When Sherlock came to the first thing he noticed was no pain. A great wave of relief swept over him; he had never felt more grateful in his life. Everything seemed a bit brighter. The world seemed at peace, filled only with the soft beeping of the hospital machinery monitoring him.
"He's awake," someone whispered.
As his eyes bat open slowly, he could make out the figures of John and Lestrade. Sherlock froze as his eyes locked with the D.I.
"Sherlock," John said, guiding him toward his voice.
He couldn't take his eyes off Lestrade. He could tell everything that happened from him in the past two and a half years just from the dark orbs gazing back at him. Demoted then promoted again. Divorced. Depression. Health scare- heart attack possible, blood pressure probable.
"How do you feel?"
Sherlock was relieved to hear how calm John sounded. Not only was that a sign that everything was okay, but the anxiety of knowing how angry his friend was did nothing to help his heart.
"I feel…" he paused, taking in everything. Then he realized: "I don't feel anything."
John snorted.
"Good, then the drugs are working nicely," he said.
Stepping around the side of the bed, John adjusted the IV strip Sherlock was attached to. He tested out his arms and legs; though he couldn't feel any pain it still took entirely too much effort to move them. Though his body seemed to have trouble adjusting coming out of deep sleep his mind raced more than ever.
"What happened?" He rasped.
The more he looked around the room, noting the new set of wired attached to his chest and the defibrillator pushed against the wall.
"Cardiac arrest," John said, looking him straight in the eye. Swallowing nervously, Sherlock nodded, pretending like he understood. John was acting a little too doctor and a little less like his friend than he would have liked. "You were out cold for three minutes before I could wake you. Do you remember that?"
A sickening fill sank deep into the pit of his stomach. More information that he had no recollection of. He shook his head.
"I gave you something to help the pain and steady the heart rate," John continued. "You might be cold…I've been trying to keep you cool, it helps with the recovery."
"Thanks," he mumbled, feeling perfectly useless. "I'm sorry."
John blinked.
"Sherlock, you went into cardiac arrest, there's nothing to be sorry about."
He could feel Lestrade's eyes narrow in on him, begging to differ. Wanting to buy as much time before he had to confront the D.I., he asked:
"Mycroft?"
His weak voice prompted John to offer him a cup of water, which he accepted graciously.
"He left, to take care of things."
The way John responded indicated that he didn't exactly approve of Mycroft running off.
"Sherlock, he's very concerned," John went on, "none of us really know what's going on. Mycroft seemed pretty disoriented when he left…he wasn't even sure if all this is over."
Closing his eyes, Sherlock remembered why he felt so anxious.
Irene.
"Phone," he demanded, holding a hand out to John.
"You've got to be kidding me!" John snapped.
"John!" He pleaded. God, his voice sounded worse than before.
Letting out a dramatic sigh, John handed over his mobile. Sherlock quickly typed out a text and handed the mobile back to John with his eyes closed, as though it were too painful to watch.
Breathe.
His heart was racing way too fast.
"Sherlock?" John asked carefully.
Even in his panic he could see that John was torn between being the doctor and being the hurt friend, but his mind was far too foggy to deal with that right now.
"Mycroft," he rasped, "he needs to know what's going on."
"He needs to know?"
Sherlock's eyes shot to Lestrade, who spoke up first time.
"Mycroft needs to know?" Lestrade said, laughing this time. "Right, well something must have happened in the past two and a half years because never have I heard you want to reach out to your brother."
Closing his eyes, Sherlock let out a groan.
"I don't have time for this!" He shot. "You don't understand-"
"No, I bloody well don't!" Lestrade exclaimed.
He let out a deep sigh as their eyes met for the first time in almost three years. Sherlock took a moment to consider that the last time he saw Lestrade, he arrested him.
No wonder he doesn't trust me.
"Do you think I did it?" Sherlock asked, staring straight at the D.I.
Lestrade blinked and placed his hands on his hips.
"Did what?" Lestrade demanded.
"The kids, the last case!" Sherlock said. "Did you really think I did it?"
Mouth agape, Lestrade threw an uncertain glance to John. The doctor looked just as confused.
"Of course not," Lestrade stated.
He wasn't sure why, but a wave a relief washed over him. Not that he actually thought Lestrade believed he was guilty…
"Then you trust me," Sherlock said. "You know you do."
"Sherlock, I thought you were dead," Lestrade said, "John thought you were dead. You jumped off a rooftop in front of him and crashed into the ground. Sherlock, he went into therapy again-" Sherlock's eyes flashed to John, who shifted around, clearly uncomfortable. "We've been through hell. You have no idea what kind of fallout I had to deal with. What do you think that stunt did to my career, Sherlock? You have no idea how hard I had to work to get this city to trust me again!"
Sherlock's eyes darkened as they returned to Lestrade, but he couldn't find the heart to argue. As much as he wanted to disagree, he knew Lestrade wasn't wrong. The D.I. was extremely lucky to still have a career in London.
"He's the one in the hospital bed," John spoke up quietly. Sherlock stared at him, stunned. "I want to hear what he has to say."
Lestrade simply stared at him as his eyes met his former flatmate's. Ignoring Lestrade, his eyes remained locked with John's throughout his story.
"I gave my life for you," he began quietly. John's eyes widened, but he allowed him to continue. "Moriarty had three snipers- one for you, one for Lestrade, one for Mrs. Hudson."
"Not Mycroft?" John whispered.
Sherlock shook his head.
"Not Mycroft," he said. "Just my friends. But Moriarty proposed a trade. My life for yours. He shot himself, right there and front of me-" he shuddered as he heard the bang of the gun in his mind, "and I had to jump. But I tricked him. I tricked everyone."
"Sherlock…" John paled a bit. "Why couldn't you just tell me? Or Lestrade- he's police."
"I couldn't," Sherlock confessed. "It would only put your lives in more danger. This goes far beyond Moriarty. Farther than you can ever know."
"Try us," Lestrade said.
Sherlock swallowed nervously. He knew it was partly because of the drugs rushing through him, but anxiety shook him to the core.
"There's a lot of this I can't tell you," he admitted. Even he could appreciate the kind of trouble his brother would be in if his spy-days stories got out to the public. "But this is about Mycroft. All of it. Moriarty was a pawn…just like me. That man, Moran, he was old enemies with my brother. This is all some game between them, and I got caught in the middle. Even after Moriarty, Moran wasn't working alone. I traveled the world breaking down his team, but eventually the only way to truly get to him was from the inside. I had to get him to trust me, to think I changed."
By now, Lestrade's eyes were wide as he stared at Sherlock.
"Moran," Lestrade said quietly. "The bloke you were with the night we met."
"Sherlock, what's he talking about?" John demanded, his voice shaking.
He drew in a deep breath. It was hard to fathom exactly how little John knew.
"I'll explain it to you, all of it, I promise," Sherlock said, "but I've got to talk to Mycroft."
John looked like he wanted to protest, but he remained silent. Suddenly, John's mobile buzzed. Without word, he reached for the phone and handed it to Sherlock. He held his breath as he read the text.
"What does it say?" Lestrade asked.
"120 Baker Street," Sherlock muttered.
"That's right across the street from 221B," John said.
Sherlock began removing the covers of the bed without explanation.
"Sherlock!" John exclaimed, reaching out to stop him. "You're recovering from cardiac arrest, you can't go!"
"This isn't over," Sherlock said as he painfully removed the wires from his body. "I have to go before, before-"
He breathed in deeply, trying to ignore the sharp pain shooting through him. The drugs were beginning to wear off- this would be more difficult than he thought.
"No," John ordered. "Tell me what you need, and we'll do it."
Raising his eyes to his friend, Sherlock begged him for his understanding.
"I've got to go," he breathed. "I'm sorry."
He diverted his eyes as he pushed passed John, too ashamed of what he was doing. He knew it wasn't fair. He knew both men had every right to be angry with him, and he knew he owed them the truth.
He stopped, lingering by the doorway.
"I'll explain everything," he offered quietly, "promise."
John looked like he didn't know what to believe, but he let Sherlock go without a word. As he stumbled out of the room he realized that he might have risked anything left between them right then. When he reached the hallway he leaned against the wall and closed his eyes.
He could only hope it would be worth it.