance.

"Mh," he murmured, still feeling this overwhelming relief, tinged with worry.

They had made it, indeed. Sherlock had.

Thank you for reading.

A bit of a filler chapter, I know. Nonetheless, I felt like having to cover some things, so this happened.

Feedback would, of course, still be appreciated.