Walking off the unit for a breath of fresh air some time later, he saw Mary running up the stairs, as soon as he walked out the door. She looked worried. He had forgotten in all of his relief - he'd forgotten that she cared about Sherlock too and would have been just as worried as he had been.

'He's only bloody woken up,' John told her, as soon as she was within hearing distance 'He's pulled through.'

'Really? Seriously?'

'But you, Mrs Watson, you're in big trouble.'

'Really? Why?'

'His first word when he woke up? 'Mary!''

He laughed at her expression of bemusement, and when she hugged him, he felt an echo of his own overwhelming sense of relief. Sherlock was going to be okay. He was alive. There was no greater gift than this.

'Can I go in to see him?' Mary asked as she finally pulled away. 'If he's been asking for me?'

John shook his head. 'He's asleep again. Later though, you could go back and see him later.'

'I might just do that,' Mary said.

...

John and Mary went for surprisingly good coffee in the ubiquitous coffee shop in the foyer, then went back to see Sherlock. He was still asleep, and looked likely to remain so for some time.

'I might pop into work,' John told Mary. 'Just for a few hours. I've got some admin to catch up on.'

'Appease the guilt a bit, you mean?' Mary said.

'It's what the NHS is based on isn't it?' John said with a grin. 'Guilt and good-will. Without that, the whole thing would crumble. What are you going to do for the rest of the day?'

'Bit of shopping maybe. I'm bursting out of all of my clothes. Might have to bite the bullet and buy some fat person ones.'

'Maternity clothes, you mean, I believe that's the technical term.'

'What I said. See you back here later?'

'Absolutely. I should be finished by four, so see you back here fiveish? Then we could go for dinner in Chinatown afterwards.'

'Perfect,' she said kissing him. And then they walked hand in hand to the tube station, where he took left Mary to take the Jubilee line towards Covent Garden, while he took the District and Circle back to the surgery.

John spent a pleasant afternoon at the surgery. As a locum he had been concerned that he might have blotted his copybook by taking time off, but his colleagues greeted his return with genuine pleasure, and he was brought endless cups of coffee as he ploughed through the stacks of results, and correspondence that had piled up in his absence. He left a little after four with a clear conscience, and a promise to return bright and early on Monday, for the joys of the usual post-weekend packed surgery.

Arriving back at The London, he texted Mary, and was checking his phone for a reply, when he bumped into her coming out of Intensive Care.

'I thought you were going to wait for me?' he said, surprised.

'I got here early, got bored of shopping. Turns out maternity clothes are all stuck in the 1970's - did you know that? I mean, they genuinely still have dungarees in those places. What's that all about? So, rather than depress myself even further by buying normal clothes that I won't be able to fit into for the next six months, I thought I might as well come back and see if Sherlock was awake.'

'So you've seen him.'

'Briefly. He seems pretty doped up, John. What on earth have they got him on?'

'Fentanyl, I think. And then all of the propofol and midazolam that they've had him on will still be floating round in his system. Did he talk to you?'

'Not really. He said my name, looked a bit confused, and then went back to sleep.'

'Did they update you on how he was doing?'

'I didn't ask too much. I thought I'd wait for you." She bit her lip, 'He looks like crap, John,' she said quietly. 'So many tubes, and drains, and -'

'Hey, hey,' he said, pulling her into a hug, 'He'll be okay. He'll be fine now. You know that.'

'What if he'd died John?'

'But he didn't,' John murmured into her hair, still holding her close. 'You can't live with 'what ifs' Mary, they'll drive you mad. I was the world expert at those, remember? You can only deal with the here and now. And Sherlock is alive, and he's going to get better. And that's all that any of us need to know for now.'

Mary nodded and pulled away. 'You're right, you're right,' she said. 'I just - don't like hospitals. Too many bad memories.'

'You're a nurse!' John said. 'How can you not like hospitals?'

'Hence my decision to work in the community,' she said. 'But I mean I don't like them from the other side. From the patient and relative side.'

Mary didn't like talking about her parents, about what had happened to them, but John knew that her bad memories of hospitals were related to their deaths seven years ago, only six months apart. But there was likely to be another need for a hospital visit in the next few months. Now probably wasn't the time to address that, but - sod it.

'So...,' he said, staring meaningfully at her bump.

'Home birth,' she said briskly. 'Don't mind do you?' Then with a smirk. 'I though we could install one of those giant inflatable birthing pools in the middle of the living room and get an underwater video camera. Actually that's not a bad idea...'

She laughed at his expression of horror. 'I'm joking John. Truth is, I haven't really thought about it. We can talk about it at another time. Look do you mind if I head home? I'm tired, too much shopping, I think, and I don't think I really want to see Sherlock again like that. Not today, anyway'

'No, of course not. Take a cab though will you? You look tired.'

'There's a thin line between concern and control, you know that?' she said, then kissing him on the cheek. 'I'm pregnant, not ill. I'll be fine on the tube. I'll see you later.'

Sherlock was still sleeping when he got back to the unit, so he went to find James in his office for an update. The news was good. The pericardial drain was out, there was no evidence of any further bleeding, the chest drain was clamped and could probably come out the next day. He was off inotropes, and his renal function was picking up. It was all very much going the right way.

'We've got him into a side room on the unit,' James said. 'But if all goes well, we could get him into the private wing tomorrow.'

'That soon?' John asked, surprised.

'No reason to keep him on here once we're sure that he's stable off the ventilator and the inotropes. We'd normally suggest 24 hours in HDU as a step down, but, well Sherlock's brother is extremely keen, shall we say, for Sherlock to be moved to a private room.'

'Security again?'

'He has - concerns, shall we say, about the number of people coming in and out of the critical care complex.'

'And has he suggested putting lights and sound into the room you've got lined up for Sherlock yet?'

'I believe that it's been suggested,' James said wryly, '- and thankfully rejected in no uncertain terms by our head of security as an unacceptable invasion of privacy. The security guards on the door to the unit, and the ones he's got lined up to stand outside Sherlock's door once he's on the private wing should be enough. Still, under the circumstances, his concern isn't exactly surprising. Any news on the identity of the shooter?'

'Not really,' John said. 'Nothing concrete anyway. The police are still working on the assumption that Sherlock was the accidental victim.'

'But you're not so sure?' James asked.

'Sherlock doesn't believe in chance,' John said. 'Nor do I. I'm just hoping that when he's a bit more awake, he'll be able to tell us himself.'

'His brother tried that earlier,' James said. 'No joy. He's fairly sleepy on the doses of fentanyl that he's needing to keep him comfortable though. We're going to switch to morphine overnight, see how he does on that.'

'Is that wise?' John asked. 'With the history of abuse, I mean. What about a thoracic epidural, would that be an option?'

'It's still opiates, though. And given how close the bullet tract came to the spinal cord, I'd rather not if we can avoid it. There's no evidence of any neurological damage that we can tell, but we'd rather know if he's going to run into any problems.'

'Haematoma?' John asked, his brain clicking through the possibilities.

'It's unlikely at this point, nothing showed on the CT on day one, but with an injury like that, the risk of delayed bleeding is always there. The morphine as a background infusion and a PCA is our safest bet.'

'You do realise that he'll have the code on the pump cracked, and be turning up the infusion rate himself within about three minutes?' John said. 'Better be prepared to think laterally.'

...

Walking into ITU ten minutes later, he found Mycroft sitting next to Sherlock's bed. Sherlock was lying still, eyes closed, breathing slow and even, pretending to be asleep. John wondered if Mycroft was fooled.

'Still asleep?' John asked.

'Apparently so.'

'Did you get any sense out of him?'

'He woke up briefly earlier, acknowledged my presence, and then strangely enough when I asked him about the identity of the shooter, he became overtaken by drowsiness, and has remained uncommunicative ever since.'

'Ah.' John said,

'Ah, indeed.' Mycroft looked at his watch. 'I have a meeting to attend. See what you can get out of him will you, John, and let me know if he chooses to divulge anything? I would worry less were the identity of the perpetrator known. But my brother will, I suspect remain as intransigent as ever.'

'Perhaps he doesn't remember.'

'And perhaps he does. Now that would be more interesting, wouldn't it?'

'He's gone,' John said, a few minutes later, standing up slightly, and peering round the door to watch Mycroft's receding figure exit through the door to the unit. 'You can stop pretending now.'

But when he turned back to the bed, he found a pair of grey-green eyes already watching him.

'How did you know?' Sherlock's voice was dazed and sleepy, that much wasn't a pretence. But he looked better than he had the previous day, less pale. More like his normal self.

'That you weren't asleep? I've spent hours watching you sleep, Sherlock. And hours watching you lying immobile but awake on the sofa. I know the difference. So, it would appear does Mycroft.'

'He wasn't sure though.'

'No, he wasn't, John said with a grin. 'So was that just to piss him off, or-'

'Didn't want to talk.' Sherlock's words were slightly slurred from the drugs. He shifted slightly in the bed, pushing down with his arms to try to move his torso while keeping it as straight as possible, but still he winced in pain, and John noticed both the increased rate in his breathing and the cardiac monitor recording an increased heart rate.

'Are you in pain?' he asked. 'I'll get the nurse, she's just outside.'

'Boost button,' Sherlock gasped, as he lay as still as possible, eyes squeezed shut. John recognised that pose. It was the position that you assumed when knew that the slightest movement would cause you pain. John reached over and pressed the boost button on the fentanyl infusion, watching both Sherlock's face and the cardiac monitor, and observing the swift effects of the fentanyl. The morphine that they were planning to switch him to wouldn't be as fast. How would he cope with that, he wondered.

'Better?' he asked a few minutes later.

Sherlock nodded slightly. 'Bad?' he asked, when he finally opened his eyes again.

'What?'

Sherlock indicated the equipment with his head. 'All this - where did the bullet go?'

'Inferior vena cava,' John said. 'Clipped a bit of lung on the way. Bad enough.'

'I saw Moriarty,' Sherlock said drowsily.

'What?' John felt as if the room temperature had suddenly dropped ten degree.s How was that possible? Had Moriarty faked his death too? Had he somehow been the one who shot Sherlock?

'Moriarty shot you?'

'No, of course not. I don't remember who shot me.I don't remember seeing anyone in that room other than Magnussen.'

'So how could you have seen Moriarty? Sherlock, he's dead - isn't he?'

'Of course he's dead, John,' Sherlock's words were becoming increasingly more slurred as he slid towards sleep, 'But then so was I.'

Huge thanks to sevenpercent and ThessalyMc for 'keeping me right', as ever.