Sherlock looked up, and, for the first time since he had arrived at St. Bart's, information seemed to process. He leapt to his feet and would have certainly accosted the surgeon had Lestrade not caught him by the elbow, "Steady," the older man said softly.

Mycroft took charge of the situation, looking down his nose aristocratically, and "Well?"

Sherlock held his breath.

"He's alive…" the doctor began. He continued speaking, but Sherlock didn't hear a word. It was only Lestrade's firm hand on his arm that kept him fixed in place.

"…He's still in recovery now. He probably won't come around for a while. His injuries were quite severe." The doctor looked at all of their faces. "Once he's been moved, you can go in and see him."

"Thank you, doctor," Mycroft said, and his voice, though still supercilious, held notes of genuine relief.

John is alive, Sherlock thought. He is going to be fine.

"It's gonna be okay, mate," Greg pulled him into a hug and Sherlock was actually so shocked and exhausted that he didn't resist. Without any sense of self-consciousness, he leaned into Greg, closing his eyes and taking deep racking breaths.

"Shhhhh, Sherlock, shhhh," Greg murmured. Sherlock eventually pulled back and Mycroft, who had been standing nearby, watching the proceedings closely, handed him an immaculate white handkerchief, which Sherlock proceeded to cover with tears, snot, and blood, while his brother looked on with a strained smile.

It seemed an eternity to Sherlock before he was permitted to see John. When he did, he went alone, under his own power, though he was still quite shaky.

John was pale, as he lay in the hospital bed. Tubes went in and out of his person; his torso was wrapped in bandages. An IV dripped steadily by his side, and a monitor beeped, tracking his heart. He looked small and weak, and Sherlock paused to observe this fragility. His John was broken.

Sherlock approached the bed with a strange trepidation. He did not like to see John like this. Not at all. He was afraid that his blogger might actually fall to pieces, and he didn't want confirm John's injuries. Sherlock was, for once, reluctant to trust the evidence of his own eyes. He did not want to believe that any of this had happened.

John's survival was a fact, but Sherlock was afraid to confirm it, lest it be a trick of some kind. Love makes people irrational. John had told him that once, and, for some reason, it came into his head now, as he perched on the chair nearest the bed and stared at his only friend's still form.

It didn't smell like John in this room. It smelled of antiseptics and medicines, disinfectant, and it raised the fine hairs on Sherlock's forearms. John always smelled of wool and ink, of tea and toast, and sometimes strawberry around his fingers, sweat from a chase. Whenever Sherlock inhaled around John, the scents that met his nose made him feel that he was home. To be in John's presence but not have John be present was unnerving. He didn't like it. It would be best if John would wake up now.

Sherlock steeled himself and reached out his hand, slowly, tentatively, until it rested on top of John's, and he held tightly to it. He brought his other hand to John's face, feeling the stubble, the crow's feet, and the dry cracked mouth. He laid his head down on top of their linked hands and, as he gently stroked the calloused fingers, thought, Thank you.

At various point in his life Sherlock's friends and relations, acquaintances, enemies, clients, basically anyone who had ever met the man, had all commented upon his brilliance, his complete lack of tact, and his obstinacy. These three qualities had never been so prominently displayed and inflicted upon others as they were whilst John Watson remained in critical care at St. Bart's.

Sherlock was absolutely unwilling, upon any inducement, to leave his blogger's side.

"Sherlock Holmes, I understand you current state of distress, but you must stop behaving like a child," Mycroft had scolded, while Lestrade stood behind him holding a change of clothes for the erstwhile detective.

"I am not behaving like a child," Sherlock said quietly, refusing to break his vigil over John's still form, even to spare his brother a glance.

Mycroft looked back at Greg with an expression that said quite clearly, "What am I doing to do with him?" Greg shrugged sheepishly, and Mycroft rolled his eyes skyward, turning back to Sherlock.

"Fine," the elder Holmes said scathingly, "I am sure that it will be most gratifying for you when John awakens, only to have a heart attack brought on by the sight of the blood stained savage seated at his bed side. If that is what you want, so be it."

He made to turn away theatrically, when Sherlock sighed and reached out his spare hand (the other he maintained linked with John's) for the clothes. Mycroft gave a satisfied smile to Greg, who just barely contained a grin. Getting any sort of response from Sherlock lately had been so difficult that he would take what he could get.

Lestrade handed the suit and toiletries to the younger man, directing him towards the lavatory and saying quietly, "It's all right, I'll stay with him."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes suspiciously, still unwilling to move away from John. Greg sighed and forcibly unlinked the detective's hand from that of his blogger, spinning him in the direction of the shower, and giving him a slight shove.

"Go," he urged, "He'll be all right with me."

After a moment's consideration, Sherlock nodded tightly with a look on his face that said quite clearly that, if anything did befall John in his absence, he would hold Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade personally responsible. Then he flounced away after sparing a longing glace at the still figure in the bed.

Lestrade sighed as he sat down and stared at John, "You need to come back, mate. If only to reign in that lunatic."

Mycroft gazed after Sherlock with a thoughtful look on his face. "So dramatic." Greg was under the impression that it was meant to be a scathing critique, but it came across as deeply concerned.

"I wonder where he gets that from."

Mycroft chuckled, and the two kept watch till Sherlock returned, looking much more like himself in a clean suit and with a blood-free visage. However, the brief interlude hadn't been enough to alleviate the haunted look about his face, the dark circles around his eyes, or the gouges in his palms from where his nails had dug into the flesh.

Over the next few days, Greg and Mycroft were especially careful to make sure that Sherlock remembered to eat ("You'll pass out before he wakes up!") and drink ("John wouldn't want you to behave like this"). Greg was the primary instigator on both counts, while Mycroft glared at Sherlock's stubbornness and needled when necessary. Neither could force him to sleep, and they could not manage to pry him away from John's bed for more than five minutes at a time. Though they found Sherlock's desperation worrisome, they were, in some ways, secretly thankful. His single minded fixation on John prevented him from going to any extremes (it would be far too simple for Sherlock to access opiates in this environment, and his current mental state did not preclude that eventuality).

Sherlock passed the majority of his time in a trancelike condition from which he could not be roused. He sat, staring fixedly at John and relieving every moment of their relationship in excruciating detail. He remembered the day they met, their first adventure, the number of times that they had been in danger, and the ways in which they had always managed to survive. He thought of their arguments over trivialities, their banter and flirtation. He pictured John's disappointment, his anger. In his mind, Sherlock saw John alive and laughing after a chase through London's alleys at night. He heard John exclaiming at his brilliance and scolding him for his idiocy. He saw thousands of Johns. John in the morning reading the paper; John at his laptop typing a blog entry with mind-numbing slowness; John at Angelo's eating dinner, telling him that it was all fine; John spreading jam on his toast, making tea, fresh from the shower, choosing a jumper. He remembered John's mouth on his the night he had come home again…

More frequently, though, Sherlock dwelled on John's face when Sherlock had "died," the stricken look that he had worn when Sherlock delivered his note. He revisited the tears John had shed in the cemetery. The empty look he had so frequently worn in the park or the store or the surgery. The troubled expression Sherlock had seen so often, while he had stood so close and yet so far from his blogger. Sherlock wore that expression now. He was haunted by the scene of John lying, bleeding, deathly pale, and deaf to Sherlock's desperation.

When Sherlock had come home again, John had looked at him as if he were a ghost. He had scolded Sherlock again and again for having left him. John had been adamant that the pain he had gone through had been unbearable. Sherlock hadn't understood; he did now. The lies, the separation, the deceit, all meant to protect John, yet…Sherlock was still seated at the side of the one-person in the entire world for whom he would sacrifice his life and happiness, and all he could think of were the missed moments that they could have passed together. He did not regret having saved John; it had been the right decision, but he deeply regretted the intense pain that he had inflicted upon his dearest friend. If this feeling, so intense that Sherlock was sure that he was bleeding and tearing himself apart inside, the type of hurt that nothing short of John himself could relieve, if this was what John had felt every day for a year…Sherlock could hardly countenance the cruelty that he had visited upon this man that he loved so deeply.

He thought of this every moment of every day.

He was only forcibly pulled out of his musings by Mycroft and Lestrade, and he came unwillingly and under the greatest duress. He also rallied himself to consult (read: viciously interrogate and insult) John's doctors. Mycroft, who had flown in specialists from across the country and the continent, was affronted by Sherlock's behavior. Lestrade was completely unsurprised. Sherlock didn't give a damn about either of their reactions; he hadn't gotten a medical degree, but had made extensive studies of gunshot wounds in the course of his work and had plenty to say on the subject. John will receive the best possible care and the incompetent idiot who mistreats him will die. Slowly and painfully, Sherlock thought with a grim, cold, determination, and he resumed his watch.

This continued for three days, during which time John lay still and unmoving and Sherlock couldn't be bothered with anything beyond John's health. He was, more or less, completely beside himself. Mycroft and Greg became increasingly concerned and frustrated. The medical staff began to actively avoid the lunatic detective in (ironically) room 221. All the while, John slept on, blissfully unaware of anything that transpired around him and probably more relaxed than he had been in over a year.

This could have gone for an indeterminate period off time…until, that is, the morning in which John's fingers twitched in Sherlock's. This caused the detective to tighten his grip and peer into John's face as if, through sheer force of will, he could pull him into a state of consciousness. His blogger's eyelids flickered, and Sherlock held his breath, until they slowly opened.

John focused blearily at the face before him. He was confused, disoriented, and his throat was dry, but he managed to croak, "Sherlock?"

Surprisingly, this caused Sherlock to laugh in a strangled way and smile, a real, genuine, beatific smile. He squeezed John's hand gently and brought his other hand to cup John's cheek.

"John," Sherlock's voice was rusty from disuse as well but it was infused with relief, "You're all right. I'm here John."

John twined his fingers with the detective's and felt a strange wetness on his face, which he realized after a moment, was caused by tears, Sherlock's tears.

"I'm glad," John said gruffly and Sherlock continued stroking his face in wonderment as John closed his eyes again.

AN:

Chapter IX! What did you think? I know, still a bit angsty, but a certain someone desperately needed a bit of introspection. I hope that this was at least mildly believable. Sherlock is a very stubborn creature, and, though I'm sorry that I had to put both of them through such an ordeal, something dramatic had to happen to force Sherlock into a state of emotional epiphany.

And John is alive! Did you ever doubt me? We can't have a happy ending without John. Only one chapter left in this story. Look out for a prequel and a sequel in the works!

Finally THANK YOU to everyone who has read, followed, and reviewed this fic. Your support, encouragement, and enthusiasm are amazing. I love you more than John loves jam, which, as we all know, is considerable.

Please, leave a comment/review; let me know what you think. The next chapter (the finale) will be posted tomorrow evening.

Lots of love,

Nic