Part Seven:

John clutched his hand tighter to his chest, curling his shoulders forward in an instinctual attempt to shelter the injured extremity. He had landed on the hand when he had tipped the chair over, making sure he pulled to the non dominant side, knowing that the damage was unavoidable. He could tell that it was broken but he didn't have the time to check the severity of the damage. John thanked his scarce luck that it was not a compound fracture. Through he could feel the bones moving in odd ways under the skin, he wasn't leaving a blood trail.

He leaned against the wall as the pain radiating from his hand overcame his concentration. His head span and he felt dizzy, vision going black as he felt bile rise in his throat. He almost sunk to his knees but gained something resembling composure and somehow found the strength to carry on.

He didn't know how long he'd been walking. It could have been minutes, or hours, John wasn't sure any more. He stumbled on, occasionally reaching out with his good hand and touching the wall to correct his path, when the darkness overcame his vision again. The lights in the hallway were bright and John wasn't able to keep his eyes open for more than a few seconds without feeling the need to throw up. Photosensitive. He distracted himself from the pain by cataloguing the symptoms he was exhibiting, trying to pinpoint the drug that he had been given and any other damage that had been done.

The scientific names came to him with difficulty and eventually blended into one. He had lost track of time and his own thoughts again by the time he noticed the alarms. He didn't immediately recognise the sound. The blaring noise lasted for short bursts before silence returned and John found that it was an effective aid in keeping track of his steps. It wasn't until he passed under what appeared to be a speaker, and the noise was loud enough to truly penetrate his thoughts, that he recognised it for it's purpose.

If he hadn't been so tired, the realisation would have sent a jolt of fear though his entire body, no doubt followed by a shot of adrenaline. He began to wish that he wasn't so exhausted, if only for that hormonal response that would be enough to keep him going until he was free of this maze.

He continued on without it.

John didn't realise that he had stopped moving until he heard noises. He must have stopped a while ago, hours maybe. The noise hadn't stopped yet but now John was leaning back against the wall, legs in front of him, hand cradles carefully in his lap, head thick and thoughts slow. The pressure inside his skull seemed to push against the back of his eyes, driving him past the point of coherency. He had been talking, it seemed, to the white wash of the wall, or perhaps to himself, but now his words had diminished into a series of sounds that made no sense to him. His mouth didn't seem to be connected to his swollen brain and had taken on a mind of it's own, babbling uncontrollably. Just like I would be if Sherlock were here, a babbling idiot, John thought and was surprised that his mouth had actually formed a single word from his thought. Sherlock.

John woke up before he experienced true unconsciousness. Speak of the devil, his mind conjured, but it could have been days since he had spoken Sherlock's name. John almost chuckled as the figure before him fussed over his body, long fingers reaching hesitantly to examine his injured hand. So, Sherlock had come after all. Even if he was just a hallucination. That was okay, or at least John thought it was okay, even if it wasn't the real thing, it was better that sitting alone in the corridor waiting for someone to find him.

Then he noticed the blood on Sherlock's shirt and his brain and body reacted in a way that he had previously been unable to achieve. He pushed away the thin hands, reaching out his own to touch the man's solid torso, mind already accepting the fact that he spectre was quite real. As his injured hand made contact the pain barely registered, but it was enough for John to pull his hand back and continue his examination of his friend with the other.

Sherlock was saying something, repeating it over and over, but John was unable to make sense of his words. The rush of panic at the though of Sherlock injured had activated his protective instinct and he was determined to ensure his friends safety before all else. When the two hands caught his own however, and the words finally penetrated his haze, he felt the urgency flee his body, leaving it slumped once more against the wall, all remaining energy focused to gripping tightly to the hand holding his. How long had it been since they were last in this position? Longer that John could remember.

"It's alright, John. It's not my blood. It's alright."

John listened, eyes falling closed as Sherlock's voice rocked him into a familiar oblivion.

John woke to a series of loud beeps and more bright lights. Even with his eyes closed he could tell that they were too bright to be natural and, feeling the familiar tug of a tube in his arm, drowned himself in the nightmarish surety that he was back in that room. The smell of disinfectant and the subtle smell of human flesh served to compound his fear. While he listened in panic he heard the beeps grown louder and more insistent, catching the sound of fabric, the rustling of clothes and someone nearby moved.

The heart rate monitor stuttered for a moment as Sherlock reached the bed and in a rush he reached forward to place a hand on the man's arm.

"John."

At the sound of his name John's eyes flicked open. His fears dissipated the moment he saw Sherlock and recognised the familiar setting of a hospital room, but it still took time for his heart to slow. A nurse rushed in, and a doctor following her. While they fussed about his prone body, John kept his eyes glued to Sherlock, silently begging him not to leave him with strangers. Not now. Sherlock stayed.

Neither of them spoke a word until the stampede of medial officials had checked over the patient, carefully rearranging the disturbed sheets around him and setting everything into a pristine order.

After they had left the room was still attended by silence. John wasn't quite sure what to say first, or if he was still capable to speech, remembering with a frightening clarity the garbled noised that had fled from his lips the last time he had attempted to communicate. Sherlock did not speak either, though from his facial expression John could tell that his mind was working at it's full capacity.

They continued to stare at each other, silence slowly growing awkward as John felt his anxiety rise. For the first time in what felt like weeks, John felt his mind returning to the kiss. Had that really happened, or had that been some dream that he cooked up while tied to a chair being fed through a tube? John couldn't tell.

It was no surprise to him when Sherlock spoke first. John was still afraid of what would come out if he tried to speak, but for a while he thought that Sherlock would remain silently stoic in the chair on the other side of the room. He was glad he was wrong.

"John." Sherlock repeated. It was not a question, nor was it truly a statement, and Sherlock's voice was uncharacteristically coloured with emotion. It was as if Sherlock was trying to reassure himself, though the use of his partner's name, that everything was alright at last.

John found the strength to try his own voice in the emotion of his friend's.

"Sherlock."

His voice was hoarser that usual, but John was pleased to find that the word was recognisable. The silence returned but John no longer felt the tension hidden in it.

"John, I'm so sorry." John could see the truth of the statement in the guilt and remorse on the man's face, but was pained to see the sadness there as well.

"It wasn't your fault."

"Of course it was. It's always my fault."

John chuckled as the intense sincerity of the question. Sherlock looked at him as if considering calling in the doctor again.

"Far be it for me to disagree, but in this case-"

"You don't understand John. This was all my fault. They wanted me and they used you to get me. All because of those stupid eggs."

John almost laughed at the non-sequitur, but he caught sight of the raw emotion on Sherlock's face and was scared that his amusement would chase it away.

"I'm going to have to ask you to explain that one later, but for now..Sherlock, I don't blame you for what happened. I knew all along that it was you they wanted."

"You were forced to play bait John. Again. I didn't want you to have to do that. They see you as my weakness."

That comment wiped away any lingering amusement that John had been harbouring. He was Sherlock's weakness, surely the man would recognise it now. There was no room in Sherlock's career for a liability. No room in his life.

He turned his face away, trying to hide his disappointment and apprehension that were displayed there. When he turned back Sherlock had moved closer to the bed. He eyed the man warily.

"You're right. They used me to get to you and now that they know it works, they're just going to do it again and again. They all are. I'm sorry, but I'm not smart enough or strong enough to stop them from-"

The man was standing before John had a chance to finish his sentence. He looked angrily away from John, directing his stare out the window and masses of unknown assailants waiting there for their chance to hurt John.

"Don't you dare blame yourself for what happened John. It was their fault. And mine. I should have protected you."

John was shocked. Surely Sherlock knew what he had done for John. Not just in the warehouse, but every day since the day they had met. John had been so lost, cast out by a world that could no longer use him, thrown into a life of empty rooms and nameless faces, until he had met the world's only consulting detective. He had an idea of where he would be without the man, and that was a very different section of the hospital.

John thought he might be strong enough now to say goodbye to Sherlock.

"Sherlock, you shouldn't have to protect me. If I'm not good enough, strong enough, then I'm useless to you. I am your weakness. Everyone can see that."

Sherlock face registered a sense of rejection, chased away by the return of his stoicism. John could tell that he had hurt the man, but he wasn't quite sure why. When Sherlock didn't speak John continued.

"It's okay. I mean, you don't have to say it. I understand that your work is the most important thing, and I don't want to jeopardise-"

Sherlock's sudden activity cut John's sentence short. He was glad that it had. He was still far to exhausted to be using words like jeopardise.

John's tired eyes loosely followed Sherlock's movements until the man was sitting on the bed, tentatively resting his weight on the white sheets, as if he were afraid to jostle John's lower body. After he relaxed slightly into the soft mattress, John could feel the press of the man's back against his legs, a solid feeling that centred John more than anything else had managed to do. He subtly shifted his leg until it was flush against Sherlock's back, feeling the comfort flowing though him from the warm contact. Sherlock looked carefully across at him and John thought for a moment that he could see hesitancy in the man's shoulders.

Sherlock opened his mouth and almost began to speak, but quickly shut it, making an abortive movement with his hand towards John.

John didn't speak, torn between a fear of the coming pain and a curiosity as to what had turned Sherlock into a nervous teenager.

Sherlock seemed to rethink his retraction as, glancing shyly away from John's gaze, he reached out and softly wrapped his slender fingers around John's injured hand. For the first time John noticed the cast encasing broken bones, feeling, quite suddenly, the weight of the heavy plaster aiding gravity in pressing his hand towards the other that now rested partially under it. He brought his other hand over to grip Sherlock's tightly. Sherlock guided his gaze towards their clasped hands and John remembered his own eyes doing the same, not all that long ago . This time he kept his gaze focused solidly on the man in front of him.

Sherlock spoke slowly into the quiet.

"If I ever made you feel that way, I apologise. Once I believed it, all of it, to be true. But," Sherlock's speech faltered, he was not used to expressing sentiment. He continued, "it has been so long since I actually felt that way. My job is important, beyond a doubt, but you have been slowly teaching me that it is the other things that can make someone great. Can make them happy." Sherlock paused, hoping that John was receiving his message and would banish all doubts about Sherlock from his mind. He wasn't leaving, and he wasn't giving John up.

For the sake of irrevocable clarity Sherlock looked up into John's eyes and spoke again.

"You make me happy, John, and you make me great. You are my humanity, my compassion and my capacity for love. It has always been you. I will always love you."

John sat, shocked into stillness by the emotive display. His heart swelled with hope, with a fierce possessiveness that pushed his towards elation. Suddenly the unclear visions of an uncertain future were deemed unnecessary and John doubted he had even been so relieved in his whole life.

His heart rate must have begun to rise again, in joy rather than panic, because doctors entered the room again to witness their patient and his visitor, the one they had been warned not to try to remove on pain of death, grasping desperately at each other's hands. Sherlock began to pull away as the doctors moved around the bed, looking first down at their entwined fingers and then apprehensively at John. John caught his looks with all the strength and certainty he could muster, holding Sherlock fast to him. Sherlock didn't struggle, instead placed a possessive hand, the one not holding John's, on the blanket above the man's leg, refusing to be moved as the doctors fussed about him again.

John didn't care who saw. In fact, the more the better. He wanted everyone to know that the world's only consulting detective had chosen him. In a voice still hoarse from lack of use, still shaking from the fear of rejection and the prospect of loneliness, and strengthened by the pride and happiness that had swollen his chest, John spoke so that the whole room could hear him.

"I love you too."