John had been in that position for about an hour when he passed out, the stress and the blood pooling in his head finally getting to him. When he woke up again, all that he could register for a strange second was a stifling darkness. A pine-scented, stifling darkness. Oh, bollocks.

The motorbike couldn't move fast enough. He could feel Mary clinging to him with hands that were steady and firm, a strong but unafraid grip, and one that only confirmed his suspicions of her background as they rocketed down the next flight of steps. Coming, John... We're coming.

Guy Fawkes Day. Fucking Guy Fawkes. Fuck him and his stupid explosives and these people's stupid bonfires. He'd tried calling for help, to no avail - his throat was unbearably hoarse, to the point where he couldn't get a word out. He tried again, the air wheezing from his lungs ineffectually. Fuck fuck fuck. He could hear someone talking about gasoline.

He almost went past the bonfire, but then skidded to a halt, almost sending both he and Mary over before scrambling to dismount, starting to run, horror striking him as the fire started to spread and a girl screamed-

"John!"

The rush of relief that flooded through him was somewhat mitigated by the heat he could feel bearing down on him, thick smoke clogging up his lungs until he coughed enough that it hurt, that it felt like being ripped. Sherlock was here. Sherlock was real.

He started tearing at the flaming wood, ignoring the heat and the spectators as he forced his way in. "John! Can you hear me?! John!" He pushed more logs aside, carefully calculating what he could move without bringing the whole thing crashing down. Finally, he saw a familiar foot, and grabbed onto it desperately, starting to haul his friend out, heart racing.

There wasn't much John could do to help push his way out. His limbs felt leaden, barely lifting at all, and then he was being dragged out of the fire and onto the dew-damp grass and it simply ceased to matter, because there above him was a panting Sherlock and a sweaty Mary, and he was just so relieved. They'd been lying after all. Sherlock was okay. Mary wasn't a figment of his imagination.

Sherlock bent to get a better grip on John and pulled him farther away from the flames. He felt Mary lift John's feet and heard someone calling 999. He set John down as soon as they were at a safe distance, immediately beginning to look him over, edging on panic. "John, are you alright? Are you burned, can you breathe clearly-?" He started checking the man's clothes for signs of burning.

"I'll live," John managed in a hoarse whisper, thinking that he sounded a little bit like he'd been hit in the stomach by a charging ram. He felt baked, of course, and not in the good way.

"An ambulance is on its way," he said quietly, sitting back as Mary knelt to pull John tightly into her arms. "Who put you there, John?" he asked, meeting his eyes over Mary's shoulder.

John managed to gather enough will in his limbs to embrace Mary in return, fingers catching clumsily on her coat. "I don't... a man? Blond? He- He tried to tell me you weren't real."

"Just relax, John," Mary said softly, running her hands very gently over his back, checking for injuries. "We'll deal with all of this later."

John was too tired and too relieved to do anything more than bury his face in the crook of her neck and just wait, shivering, for the ambulance to arrive. He could barely speak right now, let alone think straight. It was so much better to wait.

Sherlock took off his coat, wrapping it over what he could of John without disrupting Mary's hold on him.

The ambulance arrived almost ten minutes later, which was ages too long in Sherlock's opinion, and he made sure to inform them of that as they loaded John into the back of the vehicle. He climbed in after them with Mary, both of them watching John carefully.

As soon as whatever fogged-up sense of survival had been keeping him going realized that he was in a safe, moving vehicle, John passed out. Mary had hold of his wrist, leaning back against the rocking wall of the ambulance and looking a bit haggardly at Sherlock. It had been a good while since she'd had to be a participant in a motorcycle/parkour event. "Whoever this was... Sherlock, why did they want us to know?"

"Because their goal wasn't to kill John," he said quietly, eyes never leaving the army doctor. "It was to show us what they can do, and teach us to pay attention to them." He watched what the ambulance attendants were doing carefully, making sure they didn't make any stupid mistakes. "Besides. I expect that whatever they did to John will have long-reaching consequences. You don't spend the time psychologically torturing someone you're going to kill anyway."

She nodded, falling silent again, eyes on John's slack face. She believed it, too. That he'd been psychologically tortured. He wasn't the first case she'd seen. She suspected that whoever had taken John had only wanted to play, in the worst sense of the word. But this was experience she couldn't bring up to Sherlock; she'd risked enough to tell him of the code.

"I'm sorry, Mary," he said quietly. "I should have kept a closer eye on him. There were bound to be complications with my return."

Mary sighed. "You can't blame what they did on yourself, Sherlock. I appreciate the sentiment, really, but I know you're not to blame for this," she murmured, shaking her head.

He glanced over at her, and confirmed his suspicions as she spoke. There were hints of guilt on her face. Well hidden, but crinkling around the eyes and mouth. So she had reasons to fear it was her fault, as well. He nodded just a little.

The ride to the hospital was longer than Mary would have liked, but she could hold the adrenaline lingering in her system accountable. She briefly caught the sleeve of the nearest paramedic, who turned to look at her. "Is he hurt?"

"Nothing too bad," the man shook his head, "He's got a couple cuts, nothing serious. Looks like they had something sharp in that pyre."

Someone else spoke up as they pulled into the hospital lot. "The police will want to take statements from you both, so we need to ask you to stay at the hospital until they say you can go." The vehicle stopped and they rolled the gurney out of the back quickly, Sherlock and Mary just behind. "That won't be a problem," Sherlock assured them with a touch of sarcasm.

She walked beside the detective, feeling just as derisive. Police statements were nearly worthless. And her best bet to discovering who had done this was walking right beside her. The police could be involved after the hard work had been done.

He followed as far as they were allowed, stopping outside the door that had been closed in their face, before starting to pace the waiting room quietly, running through the past hour in his mind over and over, trying to see what he'd missed.

"Who would target John? Why not you?" she asked, after a long minute of watching him pace in the dim room. She didn't particularly mean to be blunt, but she knew she didn't need to pad her words. He understood.

"He's my weakness," he said calmly, looking over at her. He'd come to accept that over the years. It was better to admit it than to live in delusion. "It's difficult to affect me personally. however, you also have to consider that he's your weakness as well. He's doubly useful. Someone a lot of people care about."

"That's my husband for you," she sighed out, leaning her head back against the wall. Her clothes still smelled of pine smoke. "I don't know who'd want to use him to get to me, though. Not many people have personal grudges against secretaries."

"No, I suppose not," he said, not hinting at his cards at the time being. "But you never know. Some people do this sort of thing for fun." He turned at the end of the room, reversing his trail again. And again. "I'll find them."

She couldn't find the energy to pretend to be frustrated with his pacing. She'd very much like to be moving too, but that wasn't who she was now. "Someone should call Greg."

"Texted him in the ambulance," he said, waving her off slightly. "This is ridiculous. Were he conscious, John would have evaluated himself four times over by now. What is taking so long?"

Mary shook her head. She didn't have an answer for him. "He might need an IV. Dehydration?"

He let out a snort of frustration, finally crashing into a chair next to her. "You've got medical experience, sort of. Can't you get in there?"

She shook her head. "I can stop bleeding and change an IV, and I don't think they'll let me in just on that, do you?"

"Not if you sell it like that they won't," he snorted, staring up at the ceiling as though he could burn a hole through the age-stained plaster with his gaze.

She lifted her shoulders in a half-hearted shrug. "I watched in the ambulance. I don't think any of John's physical ailments will be pressing. Maybe it's better he has time to rest without any of our questions."

He grit his teeth a little, before standing. "I'm going back," he said decisively, pulling on his coat. "The trail's getting cold."

Mary nodded. "I'll send you a text when he's up, yeah? Good luck."

He nodded, already down the hall, coat billowing behind him as he pushed out into the night. Guy Fawkes day was still in full swing around him, bonfires and shouts of laughter and the sounds of teens calling 'penny for the guy?' He started walking towards where they'd found John.

She sighed as she watched him go, eyes still on the door even after they'd long been shut. She was fairly certain she knew who would do this to her, now that she had a moment to think. C.A.M.

It was almost an hour later that an orderly came out into the waiting room and found Mary. "Your husband's awake and asking for you," she said gently. "You can come with me."

She felt some tension she hadn't been aware she'd been holding drop from her shoulders as she smiled and stood, thanking the nurse and following into John's room. She sat in the closest chair to his bed. "Hey, how are you feeling?"

He looked over at her and studied her carefully, before giving a weak smile. "Alright," he said, voice hoarse. His eyes were slightly guarded, and he was doing his best not to move and rip the IV out of his arm. "Can you get them to... to get this out of my arm, please?"

Mary's brow furrowed slightly. "John, you should really keep it in..." she started, and trailed off when she saw the look on his face. "Alright. I'll ask them." She didn't ask why.

He nodded a little, trying to calm slightly. The needle ached a little in his arm, and it set him on edge. He reached out for her hand with his free arm, needing to feel her solid against him. Real.

She took his hand gladly, squeezing once. She was relieved to see him, and even more relieved to see him almost entirely intact. But now that she looked there were track marks in his arm, and the telltale lined bulge that signaled bandages across his stomach. "I was quite worried, as you can imagine. Sherlock's already gone trotting off to do his thing. Bit impatient, isn't he?" She asked, smiling.

"That's an understatement," he says, nodding a little. He watches their hands, rubbing their knuckles. "What... Mary, when was the last time I was in Afghanistan?"

She raised her eyebrows. "You haven't been in Afghanistan for three years, John. Maybe more, now. What happened to you?"

He shook his head, looking away. "Nothing. Just checking."

She frowned slightly, but didn't comment on it. "Alright. If you need to.. check something else, I'll help you. I want to see you better."

His left hand curled and uncurled a few times under the sheet, where she couldn't see. He wasn't sure what to think. Obviously Sherlock and Mary were alive, real, but... He'd been certain he was in Afghanistan yesterday. That wasn't right, obviously... Unless he'd lost more time than he thought... Or maybe he'd been dreaming, then. Or was dreaming n-

He stopped that thought before it finished. Here was reality. Here was reality.

Mary watched him, thinly veiled concern on his face. She'd seen plenty of people come out of psychological trauma looking worse, but it was different when she was so... invested. "Do you want me to get you anything from the caff? I don't think the staff will object to you getting a little tea into your system, yeah?"

"Hmmm?" It took him a moment to concentrate on figuring out what she'd said. Then he nodded, a touch of relief breaking over his face. "That would be unbelievable."

"Alright." She leaned over the bed to kiss him on the forehead. "I'll be back up in a few," she smiled, trying for reassuring and coming across as more worried than anything, then quietly slipped out the door.

He watched her go with a quiet sigh, then turned his eyes up to the ceiling.

He froze. There, flickering in bluish light, were the words Wake up, Captain Watson.
He sat up immediately, ignoring the pain and everything else, trying to get himself out of the bed. The window... it had to be coming from the window...
He looked up again and the words were gone. The heart monitor was a loud and fast-paced, beeping urgently in the background, but his eyes were on the blank ceiling, searching for the words that had been there just moments before.

While Mary was stuck impatiently in line down in the off-white, tired looking cafeteria, Lorna was slipping into John's room, dressed the same as every orderly that walked by. Just to rattle him. Holmes was on the other side of London, anyway. She gave a strained smile when she saw Watson half out of bed, gliding forward to nudge him back down. Oh, she was glad he hadn't seen her enough to commit her to memory. Moran couldn't do this. "Sir, if you'll just lie back down..."

He jumped at her touch, eyes whipping to look at her, eyes hard, a touch of fear beneath them. "I need... I need to see out the window..." She looked familiar... He couldn't place it.

"Sir, I can promise you nothing exciting is happening outside. Come now, you'll strain yourself," she scolded, the hand guiding his shoulder becoming a little more firm. "You don't want to pass out and crack your head, do you?"

He lay back quietly, distractedly, still looking at the window. "Look out... can you please... just look out there," he urges quietly. "Someone's out there."

She made a tsking sound, but went over to the window as he asked, putting her hands on her hips. "I'm afraid there's no one out there. Not even a pedestrian. Now, if you'll excuse me...?" She turned around looked at him expectantly, an impatient cant to her stance.

His expression wilted just slightly, but he nodded. "Right... of course. My apologies."

"Later, Doctor," she nodded, turning on her heel and briskly walking out just as Mary reached the door on the other side. In a quick flurry of apologies and an appraisal of the other and then the encounter was over. Although something about the other had both of their teeth on edge.

John stared up at the ceiling, trying to think. It was possible they were gone. Very easily possible. Turn off the light and disappear. Or... It was possible- much less possible, a possibility he didn't like to consider- that he was, actually, dreaming. He suddenly felt less inclined to tea.

Mary was distracted as she set the tea down on the tiny little tray that protruded over his cot, trying to keep an image of the nurse in her head. She'd looked like a nurse on the surface, but she didn't smell like one. Expensive alcohol, expensive perfume, and of, strangely, mint, but not a nurse. "John? You don't look as well as I left you. Are you alright?"

He shrugged a bit. "Just... feeling off all of a sudden," he said quietly, not looking at her. "Might try to sleep a bit."

"Alright. I might need to pop into the office while you're asleep, let everyone know why we're not showing up to work," she murmured, reaching to squeeze his hand. "So if you wake up and I'm gone, that's why."

He almost laughed at the simplicity of that statement, and how close it was to his fears. What if I wake up and you never were? But he kept that to himself, just murmuring a quiet "Okay..." as he closed his eyes.

Figuring that was the last she was going to get out of him for a while, she stood to go. Maybe she'd have time to check in with Sherlock's progress.

He listened to her go, but didn't fall asleep, eventually opening his eyes again to watch the ceiling. If it was someone, he wouldn't miss them again.

Sherlock stooped over the damp, charred ground, torch in hand, working over the site a piece at a time, looking for any indication of what had happened before they arrived. The crowd and the fire had done nothing to make his life easier, and even he was having difficulty picking out tracks in that mess, so instead he was at the outskirts, slowly circling, looking for signs of someone being dragged.

Mary had decided to just call their coworkers in the cab she took to the site they'd rushed to so quickly the night before. Even now, it was early morning. Very early morning. She spotted Sherlock the moment she shut the cab door behind her, and begun picking her way over the trash from the festivities. "Anything promising?"

He glanced up at her, but seemed unsurprised to see her. "It's difficult to say given the debris. I'm trying to find where they brought him in from. There's a partial footprint under the wood, a man's heel, but other than that it's all been destroyed by the fire or the firetruck or the panicking crowd. How's John?"

"He's..." she trailed off for a moment, unsure of what to say. "He seems shaken. He asked me how long it's been since Afghanistan." She almost mentioned the odd nurse for a moment before remembering that that was stretching the limits of what Sherlock could easily accept. A lead to follow on her own, then.

He nodded slightly. "Someone did their homework," was his only comment as he ducked his head again, continuing to walk along the exterior of the park.

Mary followed a few steps behind, giving his field of view the widest spread possible. She wasn't very good with mud. "Who would go through him to get to you?"

"Oh, a lot of people," he said quietly. "I didn't make friends while I was gone, Mary. I was dealing with Moriarty's organization... I've made myself a threat, proven myself capable of more than just detective work. Caught a bit of the wrong sort of interest, it would seem."

"It seems like that sort of thing usually does, unfortunately," she sighed, slipping her chilled fingers into her pockets. "Maybe cross out a few that don't have the resources for this sort of thing? One of the nurses told me he'd had some weird drugs in his system. And you know that's not John."

He stooped a moment later, running his fingers over a rut in the soft ground. A heel scrape. Likely John's, judging by the size and shape of the impression. "They're obviously someone who knows what they're doing. Or at least, they've hired someone who is. I have a few thoughts but nothing confirmed. I'm working on that."

"It's my understanding that you don't just pick up people like that on the street," she commented, running through a few people in her own database. "And I imagine they go for a lot of money." That nurse again. She sighed.

"There's a lot of rich, powerful people with connections to the underground, Mary," he said, leveling an interested gaze at her. "Do you have any thoughts as to who this could be?"

She raised her eyebrows, letting out a short bark of a laugh. "No. Your guess is better than mine, Sherlock, believe me."

He stood, straightening his coat. "I need to go speak with the homeless network. Someone may have seen something."

"Alright. I'll go back to the hospital. John said he was going to sleep, but I don't believe a word of it," she shrugged, looking back toward the street. It was turning into a disgustingly gray day outside. "See you."

He nodded slightly. "Anything odd, let me know immediately." Then he was gone.

She didn't bother making a confirmation to empty space, so she just turned and trudged back to the road, weighing the pros and cons of telling him about the strange hospital encounter.

John was awake when she returned, lost in his vigil of the ceiling, one hand tracing absently over the bandages on his torso. The IV needle still throbbed in his arm, and his left hand was clenched in a tight fist by his side.

She sank quietly into the seat by John's bed, keeping herself from reaching out to him for the time being. "John... it's alright. You can relax."

He jumped when she spoke, eyes flashing to her face for the briefest moment before he forced himself to calm slightly. Mary was here. Right here. Mary was real. He knew that. "Everything set at the clinic?"

"Yeah. I told them all you got a particularly bad case of food poisoning. I figured that they wouldn't ask you questions, this way," she smiled slightly. "No one's ever curious about that."

"Thank you," he said softly, nodding. He swallowed, debating, before deciding that his pride would need to be on hold. "Look... I know it's stupid, but... the IV... if there's any way..." He didn't meet her gaze.

"Alright," she acquiesced, standing and walking around his cot. "I'll get it. I'm sure the nurses will only fuss over it anyway."

"Thank you," he said again, quietly with absolute sincerity. He shifted his arm out from under the blanket, fist still clenched tightly.

She bent over his arm and carefully removed the needle before rolling the IV stand a few feet away and setting the dangling tube on the side table. "There you are. Better?"

He sighed in relief, tucking his arm against his chest almost protectively despite the fact that it was still oozing a bit of blood. It was an unbelievable relief, and some part of him relaxed for the first time. "So much..."

"As long as it helps," she murmured, returning to her seat with a slight frown on her face. Eventually, she was going to have to push John for answers. She didn't look forward to that.

"More than you know," he murmurs, checking the ceiling carefully before turning to look at her. "Did you talk to Sherlock?"

"Yeah," she nodded, "He said he didn't have much to go off of." She didn't mention that they were trying to get to Sherlock. John would either blame himself or blame Sherlock, and neither would be particularly helpful.

He nodded just a little. "Maybe that's for the best," he said absently.

She raised an eyebrow, surprised. "What? Why do you say that?"

He shrugged. "You know how he is... He'll pursue this if he finds these people. And... We just got him back, Mary. Maybe it's better he just... stay low for a while."

"Good luck convincing him of that," she snorted, reaching to clasp his hand in hers. "I'm sure it will be fine."

He gripped her hand back absently, watching their fingers. "These people.. They're different."

She sighed, running her thumb over the back of his hand. "I know. I know."

The next few days were slow and painful as John recovered. The doctors tried several times to get him to accept the IV again, but he wouldn't budge on the issue. The light never returned to the ceiling, and after a while he began to wonder if he'd really seen anything at all. It wasn't reassuring.

Mary came in on the third day, carrying a tote bag with John's clothes inside. "Hey!" She smiled, "They gave me the all-clear at the front desk, we can go home. Luckily I'd already packed some clothes for you."

"Brilliant," he murmured, sitting up gingerly. He was still sore and wrapped in bandages, but there was nothing more they could do for him here. "Thank you."

"Yep," she smiled cheerfully, setting down the bag at the foot of the bed. "I thought you'd just want to get out of the hospital gown, to be honest."

"You're a saint," he said with a quiet sigh, digging in for his pants and trousers.

"I know," she chuckled, putting her hands on her hips. "Your old landlady.. Mrs. Hudson, yeah? She tried to send fruitcake, but I managed to deflect her."

"I should go see her," he murmured as he pulled on his clothes. "Should have done, the whole time, but I should more now."

"I'm sure she'll be happy to see you. Although she might be too busy fussing over Sherlock to notice you at first," she shook her head, remembering the woman flitting around the last time she'd been over there.

"Oh, she fusses over me, too. Used to anyway. Don't you worry." He put a hand on the bed rail, getting slowly to his feet. He'd barely put weight on his left leg, however, when it gave out from under him and he stumbled sideways with a curse, weight on the rail.

She hurried over to help support him, carefully keeping from messing with his bandages. "You alright?" She should have thought to bring his cane. She cursed internally.

"Fine," he said a bit shortly, frustrated with the development. "I'm fine." He didn't want to discuss it.

"Okay," she agreed carefully, slowly stepping away to give him back a sense of control. She knew better than to prod. "Want me to go check you out and meet you in the lobby?" Did he want her to leave while he made any potential fumbles getting dressed?

He hesitated, glancing around the room, before he looked at his shoes a bit stiffly. "Maybe have someone find me a cane," he said quietly.

"Alright," she popped up onto her toes to kiss his forehead, "I'll back in a couple minutes then, yeah?" She turned to briskly exit the room.

He was grateful now more than ever for her practical viewpoint when it came to this sort of thing, and started gingerly working his way into the rest of his clothes.

It didn't take her long to find an unused cane that looked about John's size even without the help of a nurse, whisking it back to John's room in record time and slipping it inside the door before heading back down to the front desk. She hadn't forgotten about the strange woman from a few days before, and the sooner she got John out of a public place, the better.

He finished dressing and made his way carefully over to the cane, leaning on it heavily as he started down the hall towards the lobby. His clothes felt bigger on him than usual, though that was mostly psychological, he knew. He met Mary in the lobby with a nod.

She finished up with the tired-looking man at the computer and then went to John's side, sliding her hand into his. "I just brought the van this time. I didn't think we needed to fuss with a cab. Parking was hell, though."

He nodded a little in thanks. "Let's go home, then, yeah?"

"That sounds like a good idea to me," she snorted, beginning to walk towards the door, letting him set the pace.

The pace was slower than he would like, but eventually they reached the car and get on the road. He relaxed in the seat, relishing the smell of something that wasn't hospital. He looked around at the buildings as they pass, familiar streets, reassuring himself again and again of where he was.

She didn't initiate conversation as she drove them home, deciding after a glance to his face that he was more absorbed in their surroundings. She bit back yet another question about what happened. He'd tell her of his own accord.

Their house was an incredibly welcome sight. After everything that had happened over the past week, he wanted nothing more to relax in a familiar environment. He could see the questions behind Mary's eyes, but he didn't want to talk about it. Didn't want to try and make sense of it, get told he was crazy, that it wasn't possible that he'd been where he was. Didn't want to break the only comfortable explanation he had, which was a lack of one.

She didn't try to help him out of the car more than handing him his cane as he got out. "You hungry? I think I can probably make something better than whatever that hospital can whip up."

"That would be great," he said, nodding a little and giving her a small smile. "So... what have you been up to?"

She'd been going through a list of the few remaining contacts she'd had looking for a match on the nurse in the hospital, because she was certain that the woman was connected to the people who had taken John. One of them had thought she'd rung a bell and promised to look into it. But she just smiled. "Got a bit of lead on the last batch of library books I checked out. Vacuumed. Got bored and watched the news for an hour. Terrible idea."

He raised an eyebrow, smile growing a little. "A week of freedom and you vacuumed? Sounds thrilling."

"Oi, what else was I supposed to do?" She laughed, unlocking the house and stepping inside. "Did you want me to take up skydiving?"

"I don't know, at least go to a movie or something," he said with a soft smile, walking inside and taking a deep breath of the familiar smell of home before making his way over to the couch to sit down, tired already.

"What, alone? Nah," she chuckled, heading into the kitchen to make something hot. He looked like he could use a rest. Now she just had to hope Sherlock didn't suddenly find something and steal away John's rest.

He felt a familiar tightness in his gut when she walked into the other room. It had become a pattern, whenever he couldn't see her or Sherlock, no matter how much he disliked it, or thought it irrational. Was it irrational? He just shook his head a little, rubbing his thumb over a rubber seam on the unfamiliar cane.

"You want leftovers something fresh? I made meatloaf last night," she asked loudly from the kitchen, going through the fridge with one hand and her phone on the other. No missed messages. Damn.

"Meatloaf sounds great," he called back, finally getting sick of the tension and standing, making his way into the kitchen.

She slid her phone back into her pocket to get cracking on the meatloaf, whisking it out of the fridge and doling a generous serving onto a plate before popping it into the microwave. "You get any visitors while I was gone? I heard Greg was in to see you."

"He was, yeah," he said, nodding a little. "And Mike stopped by, that's about it. Nice of them."

She leaned against the counter in front of the fridge, smiling. "That was nice of him. We don't see Mike as often as we should."

He nodded a little. "We should have him over for dinner sometime," he agreed quietly, moving to sit at the table. He looked over at her. "I missed you."

She blinked, slightly (and pleasantly) surprised. "I missed you, too," she said softly, interrupted from following him to the table by the beeping of the microwave.

He leaned over to the counter to open the drawer and get himself a fork as she brought the plate over, taking it from her gratefully, The hot food smelled heavenly, and he started eating immediately, if slowly.

She sat down across from him empty-handed. She'd already eaten lunch, before she'd known she could take John home. "Did you watch a lot of crap telly in there? Should I hide the cable box for a week?"

He laughed softly at that. "You know me too well."

"Mm, maybe I know hospitals too well," she teased, resting her elbows on the table. "What else are they going to do to keep you entertained?"

"Prod us, poke us, take our pants, all sorts of fun things," he said with a small smile. He took another bite of meatloaf, closing his eyes in appreciation.

She smirked. "You're only making fun of your own kind, you know. What will all the other doctors think of you?"

"The same thing I'd think of them if they were a patient. We're all terrible on that end of things," he sighs quietly, rolling his eyes.

"Oh, I doubt it's just doctors," she smiled, settling back in her chair. Their kitchen furniture was old and banged up, but it was comfortable.

He shrugged a little. After a moment's hesitation, he reached out to put his free hand over hers. Friendly human contact had been sorely missed.

She turned hers over to lace her fingers through his. She really had missed him. The house felt too big when he was away for too long.

"How long was I missing?" he asked, nearing the end of his food.

She glanced over at him, gauging his expression. "A little over two days. You don't know?"

"I lost track of time," he said, returning his gaze to his meatloaf. "That's all."

"Okay," she murmured, careful not to push. "Okay."

He sent her a grateful glance as he finished his food, before standing and limping over to the sink to rinse his plate off.

"I tried washing the... debris, for lack of a better word, out of your clothes, but they came out still smelling like gasoline, so I had to toss them."

"Okay. Thanks for trying, anyway," he said, heading back over to the table and sitting with a sigh. After a moment he asked "How did you two find me, anyway?"

"I got.. well, a really strange text message," she shrugged. "You'd already been missing for a couple of hours, though I didn't know it. Then I thought, 'Maybe this is a code'. Went to Sherlock. I didn't know he knew how to drive a motorcycle."

"I didn't either, but it doesn't surprise me, to be honest," he said with a small shrug. "I'm just glad you found me."

"Me too." She cleared her throat to keep her voice from breaking. "It was... it was a near thing."

He reached out to take her hand again, gripping it firmly. It was. Nearer than she knew, many times.

She squeezed his hand, grateful for the contact. She didn't like to think about how close he came to being burned.

"Are you alright?" he asked gently, rubbing a thumb over her knuckles.

"Yeah. Yeah. I think was alright when you woke up after we got you to the hospital. I wasn't the one who got pulled out a pyre."

He nodded, squeezing her hand gently. He didn't know what to do with himself. It had been like this when he'd just come back from Afghanistan. A sense of separation from the rest of the world. And it was here again. He hated it.

"Do you want to see Sherlock? I'm sure he'll have something brusque to say about you being in a fire. And Mrs. Hudson would give you as many cups of tea as you asked for."

He hesitated a little, but then shrugged. "May as well stop by, at least... see what information he has."

She nodded, glad she'd gotten him to agree to something that didn't allow him to retreat inside himself, and squeezed his hand again before standing up. "Right. Let me just get my coat, then, yeah?"

He hesitated a bit. "Now...?" He didn't know why he didn't want to go. He wasn't angry at Sherlock anymore, at least not at the moment, but he wasn't anything, really. He was processing. Tired.

She paused. "Well, I suppose it doesn't have to be now. I just thought it'd be a good idea to catch him before he disappears to god knows where. Doesn't he have a tendency to do that?"

He sighed, before nodding a little. "You're right..." he murmured, shoving to his feet and limping towards the door again.

Pleased that he'd agreed to go after all, she went to get her coat before he could change his mind. She wanted to know if Sherlock had found anything. Anything.

He met her at the door, pulling it open and beginning his trek down the stairs to the car. "I'll text him and let him know we're coming over, shall I?"

"Sure," she smiled, stepping outside with him and starting down towards their car. Halfway there, her phone dinged. She opened the message and frowned, swearing lightly. "Shit. They need me at work. Think you can manage going alone?"

He nodded slightly. "Yeah... sure. Do you want me to drop you off, or the other way 'round?"

"You can drop me off. I'll have to stay longer than you, after all," she shrugged, reaching over and squeezing his hand briefly before they reached the car and she let go to walk around to the passenger door.

He nodded, climbing in the driver's side. He'd always been grateful it was his left leg that had been... injured... And not his right. Even when it was acting up he could still drive. He started the car, heading for the clinic.

Mary was the tiniest bit relieved that duty had called; she couldn't help but feel that she had been just a little under Sherlock's scrutiny. Better to let time make that go away.

He dropped Mary off and then headed towards Baker Street, parking in the lot a few streets over and starting to walk the rest of the familiar way to the flat, the cane thumping with every step. He stopped at the foot of the stairs, pausing to look at the door he'd walked through so many times. He frowned slightly as he started to climb. There was a piece of paper against the stair railing, held there by the day's steady wind. He reached out to pick it up, intending to throw it away inside, but faltered as he saw his name on the top. He read slowly, face going white, and leaned against the rail, suddenly feeling sick.