If I apologised

It wouldn't make it all unhappen

Wouldn't make the darkness go away

If I apologised

It wouldn't mean I was forgiven

Wouldn't mean you wanted me to stay

If I apologised

We could be the perfect couple

Well we could, but only in my mind

John shifted slightly in the uncomfortable plastic dip of the chair, clutching the folder between the fingers and palm of his left hand. The sign on the door was made hastily - with a felt tip pen - the first V made carefully, then, the i following in sloppy, misaligned placements of ink as though the writer gave up as soon as they began. John had been with Sherlock too long not to notice these things, though he added the shame that the name had not been completed with the same finesse it started with; as though the story was uncared for.

Checking his watch again - the third time in the past ten minutes - John considered binning the entire idea. Oh, he knew, knew how- no, but he needed to do it. Or maybe it was just…

He cared too much to dither on the matters of privacy. He had time yet to re-cultivate his principled soul.

The blonde haired doctor rounded the corner and paused when he laid eyes on his replacement.

Replacement?

No.

He might have felt that way.

John winced.

"Can I help you?" Doctor Trevor asked, after re-establishing his air of professionalism. John stood, but did not move forward. Doctor Trevor motioned toward the folder in his hand. "Ah, is it about-" he fixed his stance to be more upright, "-Mr. Holmes?"

John gave him a pleading look.

"I could speak to you for a moment if you have a question about the file, but I'm really not his doctor anymore, I can't-"

"I know how wildly inappropriate this is." John stated, measuring his breathing. Doctor Trevor breathed in deeply and scratched nervously at a spot on his inner forearm. John studied Doctor Trevor's resolute lack of eye contact. After a few moments, Doctor Trevor licked his lips and wrapped his long, slim fingers around the office door handle.

"It is my professional opinion that he will recover in time, and you will be able to inquire as to his previous-"

"And what about your unprofessional opinion?" John pursed his lips, crossing his left arm over his chest and resting his right on the side of his balled fist, dragging his forefinger along his upper lip.

Doctor Trevor chuckled almost imperceptibly.

"You're a doctor. Tell me, what would you say?"

"Piss off." John didn't miss a beat.

"Good to know he found someone with better resolve." Doctor Trevor raised his eyebrows at John.

"Not in the least," John replied, shaking his head slightly.

"Why did you stop practising?"

"What told you I stopped?"

"The same thing that makes you ask what instead of who."

John tipped his head back slightly, swallowing.

"Then you have your answer."

"But you are highly trained. You stopped practising complicated medicine."

"I worked surgery after the war. Not glamorous, but gets the job done."

"And which job would that be?"

"No," John shook his head, laughing lightly, "I'm not playing this. I've done this before. I'm sorry for wasting your time, doctor. I won't bother trying to work out yet another story of Sherlock's." John let his hands fall to his sides and turned to walk away.

"You must think me an awful person, Doctor Watson," Doctor Trevor called out. John stopped and hung his head, turning slowly on his heels. He crossed his arms again and made eye contact with Doctor Trevor.

"No, Doctor Trevor," he sighed, and was about to continue when Doctor Trevor interrupted him.

"Please, Victor," he gave him an apologetic look.

"Victor. Right." John pursed his lips. "I don't think you're an awful person. I think you did what you had to do."

"And is that what you're doing, now? What you have to do? How much did he even tell you?"

"Well, obviously, you know Sherlock. He doesn't explain much about himself."

"You're different, though."

John scratched his head. "I don't know. I just know I owe him a lot."

Victor winced visibly.

"I did care about him a lot. I just-"

"Didn't care enough to take the needle-"

"John." Victor implored. John swallowed.

"Right. What would you say if I asked you to apologize." John kept his glare trained on Victor's darting eyes.

"I…"

"I came after you, despite knowing to let sleeping dogs lie. Because, yeah, maybe I am different. Maybe I'm the only mad arsed person alive who can tolerate and take care of that imbecile at his worst times. But I am doing this for him. He needs-"

"You."

John stopped, huffing out a breath.

"Don't turn this back around on me. I'm sure you know more than you're letting on," John said, his tone low, stern.

"I may have read a few articles, yes. Not for being wont to do so - mostly on accident. I know you've been with him for a while, and I know that means you're staying. He doesn't need me begging on my knees. He just needs you. That's all. Sherlock is far simpler than anyone could ever imagine."

"Oh, couldn't I? So, then, tell me; did you read the part about him jumping from a rooftop to save his friends, or the part about him being a fraud?" John pursed his lips and touched his forefinger to his mouth, frowning.

Victor swallowed hard and clenched a fist.

"Please-"

"Please, what? You want a man who clearly valued his friends more than anyone could think to go about his life believing he just wasn't good enough?"

"I had hoped that's what you were there for." Victor said, his voice calm and steady.

John narrowed his eyes and shook his head, laughing, moving to walk away.

Victor opened his mouth to say something, but resigned himself to silence and turned to go into his room.

And every demon wants his pound of flesh

But I like to keep some things to myself

I like to keep my issues drawn

It's always darkest before the dawn

Shake it out, shake it out, shake it out, shake it out, oh whoa

And it's hard to dance, with the devil on your back

So shake him off, oh whoa

"Doctor Watson, you have impeccable timing," Doctor Smith said as she emerged from Sherlock's unit. "He's just waking up from that last round of morphine. He's making progress, I think he'll start forming short sentences, soon. Go on," she urged him into the room. John nodded to her and walked in, still heavy-hearted at the sight of all the monitors around Sherlock that were measuring brain waves and movement. Molly would not be back for hours, as she had to return to the morgue. John could sit with Sherlock in silence until the tall, good detective could speak.

John cleared his throat, standing a few feet from Sherlock's bedside. The alabaster man was even thinner than he used to be, even paler, but he was breathing. John moved over to the chair by the corner of the wall and pulled it up next to the bed. He sat heavily, and watched the slow, steady intake of breath stir the blankets covering his best friend. Slightly hesitant, he reached out a hand and covered Sherlock's own with it. He should've been surprised by the warmth emanating from the cold, white skin, but he wasn't. Touching that hand, he felt the same warmth he had felt when running alongside him to escape the police, the same warmth in the cab when their fingers just barely brushed past each other, the same warmth when Sherlock had grabbed him by the arm to tell him I've just got one. Just got one. John clenched his jaw and leaned forward, resting his head on Sherlock's hip. Dear God, he was tired. He could just… take a quick nap. Fall asleep to the soothing warmth of Sherlock's body and the reassuring rise and fall of his chest. The chest that no longer needed help from an alien tube, no longer covered in quite so many wires. The alien wires and tubes that had bit at John's heart as he remembered everything before… before. The tubes couldn't make Sherlock less human if they became sentient and wanted to. John closed his eyes.

"Mmph."

John frowned into the blankets covering Sherlock.

A slight cough.

"Joh…"

John had lifted his head, curled his hand around Sherlock's and moved the other to Sherlock's shoulder before he even realized what he was doing. Sherlock moved his head, with effort, the slightest bit to face John, his eyes just barely open, mouth moving almost imperceptibly.

John Watson was in the war. He was a fighter, a healer, a protector. He watched people walk to their deaths with a heavy heart, but a calm face, steadying his breathing whilst his heart tried to leap out of his chest. He had watched Sherlock jump from a building, and had collapsed almost silently in front of him, no coherent sentences finding their way out of his mouth. But he had also moved on, and he had regained his composure, regained his strength. So, when John Watson's best friend is finally recovering from a coma, a seizure, and the toxic surge of drugs through his blood, and is finally opening his mouth to say the first word he has said in weeks - which appears to be a hopeful attempt at John's own name - what else would John Watson do in response except-

"Oh, God, Sherlock. Hey, hey. You alright? You alright? Don't move, no, it's ok, you're ok, Jesus. Do you need water? You need water. You probably can't eat yet, what do the nurses have you on… all sorts of nauseating medicines, no doubt. You should-"

Sherlock gripped John's hand back and immediately, John was silenced for a moment.

"Sherlock. Are you alright?" he asked, quietly. Because that was all that actually needed saying, it's just that John Watson's soldier brain had finally decided that a plethora of words were necessary where only a smile and a nod most likely would've done. But John Watson was different, wasn't he?

Sherlock coughed again slightly, heavy-lidded eyes trying to concentrate on John as he reached into the air, mumbling, "m…more..morphnn..", to which John only laughed and said, "not in your wildest."

And so, it was again, that they were John and Sherlock.