Is this what being dead is like?, he thought. If it was, it was dark, quiet, and very painful. Especially in the vicinity of his left shoulder. No, I'm not dead, he decided as he was able to move slightly. When he listened harder he could hear the soft beeps and whirs of machinery in the background. He groaned and tried to open his eyes but he was met with the resistance of having them shut for a long time. With more effort he was able to pry his lids apart only to be blinded by the florescent lights directly above him.

He had to blink a few times before the spots left the edges of his vision but once he could see he knew where he was. He definitely wasn't dead but he was in the hospital. There was something constricting his left arm, he could feel, and when he investigated he saw the bandages wrapped tightly around his shoulder and the left half of his chest. The bullet managed to strike in between his shoulder and his heart.

He attempted to sit up but his covers seemed to have been caught on something. That's when he looked down and noticed a person-shaped lump, half on the bed and sound asleep. Sherlock smiled affectionately at the sleeping man. He wondered how long John had stayed by his side, then he wondered how long he'd been in the hospital. He almost didn't want to disturb the doctor at his bedside but he had questions that needed answers.

"John," he whispered, prodding his shoulder lightly. When that didn't work he tried something a little louder.

"JOHN!"

"AHH!"

John bolted up to a sitting position but with such force that the chair he was sitting in tipped backward. He flailed in a sad attempt to keep himself from hitting the ground but gravity was working against him. He hit the floor with a thud and a cry of pain.

"That wasn't funny, Sherlock, my back is still healing," he complained, picking himself and the chair back up, not fully realizing that Sherlock was awake.

He paused, his hand on the back of the chair, thinking deeply. Realization finally dawned and he looked up at the detective like a child on Christmas morning. Sherlock grinned like an idiot at his reaction; he couldn't have asked for anything better. John practically launched himself at the man, pulling him into a tight and painful embrace.

After they broke apart John held him at arms length just to look at him. He touched his hair, his cheek, just to make sure he was real. When he seemed to be satisfied that it was his Sherlock he surprised him by grabbing his hospital gown at the collar and pulling him close. They stared at each other, noses almost touching. Sherlock's eyes were stating a feeling of uncertainty while John's were shining with desire.

"John, I don't think we-"

He was silenced by the soft, gentle kiss that John stole. It was so simple and sweet that whatever Sherlock was going to say slipped from his mind. He forgot his reasons for pushing him away and only wanted him closer. He returned the kiss with one that was harder and more desperate. John reacted with excitement, expressing joy and relief in the pressure and rhythm of his movements. Sherlock could barely form a simple thought, his mind and judgment had been clouded since their lips touched and he knew there was something important…

"Wait," he said, softly pushing John away. "I have questions."

"Can't they wait?"

They could've, Sherlock knew, but if they had started kissing again he wouldn't have been able to keep what he said to heart. They couldn't be together.

"I'm afraid not, Dr. Watson. I demand immediate answers."

"Okay, Mr. Holmes," he said, sitting in the bedside chair. "What do you need to know so badly?"

"How long have I been here?"

"Two days."

"I've been out for two days?"

"No, you woke up a couple of times but never lucidly. Not until today."

"Well, how long have you been here?"

"I never left," he said a little sheepishly.

"What? Why?"

"I've been the one treating you."

"Good to see I was left in the best of hands, then," he smiled. "How are your wounds doing?"

"The stitches should start to dissolve within the next week," he smiled back and reached for Sherlock's hand but he moved it away. John skipped sad and moved straight to furious. "You know, Sherlock, you were so willing to give this a try before and then literally overnight you change your mind. You kiss me and then refuse to even hold my hand. What is it that's so wrong with me?"

"It's not what's wrong with you it's what's wrong with me."

"Oh! It's not you it's me. Original," he snapped, leaving the chair and moving to the opposite side of the room.

"Please don't do this."

"I won't allow you to play these fucking games with my heart. Make a damn decision, Sherlock."

Rather than answering he inspected the wall beside his bed in great detail. "…What happened to Moriarty?"

"Imprisoned!" he shouted in the heat of the argument. He collected himself before continuing his answer. "I don't know where they took him. Mycroft wouldn't tell me. You know what, no. Don't change the subject."

"Being with me only hurts you. Look at what's happened so far. Ever since we met you've been in constant danger."

"I don't care about the danger! I like the danger!"

"Yes, but…"

"But what!"

"WHAT WOULD I DO IF YOU DIED! What would I do?" Sherlock asked, his voice cracking.

"What would I do if you died?" he asked with a small amount of sympathy in his voice. "We take these risks every day because we like it and because it's exciting. We just have to take care of each other. It's worked out all right so far. Sherlock, if you let me I will take care of you."

"John…"

"What?"

"You don't have to move out."

He built up the courage to look at the doctor, who staring at him with weariness, frustration and a small spark of hope. John sighed and walked back to Sherlock's side, returning to the chair. They stared at each other for a minute, the detective's gaze wavering out of insecurity and shame. Finally, after what felt like ages, John held out his hand and, with minimal hesitance, Sherlock grasped it.