I want to give my thanks to my wonderful beta 'jack63kids', who is still reading and editing my chapters. Also, I would like to thank Iriomote Yamaneko Nokomis (Thank you for your many reviews, they are highly appreciated!), Anastasia Dove (Thanks for the reviews and support!), Boxerbee (Yes, yes I do. Just kidding, I didn't want it to be cheesy like in the leg (that happened with John), or somewhere immediately fatal like the the chest or the head. And in the groin are a lot of veins :D), Sherlocked Girl On Fire (Thanks for the support!) and Zacha (Thanks for the support, love that you actually read it).

I have to say, I'm not exactly happy about this chapter; I keep editing things. I hope you like it.

Reviews are highly appreciated!

EDIT: November first; changed John's sentence. People who are reading this chapter for the first time after November the first, can ignore this edit.

Enjoy!

John wakes up, comfortably. He knew he was lying on a bed, his head on a pillow. John's arms were lying beside him. It was after this he realized he was a little bit fuzzy in his head; he could not think straight. John didn't want to open his eyes; he was afraid what he might see. He could hear some sort of beeping and people talking, but the words didn't make sense and they weren't being processed in John's fuzzy head. He tried to remember what had happened.

He could recall some sort of fight, oh yes; Afghanistan. John and his army comrades were under attack; he knew they were in a car before, driving, but then they got attacked and there were gunshots everywhere. They quickly had abandoned the car and John was running towards the wounded soldiers. He was busy; trying to control the bullet wounds, when he felt a sharp pain in his upper leg. He realized he had been shot.

Immediately, John's hand felt down his leg, trying to find any sort of bandages or something else that would give away a leg wound. But, nothing was found. John opened his eyes to look at his leg because he knew the wound was real, it should be there but it wasn't. It simply wasn't there.

After the exertion, just because he had to sit a little straighter, he was exhausted. Questions filled John's mind, but he hadn't had the energy to answer them. He couldn't possibly do it either, even if his mind wasn't fuzzy.

How long was I asleep?

How did the bullet-wound heal so quickly?

Why am I this exhausted?

He wanted answers, though.

His eyes were darting around the room now. He saw a completely white room; bed sheets, walls, floors (well they were more greyish), chairs. All this white frightened the soldier but he didn't know why. There was a window behind him; he didn't look around but the light made shadows which pointed towards the glass door, in front of him. When he was able to open his eyes there were occasionally men and women - who mostly had looked as they were from Afghanistan by origin, but white people weren't rare either - walking by, some of them in long white coats. John felt relieved but he did not know why.

Then he noticed a man leaning forward in the white chair, staring at him. He probably had seen him moments ago, but didn't give any attention to it. There was something strange about this man that he couldn't work out. He seemed tired, his eyes were red, his dark-brown, curly hair was sticking out to every direction you could possibly think of and his cheekbones were almost sticking out of his face; he was fairly thin. John noticed the man's mouth moving. The soldier stared at it, not processing the words. What he heard just didn't make any sense. The man stood up, lifting John's chin with his hand and looked with concern into John's eyes.

The soldier did not know this man, had not seen him before in his life but he let him touch him anyway. John found it quite comforting, he blamed his fuzzy head for that fact. The man said something, it seemed like he yelled but John didn't understand him. A few seconds later, two men came into the room through the glass door. One man was wearing a black suit, had short brown hair and was kind of chubby. The other man was wearing a long white coat, so John assumed he was a doctor and he could trust him.

The doctor checked his eyes; observed his pupils for normal dilation - John was a doctor; he knew precisely what the man in the white coat was doing, even with his fuzzy head - and John saw his mouth moving. The soldier looked at the mouth, still wondering why he couldn't understand everything that both men had said. The doctor had moved his mouth a couple of times, John knew he was saying something, but he simply couldn't understand him. The man in the black suit and the man who had been there when John had woken, were arguing. He could see that by their body language and how they opened their mouths.

John was wondering if this was some elaborate deception but they didn't seem to be doing that. Plus, it would be ridiculous. He had been shot in his bloody leg and why would the other soldiers, or whoever they were, have had the nerve to trick him? John was winding himself up, and he knew it, but he wanted an explanation for all these weird things happening around him, in probably no more than ten minutes.

"Could you please speak a bloody understandable language for God's sake?!" John said frustratedly, his voice broken, louder than he'd wanted to speak but he guessed they deserved it. How the hell could you fool someone who had just been shot?!

All the three men gave him a curious and concerned look. The man with the cheekbones clenched his hand around John's, John shot him a confused look. Although he knew he had liked the comfort of the man's hand under his chin just moments ago, he found it weird that the man was holding hands with him. It seemed like a big step. The said man moved his mouth, but John wasn't sure he said something because it was so brief and it seemed more like sighing.

John saw the man in the suit and the doctor talking to each other and then they both left the room. A few moments later, a woman - who seemed like a nurse - changed John's drip - John hadn't even noticed he had a drip standing next to him and left the room. The soldier felt drowsy and fell asleep, still holding the man's hand.

John was asleep for the second time now. Hopefully, this time it won't last more than thirty hours. Sherlock was with John for about twenty-six of them. The first hours he didn't dare to look away but after Mycroft had given him the files about John's missing he had to. The pictures on top showed how John was found. John was laying on his side, eyes opened, his head - covered in blood - was lying against a rock, his hands were bloody too but there was no way that John could put his hands by his head before he passed out. That meant that the blood was older than the head wound.

When Sherlock arrived, John had been in surgery. It took three hours and in the mean time Sherlock was restless. He couldn't sleep, eat, drink or do anything else except for thinking and worrying about John. Because this man, who had been his best friend and more, was captured because of Sherlock. If Sherlock had dealt with Moriarty a long time ago, this wouldn't have happened.

If you had asked Sherlock yesterday what he thought was the worst about John's capturing, the answer would be that he had to miss John. His presence had not been there, and that was what had troubled him. Where is John? Would he be okay? Could Sherlock see John again? Did John miss him too? That sort of questions had filled Sherlock's mind. But now, Sherlock isn't so sure anymore.

When Sherlock and John had first locked eyes, Sherlock hadn't seen any recognition in John's eyes. When John didn't respond to his callings, Sherlock had looked into John's eyes and noticed that his pupils were dilated differently. John had stared confused at Sherlock. The detective knew there was something wrong, and it wasn't a small thing. He had called for Mycroft and the doctor, and they had entered the room almost immediately.

Dr. Hemler, the best doctor in the hospital - Mycroft had taken care of that, had immediately checked John's eyes with a light as Sherlock stepped away from John.

"I'm afraid he has indeed brain damage as we expected. How severe, we don't know yet," Dr. Hemler had informed in a German accent. "We have to do some tests to know, but I must warn you; don't get your hopes up. It's a usually a very bad sign if the pupils aren't equally dilated."

"Is Dr. Watson able to be transported?" Mycroft had asked. Sherlock had been irritated by his tone; it was almost bored. Like he didn't care.

"He is stable, so I would say yes. He has to be in the present of a medic, though."

"I will ensure that then."

"Please do," Sherlock finally snapped; he couldn't deal with Mycroft now, he wanted him to leave. He wanted to be alone with John. Mycroft had sent him a stern glare and Sherlock wanted to scold at Mycroft again but John suddenly had interrupted with a rasped voice.

"Could evildoers dart a green flashlight to tornado's?!" John had asked.

Sherlock didn't understand; John was putting random words together in a sentence. Why would he do that? It had to be something neurological; it was the only theory left. Sherlock probably had deleted it in the past, had sorted it as 'irrelevant'. The detective regretted it now. He took John's hand and held it as he sat down.

"Dr. Watson will be checked in the next hospital. Now, the most important thing now for Dr. Watson is to sleep. I suggest you'll do that too, sir," the doctor had said as he and Sherlock's brother left the room.

A few minutes later, a nurse had entered the room, changed John's drip and left again. John's eyes were drooping and a few moments later he fell asleep, still holding hands with Sherlock.

Sherlock smiled by realizing he had John again. Maybe it wasn't an ideal situation, but he would do everything to cure John's yet unknown symptoms. They didn't know what was exactly wrong with him yet, but they will find out. John is safe now, and that's what mattered to Sherlock. The detective closed his eyes and tried to sleep, knowing he had to get every bit of rest for the future: he's going to need it.