Darkness, rich and engulfing, surrounded John, to where he felt like he was swimming in it. Finally, he becomes aware of a steady beeping in the background. Low voices, a familiar antiseptic smell. The darkness brightens and slowly the doctor blinks his eyes open, staring at white ceiling tiles. He can feel coarse hospital sheets under his hands, the weight of a pulse monitor on his finger and IV in his hand. It doesn't take a genius to figure out he's in a hospital. But he can't quite remember what happened that led him there.

Noticing his parched mouth, the blonde soldier tries to turn and reach for the water on his bedside table, only to feel a searing, white-hot pain shoot through his side, causing him to gasp and shift a bit instinctively which only causes more pain to blur and narrow his vision.

A cool hand comes to rest on his cheek before the doctor can think or examine more, the clean scent of soap and tang of chemicals comforting him so that be can focus. When he does, a concerned face hovers over his, blue-green eyes examining him, taking him apart and putting him back together again. The hand moves away from his face, silently holding his shoulder down before those eyes turn away, the light reflecting off his dark curls.

"Try not to move. What do you remember?" Sherlock finally spoke in his soothing baritone, even if his tone also implies how stupid John was for trying to move. Still, there is a tightness around his mouth and eyes that gives away his concern even if he is acting indifferent. Still, he turns to hold a cup of water with a straw to John's mouth so he can drink, and then talk.

After taking a few small drinks of the blissfully cool water, John tries to think, and put his fuzzy thoughts in order. While he is doing that, he notices that the IV has a blood bag attached to it, which means he lost a lot of blood. "Uh.. I don't... I don't really remember what happened. We were at your flat, I was really tired, and then... nothing." He says nervously, not liking not knowing what happened.

"There was a robbery. I was at gunpoint when you woke up. The man was deranged. When you woke up, you came out and surprised the man, he shot you, distracting me so I could deal with him." Sherlock says in a calm, clinical tone, though there is something, some tone behind it that makes the soldier in John metaphorically sit up and take notice.

"How bad?" John immediately asks, lifting his free hand and looking down at himself, putting a hand over where he can feel the bandages on his abdomen. The worst place to have a gunshot wound, he muses, having seen a few in his time. It seems even in London he can't escape the battlefield. And he is starting to feel so tired.. not a good sign.

"They don't know. They said you got through surgery, but it will be touch and go for a while. We didn't expect you to wake you for a few hours. I'm sorry, John. It seems staying with me was not the wisest course of action." Sherlock says sadly as he watches his friend, resting his pale, long-fingered hands over one of John's warmer ones.

John smiles and shakes his head a little, "It's not your fault, Sherlock. You couldn't have known." He reassures, eyes drooping a little as he feels the energy draining from him even from so little activity.

"John. John, don't sleep yet." Sherlock says with a sense of urgency to his tone, leaning over the bed to look down at him. In the background the beeps of the heart monitor get further apart and quieter. "John. I wish you had been here longer, there is so much we could have done, so much I could have shown you. Don't leave me yet." He says in a more desperate tone as he watches the older man's eyes close slowly. In a desperate - yet hearfelt - act, the detective leans down slowly and places a tender - and awkward - kiss on John's chapped lips.

The kiss, unconsciously returned, wakes John up briefly, the heart monitor skipping a beat and betraying him as he stares at the pale man above him. But all too soon the energy fades and his eyes struggle to close even as he struggles to keep them open. "'M sorry, Sherlock. Not going anywhere... just need to rest. Can't wait to.. chat more..." John mumbles in a slurred tone, faintly hearing the beeps flatline as his vision turns dark.

Sherlock turns when he hears the tone, looking incredulously at the monitor, not quite believing what he sees and hears. This cannot be it, after all the letters, how he opened himself up to this man, a day after he arrives in London, he's dead. Right before Christmas, no less. And not killed in action - a death befitting a soldier -, no, not dying to protect a patient, as would befit a doctor. No, he was killed by a common thug, a druggie, someone that Sherlock could have turned into had he not had his rock, his anchor. Reaching out with a shaking hand, Sherlock wraps his fingers around John's wrist to check for a pulse. Nothing.

Nurses rush into the room as Sherlock's vision blurs and a few tears fall silently down his cheeks. He will not rant and rave, not here. He will not display that side of himself here, in front of the nurses, and John. And no matter how tempting, he will not give into the desire for oblivion, for the sweet numbness a needle could bring him. No, he will not do that. John would disapprove. And yet, he cannot stay and hear it out loud, hear the doctors and nurses give the time of death, so he stumbles out into the hall to leave his friend behind.

With a gasp, John sits straight up in his bed, covered in sweat and disoriented. After looking around for a few moments, he realizes where he is, in the guest bedroom at Sherlock's flat. He quickly pats himself down to make sure he's ok as he settles his breathing and tries to recapture the fragments of dream that are floating around in his mind.

The door cracks open slowly, letting in warm, yellowish, flickering light cast by the fireplace, the detective lit from behind in his dressing gown and pajama pants but little else can be seen. "Are you alright?" He asks in an almost hesitant tone, not sure if he heard what he thought he heard and surprisingly not wanting to upset the soldier further.

Squinting into the light, John nods after taking a deep, soothing breath. "Yeah. I'm ok, just a rather odd dream. I can't even remember it now." He admits, the pieces fading too fast for him to hold onto.

"I see. Well. I will let you return to sleep. Goodnight, John." Sherlock says before he turns to go, pulling the door closed behind him, pausing only when the doctor starts talking.

"Thanks for checking in me, I didn't wake you up, did I?" John asks in concern, grabbing the glass of water from his bed side table to take a drink, the chill of the room combining with his drying sweat to give him chills.

Sherlock looks back at the shorter man sitting on the bed, before he inclines his head slowly. "Of course. No, you didn't wake me. I have mastered my body's impulses, so I rarely need to sleep." Sherlock explains, cutting off any further conversation by shutting the door and plunging the bedroom back into complete darkness.

For a moment, John just stares at the closed door before he shrugs, too tired to think about it so he just burrows back under the covers and closes his eyes to drift back into the oblivion of sleep.


Yeah... so I had this idea... Please don't kill me. :) Next chapter is back to your regularly scheduled program. Hope you enjoy, regardless. :)

Reviews/Comments welcome!