Warning: strong language abounds within. Reader discretion is advised.

"Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?"
― J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows

John couldn't remember what he was meant to have done to land himself in solitary this time. Harris being Harris, it could have been anything, really. The prison officer would have found any excuse to bang him up…John could have looked at him the wrong way, or stepped out of line on the way to sosh, or spoken too loudly, or–

A sudden, sharp pain through his gut cut short both his thoughts and his breath; he instinctively bit back a groan as he tried to fold in on himself. Ah, yes – he remembered now. Before he'd been dragged down here, Cartwright, Biddle and Hayward had had him down on the floor, kicking him. Though he'd curled himself into a fetal position so that the majority of the vicious blows landed on his back, he took a few nasty kicks to the stomach – bad ones. The pain was excruciating, and he thought he might have a fever; he was burning and freezing by turns in the dark, dank chill of the isolation cell. John swallowed and automatically began to diagnose himself.

Severe pain on left side of the abdomen under the rib cage; pain in left shoulder – residual from my old shoulder wound, aggravated by the blows? Could be, but could also be irritated nerves due to the injury affecting the left side of the diaphragm originating from the same location.

"Possible ruptured spleen," he muttered aloud. It was too dark to tell if his vision was blurred, but he was definitely light-headed and having trouble staying focused–

"No," a deep voice broke into his scattered thoughts. "You are suffering from peritonitis."

John turned his head to the side on the tattered bare mattress and momentarily forgot the pain in the sudden flash of pure joy that shot through him when he saw Sherlock. Even knowing he wasn't real couldn't stop John from tearing up in his gratitude.

"Back again, are you?" he said huskily.

Sherlock frowned slightly. "I…I haven't left."

John's brow furrowed. That was odd. Whenever he encountered Sherlock in this desolate place, he always saw the detective sitting in his accustomed leather-upholstered chair from Baker Street, leaning back casually, one leg crossed over the other, elbows on the arms of the chair and fingers steepled before his face. He always presented in profile, only meeting John's ardent gaze with occasional, sidewise glances.

This version of Sherlock created by his sensory-deprived mind was different. Instead of his accustomed Le Corbusier armchair, he was sitting on an uncomfortable-looking plastic straight chair or stool – it was difficult for John to tell precisely because the detective was actually facing John this time, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and focusing his full deductive gaze on John's face with an intensity that matched the doctor's own. Sherlock was wearing his usual suit, but now it was rumpled and his curly hair was disheveled. His face was white and strained and his eyes were bloodshot. He looked…well, he looked positively shattered, and John frowned, puzzled as to why his mind would conjure up an image of Sherlock in such a state, especially when John had never seen him so before.

No matter. He was here – that's what was important.

"John?" Sherlock said. Oddly, his voice was hesitant, unsure. "Are you with me?"

John shook his head slightly in response to Sherlock's query. "You're with me."

Now it was Sherlock's turn to look puzzled. He seemed discomfited at the way John kept his gaze locked onto his face, as though he feared Sherlock would disappear if he looked away.

A sudden bite of pain flared through John's midsection and radiated up to his shoulder, causing the doctor to wince and catch his breath. He heard Sherlock shift.

"John…"

"I think I may have…a ruptured spleen." John repeated in a faint whisper.

"I told you, you have peritonitis, John, complicated by–"

John huffed a laugh, even though it hurt. "I'm giving myself two possible diagnoses, now, am I – one as me, one as you? That's…different." He opened his eyes again and was relieved to see that Sherlock was still there, sitting straighter now and looking pale and alarmed, but wonderfully, reassuringly present.

Sherlock leaned forward, reaching for John's hand. "John, listen to me–"

"No!" John cried, jerking his hand away. Sherlock drew back, startled. "Don't touch me! You always disappear when I try to reach you–"

"John, I'm not going anywhere, I promise you!" Sherlock raised his hands to his head in sudden agitation.

John closed his eyes in despair. "You're not real."

"Then what am I?" He sounded so familiarly frustrated that John thought for a moment he had to be real, but he was determined not to give into false hope yet again.

"An image my mind created to keep me from going mad in here," he replied through gritted teeth.

Sherlock stared at him in wonder. "John…are you saying you've created a Mind Palace for yourself?"

John closed his eyes and turned his head away. "No…a mind prison."

He couldn't stop trembling. This cell was so cold…but he was hot, too. How could he be so sodding hot and cold at the same time? But he had experienced this before, hadn't he? He vaguely remembered how, after he was shot and developed a rampant infection, he'd had a raging fever. They'd wrapped him in a water-circulating cooling blanket; the sensation had felt like this…shivering and burning, burning and shivering.

Maybe he wasn't in the isolation pad, after all…maybe he was back in the Healthcare Centre under Joseph's watchful eye. Wait, didn't he have the flu? Or had that been another time?

His breath stuttered in his chest as a wave of grief nearly bowled him over. Joseph was dead. Joseph was dead and Sherlock was dead.

Above and around him, voices he couldn't quite recognize faded in and out, murmuring words he couldn't quite understand:

"…hyperpyrexia …peritonitis…sepsis…class of toxin…"

"...dehydration…electrolyte imbalance…septic shock…seizure…"

"...antibiotics… can't use anti-pyretics due to…IVTM catheter to the subclavian…external cooling measures…"

For a moment he thought he was an intern again. He must have fallen asleep between shifts. He wondered idly who the poor sod was that they were talking about.

A deep voice somewhere over his head: "...John? ...hear me?"

He didn't know. He didn't think so.

His eyes burned in their sockets like live coals buried deep in his skull. Unable to bear it any longer, he tried to claw them out with his own hooked forefingers, but a pair of long, slim hands closed round his wrists, restraining him.

"John, stop. Stop!"

He forced his eyes open and gazed blearily through the heat-haze at a drawn, white face, dark curls on end. It looked like Sherlock – a distraught Sherlock – but it couldn't be Sherlock, because Sherlock was dead.

"Please," he whispered to the apparition. "Please…my eyes…"

The ghost Sherlock reached for the light switch. He froze, fingers centimeters from the switch, when John cried out in alarm.

"No! God, no...don't…don't put out the light." John's voice sank to a cracked, pleading whisper.

"I'll dim it," the Sherlock ghost said tensely. "See? I'm just dimming it."

The glare that had been spiking through his head eased, but he could still see. John sighed in relief.

"Thank you."

He jerked into wakefulness on the couch in 221b, heart pounding and brow sweaty. He didn't remember lying down for a kip, but he must have done. Blinking to clear his foggy vision, he spotted Sherlock sitting in his own chair across from him. He wasn't playing the violin or reading. He didn't even appear to be wandering the corridors of his Mind Palace, but was instead staring at John intently in the most disconcerting way.

John hated when he did that. He opened his mouth to tell the wanker to bugger off, but instead asked suddenly, "Did you remember to get milk?"

Sherlock blinked. "Did I…what?"

"Milk," John said impatiently. (God, his throat hurt. So did his head. So did everything, come to think of it…was he ill? He couldn't remember.) "Did you pick up the milk while you were out like you said you would?" He demanded.

Nonplussed, Sherlock stared at him. "I – no."

John groaned. "Christ, why do you have to be so fucking lazy?"

As he turned his head away he caught sight of the strangest look on Sherlock's face – it seemed to be a mixture of frank bafflement, faint amusement, and deep concern. Too tired to try to suss out the meaning behind that look, John wearily closed his eyes.

God, he felt awful.

He didn't realize he was sobbing until Sherlock's voice, full of anguish, broke through the dark fog surrounding him.

"John. John. For God's sake, what is it? Tell me! Shall I call your doctor?"

John gave a hollow laugh that was partly a sob. "You can't…he's dead. Heart failure...I missed it somehow...oh, God."

Blinking the water from his burning eyes, he turned his face towards the apparition in his cell. "Back again?" he asked, voice rough with tears. "I must really be cracking up…seeing you even when I'm not in solitary now."

He didn't understand why the detective should close his eyes at that, looking strained, nor why he whispered in such a hopeless, defeated sort of way, "Oh, John." But it hurt, and he already hurt so much, so John averted his eyes.

"Got a letter from that lawyer your brother set me up with," he ground out. "They're adding two years onto my sentence. Two sodding years. I've served eighteen months already and it feels like a bloody lifetime." Feeling the tears threatening to make a reappearance, John squeezed his traitorous eyes shut. "I have no hope of getting out of here for at least eight years, and that's if I'm really lucky." He swallowed hard, and his voice sank to a whisper. "Even if it was less I couldn't…God, I just can't. I can't do it anymore, Sherlock."

Opening his eyes again, John looked seriously at the vision of Sherlock in the cell with him. He felt so sick and so miserable and so defeated that he spoke candidly in a way he could never have done if the vision were real.

"The day you jumped off Bart's rooftop was the worst day of my life," he told the Sherlock-vision flatly, and he marveled at the way his foolish mind made it pale and wince. "That's the only reason I haven't topped myself before this – I didn't want to put anyone else through that, especially not Greg and Mrs. Hudson – God, poor Mrs. Hudson!" John closed his eyes again as a large, hard lump rose in his throat; he had to fight to swallow it down so he could continue. "I hate to – I hate - but I can't do this anymore, not even for her, I just can't. I can't!"

"John–"

"I hate myself for it, but I've reached the end of my rope, Sherlock." John opened his eyes and looked earnestly at the stricken vision of his friend.

"I've made up my mind. I have the means now…the scalpel Joseph left behind," John whispered. He smiled weakly. "You bloody idiot...so brilliant, and so full of contradictions. I would have followed you to the ends of the earth, mad child that you were." He closed his eyes. Swallowed. "Seems only fitting I should follow you one last time."

He was surprised when the apparition suddenly sprang up, the sound of the chair's metal feet screeching in a shockingly real way across the bare floor; the sound hurt John's oversensitive ears and he flinched. Before he could protest or draw away, one of Sherlock's hands closed about his own wrist; it felt solid and icy, and John wondered if, instead of a hallucination, he faced a ghost. But before he could wrap his head around the thought Sherlock's face was leaning in close, and his silvery eyes were fierce as he spoke in a low, harsh whisper.

"Listen to me. Are you listening? I. Am not. Dead. I'm not dead, and neither are you, though you already tried to…to f-follow me." Sherlock's voice quavered briefly, and he swallowed. "You're hallucinating, John…I don't know exactly what you're seeing, but I can guess–"

"You never guess," John whispered with a slight smile.

Taken off guard, Sherlock smiled back briefly, then grew grave again as he continued. "I do when what's in front of me is so obvious I don't even need to deduce it. You already tried to die once, John, but you're still alive, and so am I, and you're not in prison anymore. Your idiot doctors told me not to agitate you by trying to challenge your delusions, but you can't despair because there's no need, John! You can't give up in your mind because you're alive, and if you'll only fight to keep on living you'll see that you're free, you're safe, you can come home. John, for God's sake, believe me – the worst is over!"

His voice had risen to a quiet, impassioned shout, and oh, how John wanted to believe him. But hope was a dangerous thing. He turned his face away.

"No, it's not. It will never be over, never."

A thin, burning, vile liquid filled his nose and mouth, gagging him, choking him, he couldn't breathe–

"John?" The voice sounded foggy, as though its owner were half asleep. "What–? Oh, God. Hang on, just…"

There was movement at his side, then he was being lifted into a sitting position. It hurt and he couldn't keep from groaning, but at least now he could breathe. He swallowed and then gagged again slightly at the feel of a nasogastric tube in his throat.

"Hold on, John." There was a click, and a moment later the sound of a door opening and rubber-soled shoes on linoleum.

"What–? Mr. Holmes, the patient should not be hauled around like a–"

"So you imbeciles would prefer I allow him to choke on his own vomit?!"

"Oh – oh dear. Hold on, I'll be back in a tick…" The footsteps hurried away again.

John suddenly knew that voice. "Sherlock?"

The supporting arm behind his back moved up and down slightly. "You with me, John?"

"Hm." John wearily rested his head against the steady shoulder. It stiffened a moment as though its owner was surprised; then the arm holding him up firmly drew him in closer.

In that moment, John didn't give a damn if people talked. He wasn't sure what they were waiting for, but he was content to remain as he was, leaning trustfully against his best mate, absorbing his warmth and strength into his own cold, failing body.

After a long silence, he heard a whisper.

"You shouldn't have come between Moran and me, John. I'd…I'd trade places with you, if I could."

"Like I'd let you," John huffed. He heard a low chuckle and smiled slightly in return. They lapsed into silence again and John dozed.

Next thing he knew he was being lowered to the mattress; a woman's voice told him they'd have him cleaned up in a tick. All but naked under the cooling blanket, he shivered at the sudden exposure, and again as a damp flannel smelling faintly of alcohol was used to wipe him down. He instinctively tried to pull away when a dampened oral swab flavored with mint was swirled briskly around the inside of his mouth, but relaxed when he realized what it was. He tried to open his eyes, but winced at the light. With deft hands, the nurse covered him with a fresh sheet and left.

"Sherlock." He was almost too tired to get the word out, but down near his feet a low voice answered.

"I'm here, John. I'm here."

He didn't say so, but he wished he could lean against that warm and familiar shoulder again. It had been ages since he'd felt so at peace.

As though sensing his thoughts, a hand closed over his foot through the blanket.

Shivering and burning, burning and shivering. Sharp pain, morphine, dull pain; sharp pain, morphine, dull pain…rinse and repeat. He skipped through his memories like some sort of bloody Time Lord, or maybe it was his surroundings that kept shifting, for wherever he was – the Afghan desert, a dreary bedsit, an untidy yet cozy flat in Central London, a rundown house in Chelmsford, a prison cell – he was always sick, always freezing and burning, always hurting. Too weak to sit up, hating the dark but unable to abide the light due to his too-sensitive eyes, confused and befuddled.

He knew, on some level, that he was really in hospital, but he constantly forgot why he was there. "What happened? Will you tell me what happened?"

Sherlock was always, always there to answer him, but he didn't know if it was a real Sherlock or one his mind had created, and he couldn't make sense of the answers.

He was propped with pillows on his right side; the lights were dimmed. He started to shift on his bunk, but groaned at the agony this caused.

"Are you in pain?" Sherlock was there in the cell with him again, sitting closer this time.

"They hurt me," John whispered, quite without meaning to.

The detective looked murderous. "Who did?"

"All of them."

He closed his eyes and swallowed hard. His throat hurt. It almost felt as though there was a tube in it, but that couldn't be right…

"Harris had me down on the floor and was kicking me…no, wait. That was my dad, wasn't it?"

"Your…?" John opened his eyes. Sherlock looked horrified.

"Yeah, that was my dad, a long time ago...I forget. He was just one," John explained. "But your 'fan club' now…there's five of them I think – I can't remember."

His eyes had slipped closed again. When he opened them, he was gratified to see that Sherlock was still there.

John held out his hand. "Hey."

Sherlock blinked, nonplussed. John didn't blame him...he was surprised himself. It wasn't the sort of thing he did. He was even more surprised when Sherlock actually took his hand, both because it wasn't the sort of thing Sherlock did, and because John thought he could actually feel the cool, long-fingered hand in his own.

Strange dream. So realistic. "You feel real."

"I am real, John."

"Well, real to me, yeah." John chuckled, then frowned, trying to focus his thoughts. He was so sodding hot. "That is – I know you for real. Knew you for real. I told you that, didn't I? Or was that something I thought of…After?"

"You told me," Sherlock said solemnly.

John sighed, closing his eyes again. He gave the hand in his a gentle squeeze. "I know you're only in my head, but I've missed you, you know? You were my best mate."

"You've said. Why, John? Why am I your best friend?"

He opened his eyes. The Sherlock apparition looked shy, curious, and eager to know. John hesitated. But really, what could it hurt now?

"You told me once…that you weren't a hero," he said lowly. Then, with a short laugh that was almost a sob, "There were times I didn't think you were even human!"

Sherlock smiled sadly. His eyes had misted over.

John grinned, then grew serious again. His eyes filled with tears, but he made an effort to speak steadily.

"Let me tell you this, you daft bugger: you were the best man, and the most human human being that I've ever known."

Sherlock, hanging on to his hand, looked stricken. "John…"

"I'm fucked up, Sherlock. I've always been. I don't let people get close because I'm afraid. Afraid they'll find out how fucked up I am. Afraid I'll hurt them. I could, too – hurt people, I mean. I'm angry, Sherlock. I'm an angry person. Sometimes I get so angry it's hard to contain it. I was always like that. Maybe it was my fucked-up family life that made me that way, I don't know. People like me…God knows why. They think I'm a bit of all right, but they don't see…see what I'm like, inside."

John blinked back the tears, took a deep breath, and looked intently into Sherlock's grey eyes.

"You knew me – knew me right away. I never felt like I had to hide with you. I could breathe deep, I wasn't on edge. You knew how fucked up I was and you were all right with that." His voice broke a little. "I was so alone, and I owe you so much."

Sherlock, holding onto his hand for dear life, closed his eyes, closed his mouth, and bowed his head.

"Who are you," he demanded hoarsely. "Who the hell are you?" He struggled to face this apparition, but his arms seemed to have become boneless things he could no longer control.

"Dr. Watson, you need to calm down…you'll tear your staples–"

He didn't give a damn if he hurt himself if he could only throttle the smarmy bastard in the Westwood suit who stood by the door, smirking at him.

Suddenly Sherlock was there, holding him down. John was so weak the detective had only to lay his hands on his shoulders to immobilize him. John batted ineffectually at his arms.

"Dammit, Sherlock, let me go! I have to – don't you see he's…he's somehow the cause of all this!"

Moriarty made a strange sound at that, as though John had said something hurtful. Manipulative cock.

Still bending over John with his hands on the doctor's shoulders, Sherlock looked over his own shoulder at Moriarty. "Get out, Mycroft," he hissed, "can't you see your presence is agitating him?!"

John froze, his eyes darting incredulously back to Sherlock's. "Sherlock, what are you on about?" He cried roughly. "That's him – that's Moriarty!"

Now both Moriarty and Sherlock were looking at him in shock. Moriarty actually looked relieved for a moment, then had the audacity to take a step towards him.

"John, I assure you, I am not–"

But John wasn't fooled by the reassuring tone. "You murdering bastard," he ground out. With sudden strength he knocked Sherlock's hands aside and pushed himself up, crying out at the pain that ripped through his abdomen as he did so. "You killed him! You killed us…I don't care what I have to–!"

Then Sherlock, who had staggered back in shock at John's sudden lunge, was pushing him down again. "John, John, stop–!"

A woman in a white lab coat appeared suddenly. "Nurse, we need a sedative here, please!" She turned to Moriarty and took his arm. "I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes – he evidently does not recognize you. You had better leave."

As Moriarty exited John cried out, "That's not Mycroft, you bloody idiots! It's Moriarty, and he's getting away! Sherlock, you have to run…he'll kill you–"

"John, Moriarty is dead. He killed himself." Sherlock looked distressed, but not for the reason he should have been.

John stared at him wildly, his eyes wide and wet. "So did you!"

"I faked mine, John, remember?" Sherlock's voice rose.

"Mr. Holmes, it's no use trying to reason with him."

And then a man dressed in white approached the IV pole on John's left, a syringe in his hand. John panicked – if they sedated him, he would not be able to protect his friends, protect Sherlock…

"Sherlock…Sherlock!" he gasped. "For the love of God, don't let them–"

"I'm so sorry, John." Were his lips actually trembling?

The room faded away to be replaced by a surprisingly clear image of a nine-year-old Harry, her sandy blonde hair fought into two plaits that bounced on her shoulders as she skipped rope, chanting: "Spider, spider, on the bus...soppy Jane that made a fuss..."

Moran was standing over him, crossbow in hand.

"You're like me," he hissed, "you're like me. Say it."

"I'm not like you," John said harshly, but he was terrified nonetheless.

"You're a tool, Watson. Nothing but a fucking tool, and you know it! Holmes doesn't give a damn about you, any more than Jim Moriarty gave a damn about me."

"Yeah?" John ground out, opening his eyes to glare at him. "Then why did he run into an obvious trap when you used me as bait? Would dear Jim have done that for you?"

With a cry of rage Moran released the bolt – but, to John's horror, the sniper was aiming at Sherlock, who had, seemingly out of nowhere, suddenly materialized.

"No!"

John leapt between them. A white-hot bolt of pain exploded within him like a supernova, blotting out his vision.

He blinked hard, trying to clear his foggy eyesight. Near the door, Mycroft stood glowering down at a middle-aged woman whose face was as white as her lab coat.

"If he dies, you'll never work again." Mycroft's voice was chilling in its precise softness. "I'll see your medical license is revoked permanently…you'll never practice medicine anywhere, I promise you."

"You really are an Ice Man," John murmured as the doctor, looking frightened, scuttled away. "But not when it comes to Sherlock. I think I can forgive you just about anything, owing to that…that you give a damn about Sherlock."

Seeing John was awake, Mycroft stepped closer to the bed. "Sherlock is not the one who is ill, John." His voice was almost gentle.

John frowned. "But why should you give a damn about me?" he asked, bemused.

Mycroft's lips moved into a slight, sad smile. "To 'give a damn' about Sherlock is to 'give a damn' about you, John…and vice versa, I believe."

John closed his eyes. It was incomprehensible.

The next time he opened them, he was mildly surprised to see Harry sitting on a bunk opposite to his own (odd, that, since his was a single-occupancy cell). She was sitting with her knees together and her hands folded in her lap in a hunched posture reminiscent of their childhood. The illusion was further enhanced by the evidence on her face that she had obviously been crying, though she wasn't now.

When she saw him studying her, she said timidly, "Do you know me this time, John?"

He didn't know what she meant, but when he tried to ask her he found he couldn't speak – his dry throat wouldn't let him form the words. She went on without seeming to notice.

"You have no bloody idea, do you…how much you mean to me?"

John just looked at her.

"I remember when they brought you home," she said, her voice trembling. "I'd been so lonely, and I was so excited to have a little brother. I loved holding you, and wheeling you about in your pram, and looking after you. I never cared when they had me mind you. And as you got bigger you looked up to me like I was the sodding queen. That…made up for so many things."

She gave a watery sort of laugh, then seemed to swallow back the tears.

"You were the one bright thing in that awful house. You can't possibly know how much I loved you…or how much you scared the hell out of me, John."

She looked at him seriously with bloodshot eyes; he tried to say her name, but again his voice caught in his throat.

"I remember one summer we spent with Granddad McLean in Scotland," she said in a low voice, looking down at her folded hands. "You were seven, and I was thirteen. I was supposed to be watching you while Granddad was at the surgery – he was only semi-retired then. I was in my room, reading, and then it was lunchtime and I went to look for you."

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath before continuing.

"I went into the garden to find you, and you were up in that old sycamore tree. Remember that tree? It got blown down in a gale the following winter. You were about seventy feet off the ground by the time I spotted you, and climbing higher all the time."

She looked up again and tried to smile, but her eyes were haunted.

"I thought I'd die of fear right on the spot. I wanted to scream your name, beg you to come down, but I was scared that if I startled you you'd fall. I saw you fall in my mind, John – I imagined it so vividly. I could see your little body twisting as you fell through the air, hear the crunch when you landed, and pictured you on the ground, all bloody and broken."

Now her voice was trembling, and she had to blink back tears.

"When you'd reached the ground again, I was so relieved I could have cried – and so fucking furious with you for scaring me like that. I screamed at you. I slapped you so hard you fell down." She let out a sob. "Just like Dad might have…"

Harry took a deep breath; her voice was calmer, but full of self-loathing as she continued. "To this day I can remember the look of shock on your face when I hit you. You didn't cry...you just stared at me, so surprised and bewildered and hurt. Only a moment earlier you'd come up to me looking so proud of yourself...and I hit you. You didn't understand why I was so upset and angry. I hated myself so much..."

John tried to corral his skittering thoughts. Odd that he couldn't picture this, when his mind so obviously recalled it.

"It seemed like you never had any fear," Harry continued, crying in earnest now. "You kept getting into these situations…the White Knight, charging round with his sword drawn, out to save the world. You'd even provoke Dad so he'd go after you instead of me...it was like all the fear you should have had but didn't went into me. I couldn't stand the thought of you being hurt, or…or worse. And then you joined the bloody army."

She laughed again, and this time it had a slightly hysterical note. She put her hands over her face and spoke through her fingers.

"I know you thought I was selfish, that I was so angry and upset because I thought you didn't have any thought for me – that I felt like you were abandoning me. It's what I wanted you to think, John. I didn't want to admit that it was because I was scared out of my wits. When Clara told me they called to let us know you'd been shot, it was like my worst nightmare come true."

Even though he was sure this wasn't real, his heart was moved so that John finally was able to make his parched tongue form the words.

"I miss you, Harry. I've always missed you."

She got up then and came to him. He closed his eyes as she brushed the damp hair back from his burning forehead and pressed her lips against his wet brow.

The fever waxed and waned. During one of the waning periods he found he could remember who he was, and where and why.

"Sher-lock." He had to clear his throat to get it out; it sounded more like a croak. He was drenched in sweat and shivering.

He heard someone rise from across the room and approach his bed. "John?"

The voice was timid, feminine. "Molly?" She came closer, and he could just make her out in the dim light. "Timezzit?" It felt late.

"Just gone half two in the morning," she said softly. "Sherlock's in the lab…been going nearly nonstop, what with sitting with you and trying to isolate the subspecies of boophone disticha that Moran's arrowhead was coated with. He asked me to sit with you while he–"

"Poison," John mumbled. "Lovely."

"It's not a fatal poison on its own," Molly hastened to explain. "But it seems to be interfering with the medications they're using to treat the peritonitis, including the antibiotics."

"Mmhm," John mumbled, closing his eyes. He tried to think about this, but then he could feel his face flushing as his body began to warm again. His ears started ringing, and when Molly said his name her voice sounded far away.

Hours later – or maybe it was only a few minutes – he thought he could hear Sherlock's voice, low, sharp, and stern.

"Why didn't you call me?"

"There wasn't time…he was only lucid for a minute or two–"

"And I missed it…I might not get another chance to–"

"Sherlock, don't think like that–"

The voices sped up, faster and faster, then slowed down unbearably, and all the while they moved farther and farther away, until finally John could no longer hear them.

Then came a time when he was not confused, when he knew exactly where he was and understood all too well what was happening to him. It was as though the fever, instead of befuddling his senses, now sharpened them to razor acuity. But being in his right mind was no comfort to him, for he was in far more pain than he could ever remember being, and he felt so weak and sick and run down and utterly demoralized that for once his powerful survival instinct failed him utterly, his steadfast courage faltered, and he wanted nothing more than for all of it to end.

"No more," he whispered without opening his eyes when he heard what he thought was a nurse shifting nearby. "Please, just…just let me go."

It was a weak plea, a far cry from the please, God, let me live thought he had once had in a distant desert, and he didn't really expect a response. He didn't even realize he'd spoken aloud until a long, cool hand closed firmly about his wrist and another came to gentle rest on his burning forehead. He heard a deep voice growl into his ear.

"Never," it said fiercely. "Never…never…"

Time no longer had meaning. Medications, X-rays, vitals. Medical personnel in and out at all hours. Burn and shiver, struggle to breathe. And Sherlock, ever present.

"Don't die…please don't die."

"But…aren't you the one who died?"

"Oh, John…"

"Don't be dead. Could you do that, for me?"

"I will if you will."

A huge weight was sitting on his chest; he struggled for breath despite the heavy oxygen mask that was now clamped to his face.

"…O2 sat is down to 76%"…"CPAP is not providing enough support…"

"…he's choking! Can't you…?"

"…please, Mr. Holmes, we're doing all we…"

"...extremely shallow…pulse…BP 160/90…risk…sudden respiratory failure…"

"…need to intubate…etomidate…20 mg…"

There was a sound of rushing air in John's ears and the world faded out in a very final sort of way.

A tall, spare figure was bending over him like a reed in the wind.

"Joseph?" His voice was cracked; the fever was dehydrating him dangerously despite the saline drip.

"Yes, laddie. I'm here."

John blinked hard several times, and Bell's face slowly came into focus. The old man looked grave as he sat down on the bed beside John. John rolled his head to the side in order to see him better, and found he was in a bed in the prison Healthcare Centre.

"Do I have 'flu again?"

Bell sighed heavily. "No, laddie, I'm afraid not. Toxic-metabolic encephalopathy."

John stared at him. "Bloody hell."

"Yes."

"How–"

"Took a bolt to the stomach while saving your friend," Bell said in a businesslike way. "The broadhead was coated in some class of poison – your friend mentioned it, but I didn't quite–"

"Joseph."

Bell stopped talking and looked at John expectantly.

"How – how did I get here?" John was beyond confused by this point.

"Isn't it obvious, laddie?" Bell said impatiently (John thought it was remarkable how much like Sherlock he sounded at that point).

John stilled. "You mean…coma."

"Not quite," the older man said reassuringly. "But your reticular activating system has definitely been affected, which means–"

"Which means it may take me a while to come out of…this. If I ever do."

"Aye."

John sighed. "I wish you hadn't gone."

"Couldn't help it," Bell replied briskly. Then, sighing, he laid a gnarled hand on John's wrist. "John, I really wish you hadn't pulled that trick with Ben's scalpel."

Ashamed, John closed his eyes. "I'm sorry. It was stupid. I hurt Mrs. Hudson, and Greg."

Bell nodded. "You mustn't give up like that again, laddie. There are people who need you."

"Nobody 'needs' me," John said hollowly.

"Yes. They do," Bell said sternly. "You may not have a lot of friends, John, but the ones you have are devoted to you. You've been through a lot, but you're a survivor. You pick yourself up and go on. I guarantee you that mad friend of yours wouldn't be able to, not if something happened to you."

"Sherlock?" Confused, John shook his head a little as if to clear it. "Isn't he…?"

"No, he isn't, and if you weren't so befuddled from the fever and the infection and the damned poison you'd know that. Don't let it take you, laddie. Keep fighting."

Bell glared at him a moment, then his eyes softened; he patted John's hand again and stood up.

John tried to reach for him, but his hand felt like it weighed fifty pounds. "Joseph, don't go–"

"I have to," Bell said firmly. "But remember, laddie…I'm proud of you."

He smiled, and John closed his eyes against the sudden pain in his heart. He thought he heard the soothing, melancholy strains of "The Blue Mountain's Lullaby," but when he opened his eyes again Bell had gone.

"Watson, report."

"Sir," he responded at once. He tried to sit up, but fell back.

"At ease, Captain." The voice sounded like its owner was amused.

John gasped. "James!"

Sholto smiled. He was again the shrewd commander John had known – not a trace of scarring remained. Dressed in a plaid shirt and khaki trousers, he looked somehow lighter and freer than John remembered ever seeing him. "How are you, Lionheart?"

"About ready to stand down, I think," John admitted. God, it's good to see him.

Sholto frowned. "Don't you dare, soldier. You're nowhere near done yet."

"That's what I'm afraid of. I'm so bloody tired."

"John…don't give up. I know it's hard, but you're close to winning this battle."

"Yeah?" John's lips quirked. "What about the war, mate?"

"I've never known you to walk away from a fight, even when it was in your own best interests," Sholto said with a slight smile. "I don't think you could if you tried."

John tried to answer, but a sudden spasm of pain cut off his breath and made him curl inward.

"It's all right, John." The Major's voice seemed to be echoing down a long tunnel, and John could no longer see him. "Just rest. You may be off duty for now, but you haven't mustered out yet…plenty of time to stand down later."

Apologies for any medical inaccuracies; I tried to supplement my sketchy knowledge with research, but that only goes so far sometimes. I'll claim poetic license for whatever is wrong!

Many thanks to englishtutor for her proofreading skills.