When Sherlock woke up, he felt as though he hadn't been sleeping very long. One quick glance around the room told him that was wrong, however, as the light filtering through the curtains was from the morning sun, which meant he'd slept the whole night through. The bed beside him was empty, but the sheets were wrinkled and the pillow was flattened in the shape of John's head. He reached out and skimmed a hand over the mattress. It was cold, and that meant that John had been up for at least an hour. He had no memory of John climbing out of bed. Odd, that John would have left him to wake up alone considering what had happened the night before. Something must have happened to prompt it. The most likely candidate was...

Ah, yes. Sherlock closed his eyes and listened to the soothing sound of John's mental voice, the thoughts running freely through his mind as he chatted with their visitors: Mycroft, Lestrade, and Mummy. He could tell that John was weary but pleased that the three of them had come to see how Sherlock was doing. That was just like John, who clearly didn't realize that this was more of a fishing expedition. Perhaps the concern was genuine on the part of Lestrade and Mummy, but Mycroft would have come for an altogether different reason, of that Sherlock was certain. It was enough to make him throw back the covers and sit up.

Outside, John stood up and excused himself before he padded back to the bedroom. He opened the door and surveyed Sherlock for a moment before he stepped inside, closing the door to give them a modicum of privacy. "Hey," he said gently, his voice soft and affectionate. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine," Sherlock said, which was the easiest answer to give. He discovered that it wasn't entirely true only after he made to stand up, and a variety of bruises and aching muscles suddenly made themselves known to him all at once. The pain was swift and seemed to radiate from every inch of his body, and he couldn't contain the startled gasp that escaped as he doubled over in an instinctive effort to make it stop.

John was at his side instantly, hands firmly catching Sherlock's weight and lowering him back onto the edge of the bed. Falling easily into doctor mode, he crouched down and laid his hands against Sherlock's ribs, searching for anything that might be broken. His touch was every bit as warm and soothing as it had been last night and Sherlock stilled under it, allowing John to make sure that he wasn't in need of further medical attention. John examined him carefully, looking into his eyes, mouth, and ears, examining the bump on his head, and even lightly cupping his swollen genitals before letting go when Sherlock winced. He nodded at last and released a slow breath as he stood up.

"You'll be pretty sore for a handful of days, but I don't think there's any lasting damage," he said. "I'll get you a couple of painkillers so you can move around."

"And you?" Sherlock asked, looking meaningfully at John's side. He could deduce what the answer was before John said it, of course. John was favouring his side when he walked or knelt or sat, the movement an unconscious one until the wound pulled enough to draw his attention back to it. But he had learned, or been told, that it was better to ask when a loved one had been injured.

A small smile crossed John's face. "I'm fine, and yes, thank you for asking," he replied, resting one hand lightly over the bandaged area. "She only skimmed me; I checked it over when I got up."

Sherlock nodded. As expected. "What does Mycroft want?"

"Officially, to check on you," said John. He picked up a glass of water that had been sitting on the stand and handed it to Sherlock. Normally the two of them tossed their pills back dry, but he knew that Sherlock's throat was bordering on painfully dry already. A side effect of the shock he'd been in the night before, no doubt. Sherlock frowned slightly at that but took the glass, drinking half before he swallowed two pills and drank the rest. Pleased, John continued, "Unofficially, he says he needs to speak with you. He won't tell me what it's about, but Greg keeps giving him unimpressed looks so I expect he's got a case for you. It's too soon, Sherlock. You need to rest before you can take on anything else."

"I probably wouldn't accept it anyway," Sherlock said, though admittedly his curiosity was piqued. Mycroft could be a lazy bastard, but the case must have been intriguing for him to risk both the wrath of Mummy and Lestrade by bringing it over so soon after what had happened.

"Yeah right," John said wryly. "I think you forget I can hear exactly what's going through your head, love. And in this case, I wouldn't even need to be able to read your mind to know that you're dying to see what he's brought." He shook his head. "I suppose I can't keep you in here, so come on. You may as well come out and let your mum and Greg see that you're still in one piece."

It still hurt when he stood, but this time Sherlock was prepared for the pain. John fetched him a fresh pair of boxers and his dressing gown and helped him to put both on before they left the room. It was gratifying to see the expression of relief on Mummy's and Lestrade's faces when Sherlock appeared. Even Mycroft looked slightly more at ease, a fact which Sherlock sneered at. He moved stiffly across the room and sat gingerly down in John's chair. "What do you want, Mycroft?"

"Sherlock," Mummy scolded. "Don't speak to your brother like that. He was worried about you. We all were."

"Are you alright?" Lestrade asked to forestall Sherlock's inevitable snipped response, which likely would have provoked a fight of some sort.

"I'm fine," Sherlock replied with a wave of his hand. John snorted as he crossed the room to lean against the back of the chair, but made no comment.

Lestrade didn't look convinced. "Look, Sherlock, I wanted to say - that is, I'm sorry. If I'd known what she was going to do, I would've cuffed her on the ground instead of giving her the chance." It was written there in his face that it had occurred to him that Sophia could've just as easily swung the gun around and shot at Sherlock, not herself. Sherlock had not yet contemplated that, but judging by the way John's hand slipped down to his shoulder and squeezed painfully tight he was the only one who hadn't.

"I'm fine," he repeated more firmly, and this time he meant it.

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