Didn't John understand?

He must.

If not, there was no way Sherlock could express it to him.

Why he'd done what he had.

When he'd woken there, in the hospital bed, his first thought had been of his blogger.

At the moment he'd been shot he had been thinking of the same.

Thinking of exactly why he could not kill himself there-because of John, because of what that would do to him, considering the state of him the last time Sherlock had 'died'-and he could not bring himself to do that.

He would never do that to John Watson.

Never again.

It was an uncomfortable reality, feeling so strongly about the feelings and wellbeing of another person... and in truth it almost scared him.
For that reason he purposefully did not let himself delve into it any further, and just left it as it was: a reality. A simple fact.

And John was okay.

Sherlock had made sure of that; he'd asked him, just to be clear, ignoring how out of character that was for him.

It was just a follow-up question.

Nothing more.

John had been surprised.

Of course he had; Sherlock didn't usually bother with those sorts of things, because he could usually tell without asking-and if someone wasn't well, what on earth could he do about it?

He wasn't a doctor.

He wasn't good at comforting.

So what was the use?

It would have been a waste of time.

And it changed nothing.

But here in this dull, sterile hospital room, he'd just had to be sure.

"Sherlock...?"

John was looking at him earnestly; he must still not understand what it meant.

"Hm?"

"Tell me. I want to know what happened. I'm your friend-I deserve to know, at least... Why..."

Sherlock's eyes traveled down John's weary face and to the bandages round his own arms, which he could barely feel.

He had to tell him.

"He wanted a companion in death."

John just stared at him. Sherlock assumed he must be shocked, probably not having expected those sorts of tendencies from Moriarty, and wondering why on earth he had-

"What?"

Sherlock frowned. "What do you mean, 'what?'"

"What are you saying? That he was suicidal and... just wanted you to die with him?"

"That's exactly what I said."

It must be the shock. Must be slowing John down even further.

"So he shot you... But what about your... Y'know... Your arms...?"

Surely he didn't think Sherlock had...

That would not only have been impossible, but...

"I didn't do it!" Sherlock caught himself, reeling the calm back in. "He did that after I was down. Presumably for effect. And blood loss, of course."

John was silent.

When at last he spoke, it was quietly, and with a little sigh. "Don't do that again... Please. Don't go running off into situations you must know could be dangerous, just to prove you're clever. I know you are. It's not worth you dead. It's not." He forced a little smile. "The world still needs you, you know? I do. I still need you."

It was raining when Sherlock was finally discharged from hospital.

The sky was a gritty charcoal grey, reflected in the shiny hood of the cab that pulled up to take them back to 221B.

On the steps of the hospital they were met by a familiar, ramrod straight statured figure, his black umbrella unfolded to deflect the dismal little bullets of water sent down from the heavens to splash upon the pavement and the passer-bys, in no particular rhythm.

Sherlock looked up at him, supported only as much as necessary by his blogger, and nodded curtly. "Mycroft."

His brother returned the nod in what normal people might consider a cold fashion-but the unspoken communication between them went a little deeper than just courtesy.

John, however, happened to be said 'normal person.'

He looked from Sherlock to Mycroft and back again, trying to discern what the mood truly was, and wondering if he would end up having to break up another heated discussion.

Hoping not.

But wondering.

"I just thought I'd drop by," Mycroft tipped his umbrella slightly so that it covered them as well, clearing his throat. "Just to make it clear that I am not indifferent on the subject of your discharge from hospital. I do, however, find it necessary to remind you how stupid it was of you to go back to that old flat in the first place. Things were bad enough the first time you were there."

Sherlock sneered. "I wouldn't have had to live there if you hadn't cut me off from my inheritance, Mycroft."

Mycroft only sighed softly, examining the hand holding the umbrella. "You know why I had to do that, at the time..."

"Clearly it didn't do any good. I just found different ways of obtaining what I needed."

"What you needed was drug rehabilitation."

"And I got it, didn't I?" Sherlock frowned testily, leaning on John slightly more heavily.

"Eventually."

John cleared his throat a bit loudly, glancing between them. "Hey. Raining. Cab waiting. Yeah?"

Both turned their eyes to him, and despite what he could figure from the conversation John felt an acute sense that he was missing out on some greater vein of understanding.

Oh well...

Bullet wounds took time to heal.

So did stitches.

And so did people.

That took the longest, actually, if ever.

External wounds do heal, though, and John was definitely glad when Sherlock began to be more mobile, wincing less, and was able to cut back on the pain medication he'd been on.

At last Lestrade was able to make a visit, taking time off work to stop by and see how the consulting detective was doing. He'd come by once before, but Sherlock had been sprawled on his bed, at least pretending to be asleep.

John got the door, pleasantly surprised to see Greg there, and ushered him inside.

"I'm not sure if he's up this time-I'll go check. He's been doing better, actually. You can have a seat, if-"

He was interrupted by the consulting detective's door swinging open and Sherlock stalking out, pausing when he saw them. He must not have expected company today.

Lestrade moved toward him, looking him up and down, and John could practically read every word of surprise on Sherlock's face as Lestrade swung his arm around his neck and pulled him close in a hug, muttering, "You bastard..."

Sherlock looked uncomfortable and squished, but held still with a resigned half-smile on his face, as if he'd rather expected something like this.

It seemed rather to say 'I-what the-er... Oh... Okay... Right... If you must...'

He reminded John a bit of a cat that would rather not be embraced quite so tightly.

No... it was more that he didn't appear to know what to do, and considered the gesture as some strange alien habit to be endured.

Hugs: another item added to the list of things that you really can't do by yourself.