A/N: No, it's not a trend. If the plot starts sounding familiar, it's because I was going for a mirrored exploration of another chapter as my starting point. As always, still not British, a doctor, a writer, or anything other than myself. -csf


. Part One of Two .

TNT. Trinitrotoluene.

Dangerous, explosive, somewhat picky chemical substance. Lucky for Sherlock and I, the criminal didn't seem to know how to use it properly. Cornered in the shallowest tunnels of an abandoned mine, he decided to take the old charge of TNT that had escaped detention by the authorities and put it to use. Had he chosen a proper location, we wouldn't have survived it. As it was, we were surprised by the uncontained blast at the beginning of one of the long tunnels.

Sherlock must have seen something. He pointed at the innocent looking tubular charge and tried to shout out a warning. I remember realising that I needed to push him away. Don't know if I managed to or not. The whole world stopped – I'd swear to that – as a front of the blinding light and hot air collided violently against us. I think Sherlock ducked; standing behind him, it got me slammed against the mine's rock wall and knocked me out cold at once.

I imagine the rescuers had a hard time getting to us, but I've got no notion the time elapsed. When I recovered consciousness I had already been evacuated to the nearest emergency unit.

Greg Lestrade was already here when I woke up. One look at him can tell me he's been around a while. He looks frazzled too, beyond the evident signs of an overgrown beard and dark circles under the eyes. It's hardly reassuring to see him looking so deflated, as he's sat pondering the distance, by my bedside.

Then again, he hasn't realised I'm awake yet.

'Greg...' I call him out despite the parchedness of my voice. 'Go home.'

He's startled, as he turns to me and smiles a genuine smile, that seems to lift ten years off him.

'John. You're awake.'

I nod, shortly, but it still turns out too enthusiastically not to have the whole room spinning for a couple of seconds.

'Keep steady, John. It was a tremendous blast, you need time to recuperate.'

He should know. He was standing outside for backup when it happened. He must have felt the surge of energy ripping its way through the ground like a small localised earthquake.

'And Sherlock?' He should be okay, or Greg wouldn't be here, right?

'He's been awake for a while. Driving me nuts.'

I can't help but smile.

'Go to him. Tell him to rest, will you?'

Greg looks down and bites his lip. It's only a minor tell, and for a brief second, but I can sense something is wrong. I need to know what.

'Greg, please.'

He looks straight at me, knowing he can't evade it anymore.

'The blast of light, John, or the concussion, something, has temporarily knocked out his sight. The doctors are confident it's just an inflammation over some optical nerve, or something, and that it'll pass soon enough. But Sherlock, being Sherlock, is trying to sign himself of the hospital without waiting.'

'And without seeing?' I shiver.

'He says he's a genius, he'll pull through.'

I shake my head slowly – and the room appears to spin accordingly. Stubborn as Sherlock is, this is going to be one tough job.

'Will you... will you convince Sherlock to swing by here first, Greg?'

He frowns, not much assured. 'I can try', he mutters, as he gets up with one last gesture he reminds me: 'Don't use up all your energy, though, you need to rest too.'

I nod to make him go. Greg leaves my ward with the weight of the world on his shoulders. This case was at Scotland Yard's request.

Pulling my sheet back I swing my legs over carefully. Before I get up I unplug myself from the IV line, then I collect the patient's medical chart and go over it. Okay stats, minor cuts and bruises – or at least nothing that would stop me from getting out of here. I'm needed elsewhere.

I adjust my sling's shoulder strap with familiarity. It's all I've got time for. Sherlock must be by the hospital's front door by now.

In the quiet efficient bustling of the hospital, no one seems to notice I'm gone. It helps that being a doctor myself I know how to avoid the major giveaways.

At last, I spot the lanky figure in the long coat that I'd recognise anywhere. He's walking the corridor ahead of me, one hand lazily tracing the wall for direction. The other hand carrying his blue scarf in a bundle. There's a slight brokenness to his usually proud posture that tells me he's in pain, but his whole demeanour is as determined as ever.

'Sherlock!' I call him, relieved.

He turns at once, startled, to the sound of my voice. I can see the blankness in his gaze, the insistent blinking as if trying to clear his vision, the eerie steadiness ahead of his icy blue eyes.

I'm almost glad he can't see my shock or guess the cold in my stomach.

'John?'

'Leaving already, without me?' I joke.

His features lighten significantly. I guess he expected a good old fashioned telling off for abandoning the hospital. I'll save that for later.

'Wanna share a cab?' he invites casually.

I nod, till I realise he can't see my answer. 'Sure. And Greg? Shouldn't we wait for him?'

Sherlock waves off his free hand. 'He'll guess where to find us.' Baker Street.

'I'm sure he will.'

.

Sherlock's riding quietly in the cab we're sharing. I can only imagine what it must be doing to his headache. Nasty things.

'Are we going through Piccadilly? Why?' he shoots out of the blue. I have to gather my thoughts, but I immediately recognise he's right.

'Traffic jam the other way round', I recall with an effort. 'It's okay, Sherlock.' He's hyper-vigilant, paranoid, and I'd hardly expect less from a man who's just lost his ability to see the world around him. I try to comfort him like medical school taught us; with a soothing reaching hand over his arm. He reacts with a start and tenses visibly as he shies away. Yeah, this is Sherlock. The man with no notion of personal space, all hands out on crime scenes and corpses, but also the ascetic genius that looks down on a casual touch or a incidental brush.

'Sorry', I remove my hand at once.

'Don't patronise me, John', he mocks my bedside manners derogatively. I blink, without knowing whether to take offense.

.

It took Greg less than an hour to come join us at 221B, out of breath and positively fuming by our joint daring escape.

'Are you two nuts? You both need medical care!'

I guess that's in plain sight. Good thing I'm a doctor.

'I'll keep an eye on Sherlock, and make sure he takes his meds, Greg', I assure him as I move to get the water kettle and make the frantic detective inspector a soothing cup of tea.

'John, you can't—'

'I can't not do it', I cut him short, decisively.

Greg lowers his voice to a mere whisper, so Sherlock won't hear us: 'You can't take care of him.'

'Been doing nothing else since I met him', I reply lightly. And so has he, I could add.

'This is too much, John.'

'It's temporarily.'

'We don't know how long it'll last.'

I shake my head, I don't care. If Sherlock needs my help, this is where I should be. 'Can I count on you to get some groceries in?' I add, handing him out the cup of tea.

Greg looks close to a nervous breakdown. But I know he'll be fine. Sherlock needs to be my priority right now.

Pushing on my sling's shoulder strap I go over at Sherlock. He's been sitting on his armchair since he got here. Hasn't moved, hardly spoken, like a man in shock or hiding from the emotional turmoil of vulnerability and uncertainty.

I'm a doctor and I can't fix this. Only time can, now.

It crashes the foundations of my world to see Sherlock like this. The man who's always bigger than the room, confident mocking, defiant smirk, is fighting hard to stay afloat right now.

As if reading my thoughts, he tells me: 'I asked Mycroft to get you my medical records, John.'

'I'll have a look', I promise lightly, touched by the confidence it proves he has in me. He's allowing me to take over his medical care, while at the hospital he refused everyone.

I take a slow seat in the chair opposite. At the expense of the situation I can get a good look and take him in. He looks pedantic, arrogant, impatient. I can see in his expression - he looks so young, nothing in his face is marred by the incident - that he's rationalising his fears, taking control.

Weren't it for the blue scarf still clumped into a ball in his hand like a miniature version of a child's security blanket and I'd might be fooled like Greg. I can tell the hurt and the loneliness. I've been there myself.

'I owe you my share of the cab', I state conversationally. For some reason - probably haste to go inside 221B - Sherlock actually paid for the ride this time.

'It's nothing, just drop it, John', he offers graciously. Still disregarding all the times I paid and he never split the expense.

'You caught the cabbie short-changing you.'

'I'm not stupid', he despises. 'I could feel the shape of the coins. It was a pound short.'

'So it was.'

'And I can stay here on my own just fine, Greg!' he adds, over my shoulder.

Greg's been absolutely quiet in the kitchen. I wonder how Sherlock knew he was still there. 'Amazing', I state before I can check myself. A little too happily for what the situation calls for.

'I could smell his cheap cologne from here', Sherlock states grumpily, 'and I didn't hear him leave.'

I smile at Greg over my shoulder to set him at ease. Finally he accepts to leave us on our own.

'I'll ask Mrs Hudson to keep an eye on you two', he still adds, reluctantly. Finally he leaves in heavy honest footsteps down the stairs.

I turn back to Sherlock and advise: 'He's gone, now. And you should get some sleep.'

'I don't need to sleep.'

'I'm your doctor, remember?'

'Fine', he plays along with an eerie eye-roll. Immediately he gets up to go to his room, unhelped, unguided. I get up as well, standing in guard, covering his footsteps. 'I'm fine, John!' he dismisses me too easily.

I foresee what is about to happen and have a split second decision. I owe him honesty.

Alone, Sherlock bumps into the kitchen table. He bends over in pain and frustration only to clash against Greg's pulled back chair in his way. I rush to hold him up safely. He finally leans towards me, sharing his weight. I've got you, Sherlock.

In the old mine, less than a moment before the unstable TNT exploded, Sherlock was walking ahead of me. At his alarm, I pushed him down to the ground for safety. As the hot blast impact reached us it hit me squarely in the chest, slamming me backwards. Sherlock must have looked up, in confusion or to find me, at the wrong time, the surge of light damaging his eyes temporarily. It knocked us both unconscious at the same time.

.

TBC