Sherlock awoke to an alarmingly thunderous cough erupting from deep within John's chest.
"Squeeze my hand if you're alright." Sherlock sat up, grasping John's hand. John continued to cough violently; his lips were a little blue. John continued coughing, and did not squeeze Sherlock's hands.
"I'm taking you to the emergency room, John." Sherlock had kept his clothes on from the previous night, and he had not removed John's pants when tucking him in the night before. John stopped coughing, but was barely breathing. Sherlock grabbed a jumper off the floor for John and helped him up. John doubled over and vomited.
"Shit," Sherlock exhaled.

Sherlock carried John down the stairs and stood him on the footpath. John continued to cough and promptly leaned over and vomited into the flowerbeds on the street. Sherlock held John up and sat him in the car before speeding off to the hospital. John barely stopped coughing all the way to the hospital. Upon arrival, Sherlock flung John's doors open and carried him to triage. Before Sherlock had a chance to say anything, the triage nurse looked up, saw the state of John and beeped them through to the bays containing beds.
"Pneumonia. He has been hypotensive, he's been tachycardic, and feverish," Sherlock informed the doctor who had met them on the other side of the door they'd been pushed through. After strapping a mask to John's blueing face, the nurse swiftly started an IV in his hand.
"Sir, we're going to need you to step out, please. The waiting area is just out to your left." Another staff member pushed Sherlock out and closed the curtain. Sherlock, overwhelmed by his senses being overstimulated, began stimming with his hands. He took a deep breath and went to the waiting room and went to his mind palace, seeking a way to calm himself.

'John. Pneumonia. Lung infection. Symptoms: Hypotension, cough, vomiting, tachycardia. Heart, symbolism of; Love. Love. He loves me; he'll be okay. He's an idiot...'
Sherlock was jolted into reality after an indiscernible amount of time to Sherlock by a woman in scrubs (an ICU Nurse Sherlock deduced by the colour of her scrubs and the tools she kept with her.) with what Sherlock identified as fresh phlegm and vomit on the collar.

"Are you with Mr Watson?" She asked.
"Doctor Watson and yes."
"We've got him sorted. He'll stay in the ICU for two or three nights, with intravenous antibiotics to sort him out. He can then be taken home with oral antibiotics. We've got him on oxygen; he's having a hard time breathing right now."
"Take me to him, will you?" Sherlock asked intensely.

The nurse led him through some normal looking corridors before reaching a sinister looking set of double doors. From a dispenser on the wall, the nurse acquired some antibacterial alcohol hand wash and gestured for Sherlock to do the same. He complied and the nurse walked more slowly, leading Sherlock into one of the few large bays in which the seriously ill resided, each endowed with a wealth of not-so-standard equipment. John lay motionless, not so blue any more, thankfully. He looked small amongst the myriad of monitors and machines making John's existence less strenuous on his body. Jesus Christ, how'd it all turn into this?
Sherlock reached up to John's free hand and held it.

"We knocked him out so he'd stop coughing so much. He'll be up in a few hours, but morning visiting hours are over soon."
Sherlock nodded to her and had started to formulate how he could manipulate the staff into letting him stay. Sherlock sent a text to Greg, who called back.
"Sherlock, is he alright?" Greg asked, out of breath.
"Don't know. Should be fine. I brought him in this morning, after he turned blue."
"Jesus Christ" Greg responded.
"I think they're going to try to kick me out soon. Come visit and help me manipulate the nurses? I sent you some files the other night about the case with which you requested assistance."
"Sure. I'll be there in an hour, okay?"
"Excellent."
Sherlock remained at John's side and spent the time he was essentially alone considering the case of John's shooting and the letters.

Greg shook Sherlock awake.
"Oh, hello," Sherlock slurred, succumbed to the inertia of waking from a deep sleep.
"I had one of the nurses tell me where to go, and she said she tried to wake you an hour ago, but she couldn't, and that you seemed alive enough, apparently, so she just, sort of left you there." Greg said, his hand resting on Sherlock's back.
Sherlock saw the small damp spot he'd left on the sheets from where his head had come to rest.
"What time is it?" Sherlock asked.
"It's about midday. I'm late, I know."
Sherlock stood, stretching to his fullest, appearing to Greg to take up most of the room.
"Will he be alright?" Greg inquired.
"I'm certain of it." Sherlock assured.
Greg took a deep breath, and on exhalation he seemed to expel all the tension in his body as he sunk into a chair.
"How'd dinner with Molly go?"
"Really well, actually. It was our third date and we're going to do it again. Don't underestimate her, Sherlock, she's ferocious." Greg smiled wistfully.
"It's your fourth date and I am fully aware of her capabilities." Sherlock assured Greg. After flaunting her own perceptiveness to Sherlock, Molly had become of even higher regard for her mental capabilities in Sherlock's eyes.
"She's bloody brilliant, she is." Greg stated, completely enamoured.
"Yes. Now, have you sourced the place of origin for the letters?"
"Yeah, the post office two blocks from 221B."
"They'll confront us directly soon enough, surely. They'll run out of patience soon." Sherlock said.
"Don't seem so sure; if they think you're on edge about it, they'll stretch it out. After all, the fear of something is generally far more crippling than the thing itself."
"When'd you get smart, Greg? When you stopped hanging around Anderson, I suppose."
"He's not that bad, Sherlock."
"Wrong."

"Stop bickering." John croaked
"John," Sherlock exhaled, as he kissed John on the forehead.
"Hey, Greg. Come to keep him out of trouble?"
"God knows not even he can do that."
"Shush, you," Sherlock said to no one in particular, brushing an errant curl from John's forehead. His hair had been getting a little shaggy lately. Sherlock liked it that way.
"Coffee, Sherlock?" Greg asked.
"That'd be wonderful," he responded. Greg meandered out of the room.
"Please stop nearly dying. You're not allowed to until we're at least ninety-ish, alright?" Sherlock asked, now visibly shaken.
John smiled warmly at the love of his life.
"I'll never leave you, Sherlock."
"Better not; you're much more fun than drugs, I must admit."
"Good to know, Sherly." John sighed.
Sherlock watched the monitors showing John's vital signs, making it easy for Sherlock to make more entries to his study of John.
"Don't look at those, look at me." John pleased. Sherlock hesitated before responding, with the constant beeping of the aforementioned monitors piercing the silence.
"They are you. It's handy information to have."
"Well get it your usual way." John said, giving his wrist to Sherlock, who curled his pastel fingers around John's wrist which bounced with each heartbeat.
"Better?"
"Definitely."

Greg returned with two fresh steaming coffees.
"Excellent. Thanks."
"You're welcome."

Sherlock kept one hand on John's wrist and held his coffee in the other. A nurse strode in and upon seeing a conscious John, her expression softened,
"Good to see you awake, Doctor Watson. You've been sent a few lots of flowers, but you can't actually have them in the ICU, so we can either send them to your house, or if you'd prefer, they can be donated to the children's ward, or to those of new single mothers."
"Donate them, do you think, Sherlock?" John asked. Sherlock nodded
"Thank you." John said.
"I'll go get the cards from them, for you." The nurse said, heading out the door. She returned merely seconds later, brandishing three little envelopes. She handed them to John, but before he had a chance to read them, the nurse took off his oxygen mask, switching it for a nasal cannula in stead.
"Thanks." John smiled.

John opened the cards. One was from Mycroft, dearly apologising for likely being the cause of John's infection. Another was from Mrs Hudson, which was very sweet – her handwriting was beautiful. The third, however, was printed using stamps and it read 'Waiting for you; getting impatient.'. John's heart began to race even more. With Sherlock's finger on his pulse and with the monitors on, it was obvious. The monitors started making a raucous at John's dangerously high heart rate. It had been merely seconds before four staff rushed in to survey John. Sherlock jumped out of the way, grabbing the cards from John and shoving them in his pocket. One of the staff pressed a few buttons on one of the monitors which caused the machine to automatically take John's blood pressure. Another staffer checked oxygen levels going into the mask; another flashed a light into John's eyes; the last staffer was checking IV fluids.

"John, what's wrong?" Flashlight-using-doctor asked. John said nothing, the monitors still causing a ruckus; he closed his eyes, leaned his head back and tried to breathe. Before Sherlock realized what he was doing, his hand drifted back into his pocket and pulled out the cards form the flowers. He read them all, and handed the causal card to Lestrade.
"Shit." Greg said quietly.
"John, it's okay. Truly, it's fine. Calm down." Sherlock tried to soothe his love.
The staff stood, stumped at John. Sherlock thrust his coffee toward Greg, glided over to the bed, he held John's face in his hands and spoke in a measured and even tone.
"John Hamish Watson, take a deep breath, from here" He moved one hand down to where John's diaphragm would be. "and listen to me. Everything will be fine. Right now, you're sick. You will get better soon and we will get these people. Alright?" he finished slowly. Sherlock moved his hands to hold one of John's. John breathed as deeply as was possible and started to calm down. His unbelievably deep blue eyes which were widened in fear began to relax. Once John had completely calmed down, the staff rechecked his pupil responses and his blood pressure. After discussing the episode, they decided that Sherlock could come and go as he pleased if he could avoid disturbing other patients in the ICU. Sherlock reclaimed his coffee from Greg, who sat down in the chair on the other side of John's bed. Greg had paled significantly; he was shaken.
"Just breathe, Greg." Sherlock muttered.
"Shh." He responded.
"Make me." Sherlock replied cheekily.
"John, between Mycroft and me, we can protect you both. You really don't need to worry." Greg comforted John, squeezing one of his hands.
"I'm incredibly lucky to have you lot." John said calmly, with the monitors still beeping uncomfortably fast.
"Well, we're all an unlikely family, but it works." Sherlock imparted.
Greg's phone went off.
"Ugh. I've gotta go." Greg sighed angrily.
"Bloody Anderson." Sherlock spat. John laughed at Sherlock who ferociously resented the 'useless fool'. It was endearing to see Sherlock so passionate about a person, even if it was negative.
"Thanks for coming, Greg. I'll text you later, yes?" Sherlock said.
"I'll see you both later." Greg said, leaning down and kissing John on the cheek. He grabbed on of Sherlock's hands and squeezed it in support before leaving.
A nurse at the desk of the ICU who was always visible (glass walls make monitoring the patients very simple) came in to John's room upon seeing Greg leave.
"Hi, John. We're thinking that if your O2 stats climb a little higher and we can get your blood pressure and heart rate sorted a little more, we'll send you home in two days' time with some oral antibiotics. Sound good?" she said cheerily.
"Great," John said hoarsely. The nurse nodded and skipped off to attend to things elsewhere. John took a good look at Sherlock since first waking. He was almost ethereal looking, with the coffee, likely to be the first thing Sherlock had consumed since the night before John was admitted, colouring his cheeks, and purple bags under his usually flawless eyes stained his face. Sherlock was still wearing his pyjamas from that night, and also one of John's jumpers, which was bewildering. Sherlock, noticing John sizing him up, spoke.
"Shush. I brought it for you, I had nowhere to put it and I was cold." He said indignantly.
"It suits you." John smiled.
"Shush. It smells like you. You don't smell like you right now; one of us had to."
John was taken aback by Sherlock's comment. After the fall, each man having lost one another, they realised they had lost themselves, and since rebuilding themselves together, Sherlock had become much more outwardly loving.
"John?"
"You're an idiot."