The familiar soft beeping of hospital machinery wakes John up. The sweet grasp of sleep is fully broken by a jagged pulse of pain from his arm as soon as he twitches his fingers. He opens his eyes with a gasp and forces himself to go still when his instinct is to writhe in an effort to get free. Experience has taught him that it never works, the pain will just follow, and, after a long aching moment, the throbbing gradually does subside, though he can still feel it lingering below the surface. Moving his opposite hand doesn't hurt and he lifts it to swipe at his forehead, brushing away the beads of sweat that have broken out.

At first he thinks he's alone in the room but then he sees that he's wrong. The room is fairly large, easily able to accommodate two beds. There, a handful of feet away, is Sherlock, alive and well. Even from where he's lying John can see the man's chest moving up and down as Sherlock sleeps. His head is tilted away from John and he's dressed in one of the dreadful hospital gowns that he normally scorns. One of his hands rests lightly on top of his chest and there's an I.V. in it. His other arm, the wounded one, is tucked down against the hollow of his body and John can see fresh bandages on it.

The relief is strong enough that John has to stay where he is for a long moment, just staring at Sherlock, reaffirming the fact that somehow the bloody man has lived to see another day. Before he can push the blankets back and move, the door opens and Mycroft enters. He doesn't seem surprised to see that John is awake. He closes the door behind him and moves across the room. His umbrella is missing and his suit is wrinkled. It's the most out of sorts that John has ever seen Mycroft Holmes.

"John," Mycroft says and he actually sounds tired. "Are you well?"

It's a serious question and John takes a quick stock of his body. His shoulder is throbbing but that's nothing new. Various muscles ache with pain – no doubt a result of the brawl with Moran – but within a day or two that will subside. He nods. "I'm good enough," he says and the frank honesty of that statement makes Mycroft nod.

"You gave Inspector Lestrade quite a start when you passed out," he says. "Fortunately an ambulance was already en route and both of you were transported to the hospital without further delay. If you are curious to know how he is doing, he was in surgery for some time last night. They removed the bullet and did some minor repair work. He was placed in a private room early this morning and I don't believe he's woken up. You would have your own room as well, but..." He looks at Sherlock and something that might actually be tenderness passes across his face. "I suspected you wouldn't mind having a roommate."

"God no," John agrees. "What happened, Mycroft? Moran said there was a bomb."

"There was. Sherlock was unaware but I had long since suspected that there was a leak in my organization, though I wasn't sure of the origin." Mycroft finally looks back at John. "Our conversation merely confirmed this. In spite of your desire to remain unwatched I sent one of my best operatives to keep an eye on you. I believe you know her as Anthea? When she saw you and Lestrade leaving the hotel, she remained behind and apprehended Tobias Gregson while he was trying to set up the bomb in the hotel's kitchen."

"He got free, then," says John. He supposes he should be angry at Mycroft for deliberately ignoring his wishes but in the end Mycroft saved Sherlock's life and that is more than worth it.

Mycroft actually smirks. "Yes, unfortunately. One of your neighbours heard the man calling for help and set him free. I'm afraid your flat no longer has a door."

"Wonderful." Though he supposes that it doesn't matter. All he wants now is to go back to Baker Street with Sherlock. The little flat where he was living has never really felt like home and he doesn't need to go back; he'd willingly abandon everything there for the chance to go home. He looks over at the other bed again. Mycroft follows his gaze and both of them are silent for a long moment, observing the man that they have fought so hard to protect.

"Thank you, John," Mycroft says quietly.

John looks back at him. At the honest sincerity in Mycroft's face, he swallows and ducks his head in a nod. Mycroft nods back at him and turns, heading towards the door with one last wistful glance at Sherlock. He shuts the door behind him again, leaving the two men alone, and John doesn't waste any time. He pushes the covers back and slides off of the bed, wincing as his feet impact the cold floor. He pads across the room to Sherlock's bed so that he can get a closer look.

The information on Sherlock's clipboard looks good and his forehead isn't nearly as warm as it was the last time John checked it. Relieved, John leans against the bed, staring down at him. He's not entirely over the fear that Sherlock will disappear again. Right now he wants nothing more than to never let the man out of his sight, however impossible that may be. He sighs and reaches down to tuck that wayward curl out of Sherlock's face, not entirely surprised when the verdigris eyes open and look up at him.

"Hey," he says gently, "how are you feeling?"

"It seems I should be asking you that," says Sherlock. His voice is rough, hoarse with sleep, but he's lucid, dreamy eyes sharp as he looks John over. "Moran?"

"Dead," John replies, feeling a flicker of satisfaction at the memory. "I put a bullet through his head."

Sherlock nods and closes his eyes. He reaches out to grasp at John's wrist, long fingers winding around the delicate bones, and tugs gently. Getting the hint, John crawls awkwardly onto a bed that's not really big enough for two. He ends up half on top of Sherlock and half on the bed, but even though it causes some of his worse bruises to ache he doesn't mind; there's no where he'd rather be. And judging by the firm arm Sherlock winds around his waist, he feels the same way. They fall asleep together like that and it's good.

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