A/n: Hello again! This chapter begins with a few of our forgotten supporting characters that we all know and love (or hate)! There will be a whole bunch more (and for ginger: the source has been implied as a variety of things though no specifics have been revealed - yet), and I genuinely love you guys. My many thanks to gingerholmes, Teen Sherlockian, geekylittleme, Fionasaurus, To Thy High Requiem, and Elena, my lovely reviewers. I love knowing how you feel about scenes (or gosh, the tears! I'm glad to know I wasn't the only one who cried ^^;) or the story in general. Thank you again. ^^ Onto the story~

Disclaimer: ...Definitely not mine. Eyuup. Warning: this was written partially on flu/fever-induced delirium (so if something doesn't make sense/is misspelled, let me know ^^;).

Chapter 11

"Oh look who it is," Anderson began, thoroughly eyeing his ex-lover as he stepped on the crime scene. Mouth twitching, he recalled their nights of passion and their explosive split. Now he was stuck with his stuffy wife, who refused to leave him out of sheer spite.

"Get your filthy eyes off of me, Anderson," Donovan snapped. "I was hoping Molly would come, but you'll have to do," she continued, regaining her composure. "Bag it, tag it, do whatever it is you actually do...The dead guy over here was an informant of ours. Set to testify a week from today. Dammit. We need to find this sick fuck."

Anderson glanced at the body, which was now bagged up, and set to focus on his own work. While Donovan kept a steady hand on the light, the slimy lab technician set to collect the samples. "Arterial splatter," he muttered to himself and drew his own flashlight. Directing the light as needed, he saw the signs of compressed spurts, but some were smeared as if something had been dragged across them. He expected the trail of blood to continue, but it did not. It was as if the shooter had vanished into thin air after receiving what should be a life-threatening injury. Setting back to the task at hand, he collected the needed samples.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Molly -

Run this as soon as possible.

- Anderson

The young woman rolled her eyes at the uncomfortable usage of her first name (though she alternately noted "Hooper" wasn't exactly befitting either) by a man she considered a bit of a creep. Either way, he was her coworker, and there wasn't much she had to do with him around save those few awkward hours of overlapping shifts. At least he didn't try to hit on her out of desperation's sake anymore after she drew the line clearly in quick-dry cement and punted him far along the other side.

Completing some of the backed-up DNA requests, Molly continued her work, humming lightly with the drone of the machines. There was something peaceful about working in this forensics lab, which was owned by a small company. She and Anderson were the only ones in charge of this specific lab, but there were several other forensic scientists throughout the building. Molly loved her job, a strong sense of justice overcoming her every time she matched DNA or bullet striations. Oftentimes, Sally would stop off at the lab, bearing food, to inform her of the outcome of her cases, which only served to fuel this sensation.

Within no time of Molly's career change, the two women became fast friends, eschewing the name 'Sherlock' in conversation to keep the peace. He was dead, John clearly did not believe the man he lived with was a fraud, and no one could ever find concrete evidence of the detective's supposed wrongdoing. The point was moot and best kept from everyday life.

Printing a profile to a match, Molly organised the papers in a folder for Sally to work with and wrote a brief note to stick in another case file that had yielded no such results. She grabbed the sample that Anderson had left on her desk and set to work.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Calmer than before, John took a hard sniff back and felt as the snot shot back into his otherwise-parched throat. He couldn't cry anymore despite the feeling that he was no where near done. Eyes blurring from tire and physical exhaustion, he tried to focus on the individual tiles that rested underneath his feet. Mycroft's phone chimed, and the doctor looked up to watch his companion read it.

Expression souring, Mycroft turned to John and said, "It seems I have to take my leave here. I've taken care of everything, and Anthea will be by with some things soon. Please call the number I set in your phone if there are any developments." Nodding in agreement, John felt as sleep overcame him.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

John awoke to an aching back. Stretching, he found himself spread across four of the waiting room seats, a blanket covering him. Still tired, eyes puffy, he scanned the waiting room and saw the same receptionist clacking away at her computer, no one else in sight. John forced himself upright and kicked a duffel in the process. This must be what Anthea left for me...Mm, what time is it? 08:00...I guess I should wash up a bit and change... Folding the blanket, he placed it on top of the bag and headed for the washroom.

Placing the bag on top of the counter, John unzipped it and saw his gun perched on top of a plain white envelope. I see...Anthea must have pulled it from my waistband when she tucked me in... After stealing a peak at the door, John unloaded the weapon and replaced it in the bag. He took the envelope, labelled "For food and fare", and opened it, procuring £100 in crisp ten-pound notes. Sticking it along the side of the bag, he rummaged through the remainder of the contents and he found his mobile, the book from his nightstand, a stick of deodorant, two new toothbrushes, a new tube of toothpaste, a plain razor, his half-used bottle of shampoo, a comb, two jumpers (one of which was the over-sized one his mother had knitted for him in high school, thinking it would shrink), two packs of cotton undershirts and socks, enough pants to last a few days for the both of them, two pairs of trousers, four button-up shirts, and two pairs of shoes.

John looked at his tired complexion, and lightly chuckled about how sure he was he could use the bags under his eyes for storage. Washing his face, the doctor removed the over-sized button-up and folded it, tossing it in the bag. He would have to have it laundered and returned. After opening the pack of shirts and refreshing the state of his underarms, John put one on and threw his wrinkled white and red checkered dress shirt on top of it, carefully buttoning each installation. Donning his tan, well-fitting jumper, John pulled his collar from underneath and straightened it out on top. With the comb and some water, he pushed his hair back into place. There, now he didn't look like he had spent his sleeping on four hospital waiting room chairs after chasing down his best friend, who was shot in an unlikely location by a random shooter that had assailed them previously that very day, and spending hours reading what could endearingly called the man's diary only to end the night in tears. Yup, Sherlock's definitely back...

Pulling the bag along with him, John headed for one of the stalls for one of its more conventional uses and to change his lower garments and shoes. Upon exiting, he washed his hands and headed back into the waiting room. Sherlock should be awake soon...John thought as he glanced at the clock on the wall behind the receptionist.

The doctor settled down in his original chair, book in hand. Opening it, John removed his bookmark and stared at the text for five minutes before giving up, knowing that he was in no state of mine to calmly absorb a story. He stared at the clock, watching as the red seconds hand passed by, the room so quiet now that he could hear it ticking. Tapping his foot, John strummed along his knee with his fingers. There was nothing to do but wait in silence. Rising, John paced back and forth the lobby, his footsteps echoing throughout the empty room.

"Doctor Watson," the receptionist addressed. John stopped dead in his tracks and stared at the woman, waiting for an answer. "The doctors gave me the okay to send you down right now. He's not awake yet, but you can wait in the meanwhile. Give me your arm, if you would." Reaching over the desk with his left, he watched as she fixed a blue wristband on his wrist. The receptionist stood and walked around her desk. "Follow me," she commanded, plucking her identification card from her blouse. The soundproof door opened with a beep and a mechanical click, and the receptionist pressed inside, leading John down a hall to the fifth door on the left. Opening it, she ushered him inside and promptly left, the door closing behind her.

Walking toward the bed, John slid the chair from the wall to the side of the bed and fixated his gaze on Sherlock's colorless face. He sat and watched the other man's chest steadily rise and fall from under his stark white sheets. After five minutes of assimilating himself to Sherlock's balanced breathing, listening to the pulsing beep of the heart monitor, he was startled by their rapid increase. John slid back for a better view as Sherlock's eyes shot open in a panic. Jerking up from the bed with a desperate gasp, the detective scanned the room like a disoriented animal, ready to defend itself from harm.

Eyes focusing on John, Sherlock lunged forward in full attack mode, disconnecting his IV in the process. While the machine wailed, John braced himself and caught the brunt of Sherlock's weight, the man's cast clubbing him in the jaw. "Sherlock!" John yelled. Standing, he wrapped his arms around the volatile man and restrained him from causing any more damage to both himself and others. Sherlock thrashed for a few more seconds before calming down, overcome with a bout of dizziness. Wrapping his arms around the back of John's neck, he leaned on the stout man with the entirety of his weight. A bit much for the out-of-shape doctor to handle, John settled back into the chair. Sherlock came with him, nuzzling his face into the doctor's neck while clumsily straddling him. "Sherlock?" he asked, unsure of what to do, where exactly to place his hands. Within moments, the detective began crying, and John sighed, rubbing the man's back for comfort.

A nurse rushed in through the door and caught the scene, eyes widening. Slinking to the machine, she switched it off and apologized, "I, uh, if you can't, um, just call me when you're, he's, uh...settled. Just push that button there." After pointing, she sped from the room, doubting what she had just seen, too rattled to check twice.

Though embarrassed, John reassured the younger man, "It's alright, Sherlock, it's just the anesthesia wearing off. You're confused, it's fine. Let it all out, you'll feel better in fifteen minutes or so." The doctor could feel his shoulder and chest dampening through his thick jumper. Unsure of what to do, John examined Sherlock's curls and the bandage on his neck, thankful that it didn't bleed with all the excitement. As the detective cried and shook, his arms fell from the doctor's neck and slid down to his chest, nimble fingers grabbing at John's jumper, kneading the stitches.

Throat aching, Sherlock's sobs became choked, and he shuddered in the doctor's arms. "'Urts," the detective groaned into John's chest.

"That's because you took out your IV," John replied, eyeing the piece that Sherlock had disconnected. "Come on, up," he insisted, lifting his legs slightly in an attempt to shoo the younger man. Sherlock reluctantly rose to his feet, wobbling slightly, and John rose to meet him. "Now sit on the edge, and slide your way back onto the bed," John instructed, easing the younger man back onto his elevated bed. "Good." Sliding the rails up, the doctor smiled at his friend and ruffled his matted curls. "Now I'm going to get the nurse. Sit tight, alright?" Still inexplicably upset, Sherlock watched his friend exit the room with teary eyes.

John closed the door behind him and took a deep breath. Looking to his right, he saw the nurse, slinking against the wall. "I'm sorry about that...Got to love it when anesthesia wears off..." John began, nervously scratching the back of his neck.

The nurse turned to face him, totally shocked, face flushing. "I'm sorry...so he's a crier?" she asked.

"Well, no, he tried to deck me a minute beforehand..." John explained, still slightly flustered over the whole situation.

Laughing, she returned, "That doesn't happen too often. Usually it's nothing, but if not, it's at least one or the other."

"Tell me about it," John remarked, recalling all those times he'd been socked by someone whose life had just been saved by his effort. The doctor opened the door and held it open for the nurse, who promptly walked inside and reinserted Sherlock's IV while he was simmering down.

"Looks like we're all good. My name is Janet by the way. Make sure he gets some rest, Dr. Watson. His doctor should be in soon to check up on him," she concluded as she headed for the door.

Catching her from behind, John tapped her shoulder. "Wait, how does everyone know my name?"

Janet turned around and simply answered, "Beside the fact that you two are probably the most recognisable pair here in London, Mycroft Holmes came in and confirmed it."

John studied the woman, trying to determine just how much she could be trusted.

The woman rolled her eyes and explained, "Because this clinic is specifically designed for people of power. Anyone who foots the bill can be sure that they have the power to prevent us from working almost anywhere. We see mistresses, illegitimate children, embarrassing incidents, whatever you can imagine and more, and we're not allowed to utter a single word or we'll be ruined. Plus, there are only a handful of us at any given time. Rest assured, Sherlock Holmes' existence is safe with us."

Fears now null, John blurted, "Thank you...And we're not a couple!"

"I don't believe I mentioned a thing about it," Janet sung with a slight giggle as she left the room.

Turning to Sherlock, he asked, "What did she mean by that?"

Though his throat was sore, Sherlock rasped, "She thinks that because you mentioned it first...Therefore it must be on your mind."

John scoffed, rallying, "But you don't think...?"

"I don't."

"Good...So how are you feeling?" John asked nervously, recalling the journal entries he had read.

Sherlock scowled and continued, "What do you think? I need to pee. Help me up."

Already ahead of him, Sherlock grabbed for the pad of paper on the side of his nightstand. "Sherlock, you really should stay in place...don't they have something like a bed-" Thwack! "Ow, what was that for?" Glaring at the older man, Sherlock kicked the blanket off of his legs, lowered one rail, and scooted to the edge of the bed, holding out his hand.

Rolling his eyes, John edged the drip over and and helped his friend off the bed, steering him towards the attached bathroom with the IV line in tow. "You're not standing, you know," the doctor lectured.

Sherlock nodded and made his way to the toilet, shooing John before disrobing and sitting. Awkwardly, John stood outside the closed door, waiting for his friend to finish. After a couple minute's passing, the doctor heard running water and the sound of wooden cabinets creaking open and closing.

Opening the door, John saw Sherlock pillaging the cabinet underneath the sink to no avail. The detective turned, using the sink counter as a pivot, and pulled on the top of his hospital gown, revealing smears of dried blood still on his chest. "It's gross."

"Go back to the bed and I'll find something for you to clean up with, alright?" Obliging, the detective returned with the assistance of his friend.

John turned the the usual suspects and pulled them open, only to find spare medical supplies. Plain tissue wouldn't suffice and standard-issue would streak in shreds. After searching the last cabinet, the doctor resolved he would have to talk to one of the nurses to assist him.

Upon opening the door, John heard two women giggling on the end of the corridor. "They're totally a couple!" a voice he recognised as Janet's exclaimed.

"Teddy said that Dr. Watson was holding his hand when they took him in," another voice remarked.

"How cute!" Janet cried. "So who'dya think is top?"

Too mortified to exit the room now, John stood in the doorway, bemused. "It has to be Sherlock! Watson is so expressive. It would be a waste really...And the height...I don't think it could be more mathematically perfect!" the other woman answered.

The whole thought horrifying, the doctor stared at the clean white wall opposing him, waiting for it to end. "No!" Janet objected, "It has to be the other way around! It just...ugh! Dr. Watson was in the military, right? And he was straight beforehand...His stocky build helps, too! And it's like he's always protected him! It has to be Watson!"

Shaking his head, John turned to steal a peek at his supposed lover, whose face was plastered with an amused smile.

The other nurse returned, "Huh, I guess that isn't so bad either...I can picture that lanky back of his arching..."

"Exactly!" Janet squealed and there was an extended silence.

"I wonder what actually happened in the meanwhile...We all thought he was dead."

"It's not our job to wonder...I guess it will be revealed in time, and we'll have to accept it as whatever sort of drivel they pawn it off as," Janet responded with a touch of disappointment in her voice. "Well, I've got to go deliver this pitcher to those two...Maybe I'll get to see something else..."

As a whine from the other nurse erupted in the hall, John closed the door as silently as he could and rushed for the chair, slightly tripping along the way. Just in time, the doctor sat and the door swung open. Janet walked inside as if she hadn't mentioned a thing and Sherlock's face switched to a neutral, indifferent expression. "Here ya are. Clear fluids for today it seems, and it may hurt a bit to swallow. Let me know if you need anything."

"Ah, towels? Gauze or anything? To clean up a bit," John requested.

Janet left the pitcher and a few plastic cups on the nightstand and opened the cupboard she expected to find some. "I guess someone forgot to refill them...I'll be right back." With a hurried step, she left the room.

Laughing, John remarked, "I can't believe that just happened."

Cup in hand, Sherlock poured himself some water and took a sip. "You wouldn't believe the fanfiction...And that was some venture for your chair..." Sherlock returned, chuckling to himself.

"There's what?" the doctor recoiled as the door swung open once again. Janet presented John with several sizes of gauze pads and refilled the cabinet.

"Alrighty, that does it, I guess." With a few parting words, the woman left the room once more, reminding them that the doctor should be in soon.

Starting for the restroom, John opened one of the pads and wet it with the faucet. After finding a place on the edge of Sherlock's bed, he untied the first knot of the man's gown and slid it down his chest. "There's fanfiction?" John asked, knowing he did not want to hear the answer.

"Of course there is. I don't know about recently...but there was quite a bit of it the last time I checked," Sherlock responded with a grin as John began washing away what dried blood marked his shoulder.

"Why would you check that sort of thing?"

Sherlock laughed and took another sip of water. "Because it's funny seeing how many there are...It's not like I read them."

"Good," he settled abruptly, not wanting to know more. Moving on to the man's torso, John's eyes widened as he cleared the grime that covered the man's scars. With a gulp, he continued nervously, trailing along each scar, calculating how long it has been since he received the mark and how it likely arrived.

Sherlock watched John's facial expressions contort, easy to read. "John?" No response, the doctor still enamored with the man's scars. Rolling his eyes, the detective breathed, "What, are you ready to profess your unyielding, fiery love for me?"

Startled, John looked up at Sherlock's face, looming above him. "What?"

"I thought that would get your attention. Don't concern yourself with those," Sherlock insisted, eyes pleading. Sighing, John finished wiping the blood from the remainder of the detective's body and tied the back of his gown once more, fingers lingering on a now-white scar that peaked from underneath the tie. Slightly uncomfortable, Sherlock called, "John?"

Snapping his hand back, John stepped down from the bed and walked into the washroom without a word. After tossing the used gauze in the small wastebasket, the doctor washed his hands, staring at his shaken expression in the mirror. He needed to get himself together before facing the younger man once more.

After splashing his face with water and drying it on his undershirt, John took one last hard look at his reflection. "John, how much did you read?" Sherlock questioned. Heart dropping, the doctor took one final deep breath and turned to face his friend.

"Enough," he answered simply. "I'm sorry..." Head cast down, the doctor couldn't look his counterpart in the eye, distancing himself with the span from the doorway to the bed.

Sherlock's expression fell and he returned, "Well, this saves explanation time. It's fine...What did you get out of it?"

"Your violin...Irene. What they did to you..." John began, certain he would be stepping on landmines any second now.

"Don't concern yourself with it," Sherlock advised, slipping under his thin blanket.

John made his way to his friend's bedside and sat back down in his chair, kicking his long-forgotten bag. "How could I not, Sherlock? Especially after that...You did it...For us. All of that pain you've endured...Tell me, Sherlock, how could I care for your well-being without 'concerning myself with it'?" John asked, slinking closer to the man's side from his place in the chair.

"I don't know," Sherlock croaked, avoiding eye contact.

Taking a deep breath, the doctor persisted, "Thank you, Sherlock."

Now facing John, the detective smiled weakly and muttered, "John, will you stay a little longer?" as his eyes drooped.

"Of course, we can talk more when we're home."

"Home...Hnn, that sounds nice." And without another word, Sherlock drifted into sleep.

End of Chapter 11

A/n: Filler! Well, hopefully it made some of you smile just a little...before next chapter anyhow (ginger, I think this is what you've been waiting for). Anyhow, in other news: the flu is awful, avoid it if at all possible...Just like terrible ships in this series that I've realized I ship (ones that this website doesn't even acknowledge as an existing thing...). I really need help haha. Though this may seem a bit idiotic, I would like to see if I can beat my most popular fanfic of all time. I would hope that this, something new in a better (but smaller) fandom (on a different account, mind you), would do better than some inane drivel I fussed with a whopping four years ago. Thanks to you guys, I've beaten followers twofold (against a completed story...but small victories)! I doubt this fic will ever see the 157 reviews (though shameless happiness would ensue), but I know we can beat the favs and hits. So thank you guys for being awesome :'D Now that you've read, please review! 'Till next time!