Greg inspired a few raised eyebrows when he walked into NSY at a little after two in the morning, heading for his office. He wondered if it was just the late hour, or if they were picking up on his mood. He nodded to a few of the officers who caught his eye, and made a fair stab at a smile. With the door safely closed behind him, he sank into his chair without bothering to remove his coat.

While he waited for his computer to boot up, he pulled out his notes on the interviews. Janine Murtagh, Magnussen's PA and, weirdly, Mary Watson's maid of honor, would probably never remember anything, going by what the doctor had said. The bodyguard with the concussion would also be unlikely to know who had hit him from behind. There were no cameras in Magnussen's private office, or in his residence upstairs where the shooting had taken place. That left Sherlock as the only potential witness, and his status was still unknown. Even if he survived, there was a good chance that his memory of the event would be erased by the trauma of being without oxygen for a dangerously long time, if the doctors had it right.

Looking for the shooter by finding the motive behind the attack could work, if there was any real possibility that Sherlock was the true target. That was doubtful. There were much more accessible venues for an attempt on Sherlock's life. No, Magnussen was the target. His list of enemies was impossibly long, and its members were dispersed worldwide. Sifting through them all for a group of likely suspects would require Magnussen's cooperation, and that had already been refused.

If Sherlock died without being able to describe his attacker, the chances of closing the case were slim to none.

If Sherlock died, the chances of John Watson ever recovering from it were almost as poor.

Greg had hoped that having Mary in his life would have lessened the impact this time, but it didn't seem to be working out that way. Not going by what Greg had seen tonight at the hospital, or by the tone of Mycroft Holmes' request that Greg come immediately to be with John. He knew why Mycroft had thought to call him. He had already been down this road twice before.

Nobody had been surprised two years ago by how hard it had hit John, seeing Sherlock kill himself. Greg had gone to Baker Street that first day knowing what he would find. No one had been surprised when John moved out of the flat a few days later and holed up in a bedsit across town. As the months had passed, and the media lost interest in the story, John had seemed to fade from memory along with it. Greg had called him less and less often as time went by. None of his messages were ever returned, and he had finally decided that maybe he was just too painful a reminder of what John had lost, so he stopped calling.

A few days before what would have been the first anniversary of Sherlock's death, Greg had been wakened at three o'clock in the morning by a call from Mycroft Holmes. His surveillance team had alerted him that John had been sitting on a bench across the road from Bart's for three hours, and they were becoming concerned by the implications. Mycroft had thought it would be a good idea to intervene before things took a bad turn.

John was still sitting in the same spot an hour later when Greg had stepped out of a taxi on the other side of the ambulance garage. He didn't look up when Greg joined him on the bench, but he did smile at whatever his gaze was fixed on. "Sherlock was right. His brother does send you to check up on us, doesn't he?"

"He just thought you might need a friendly ear."

John had choked out a laugh. "And you think this is some pathetic play for attention. Lovely image I've left you all with."

Greg had ducked his head, trying to meet John's gaze. "Nobody's judging. We just want you to know you're not alone."

John had taken a sharp breath and looked up. "You don't know how much I wish that was true."

Greg hadn't needed to follow his gaze to know that he was looking at the ledge where Sherlock had stood. "John, I-"

"Why can't I stop? I don't understand." He'd taken a shaky breath that threatened tears. "What's wrong with me?"

"Anybody would be upset, John. Hell, I still think of him every day, and I wasn't..." Wasn't what? In love with him? Greg had never believed that about them, and he still didn't. But he had never seen two friends who needed each other as much as Sherlock and John. Whatever they had been to each other, the loss of it was draining the life out of John Watson. "I wasn't his best friend. There's nothing wrong with you, and there's nothing wrong with what you're feeling."

John had turned to look at him then. "You wouldn't say that if you knew what I'm feeling."

"Then, tell me. Let me help."

John had held his gaze for a moment, then looked back at the roof. His voice was a strained whisper, and every line of his body sagged in defeat. "I want to let go."

Greg had not been surprised when Mycroft picked up on the first ring. An hour later, Greg accompanied John to a private hospital arranged and paid for by Sherlock's brother. Greg didn't see him again for four months.

New Scotland Yard had been in the process of refitting some of the older offices, and Greg's desk was slotted for replacement. As he'd sorted through ten year's worth of miscellany, he had started to fill a shoebox with things Sherlock had left behind. When he ran across the DVD that he'd made the man record for John, he knew what he needed to do with it all.

John had sounded almost back to normal when Greg had called asking to stop by, but less than a minute into the visit, he'd realized how far from 'back to normal' John still was. The smile was empty of warmth. Not forced. Just lifeless.

But the box was already there, and he made the best of it. Tried to make a joke of it, and that was worse.

"Maybe I shouldn't have brought it," Greg had said to John's increasingly distant smile.

"It's okay. Probably won't even watch it." He was holding the DVD case with his fingertips.

Greg had left a few minutes later, as concerned as he'd been that night in front of Bart's. The next time he'd run into John was in the first week of October, and the difference had been like night and day. John and Mary were coming out of the Landmark Hotel as Greg was headed in with a date for dinner. There was just the briefest shadow over John's face when he had recognized Greg before his smile had come back to full power.

"Mary Morstan, this is an old friend, Greg Lestrade," John had said, and Greg remembered feeling ridiculously pleased that John still considered him a friend.

It had been clear that John and Mary were in love, and Greg had found himself enjoying his dinner that night in a way he hadn't done for months. He never saw the woman who had been his date after that night, and right now, he couldn't even recall her name.

After Sherlock's mind-blowing return from the not-dead, things had gotten rocky again for awhile. By the day of John and Mary's wedding, life seemed finally headed in the right direction. Almost an entire month of normal.

Greg blew out a long breath and scrubbed at his face with both hands. Then he flexed his fingers, propped his notebook next to the keyboard, and began to type his reports.

At the twenty-four hour mark, Mycroft joined John in his vigil. The doctors were less optimistic with every hour that passed without any sign of Sherlock returning to consciousness. His vital signs had stabilized at less than optimal levels, but there had been no further flirtations with cardiac arrest. His body was dealing with the trauma. The fear was for his mind. Mycroft was here now because he could no longer focus on his job. He was too haunted by the thought that he might miss that storied last moment of lucidity before his brother lost his last hold on life.

He had come into the room and stood at the foot of Sherlock's bed, just watching him breathe. John had glanced up, but said nothing. The mood in the room had changed from anxious anticipation to quiet desperation. Hope not yet extinguished, but fading.

"He doesn't respond to deep pain stimulus. They've tried everything." John may have been talking to Mycroft, but he had not taken his eyes from Sherlock's face.

Mycroft nodded. "Could the morphine keep him from responding?"

"There should have been some response," John answered, shaking his head. "The longer he remains in this state..." He looked up at Mycroft. "Did they call you?" The look in his eyes was pure dread.

"Yes."

John closed his eyes.

Mycroft moved to the chair on the opposite side of the bed and sank into it. The back of Sherlock's left hand was pierced with an IV cannula, so he rested his fingers on his brother's wrist. "Would any test be able to tell if his brain was damaged by the lack of oxygen?"

"The tests show no obvious damage. but he's still unconscious. The tests won't matter if he never wakes up." John's voice caught on the last word, and he reached for the paper cup of coffee on Sherlock's bedside table.

Mycroft watched John swallow with obvious difficulty. His expression was strained and he looked like a man on the brink of collapse. "John, I wasn't entirely forthcoming when I relayed the doctors' report." He heard John take a deep breath. "There was a cardiac arrest before surgery began."

John went utterly still. "How long was he down?"

"Twenty-three minutes of resuscitation. Three minutes after they gave up, his heart started again on its own." Mycroft had been looking at Sherlock's hand as he said this. At John's accelerating breaths, he looked across the bed and found John looking at him with a mixture of anger and despair. "John, I'm telling you this because you need to understand that he literally fought his way back from the dead. If there's any way humanly possible, he will make it all the way back."

John shook his head. "No, you don't understand, Mycroft. Twenty-six minutes is way too long. There could be damage to his heart and his brain from that alone, forget the damage the bullet and blood loss may have done." He took another shaky breath. "This is not the good news you seem to think."

Mycroft huffed a breath. "The alternative would have been for him to die before surgery. I'm sure you would not have preferred that outcome."

"No, but it doesn't matter what I 'prefer'. He doesn't care, and he never asks. If he'd never taken us up there, which you practically dared him to do, we wouldn't be-" John broke off, breathless with fury.

"John, I wonder if I might have a few moments alone with my brother."

John looked at him for a moment, then got slowly to his feet without letting go of Sherlock's hand. He leaned close, and for a moment it looked as if he was going to kiss Sherlock's cheek. But he put his lips close to Sherlock's ear, whispering loud enough that Mycroft heard the words. "I'll be right back. Don't you even think about leaving without me."

Mary grabbed the phone to her ear, groggy from sleep that she didn't remember falling into. "John? Are you all right?"

His breath made static on the line. "I need you."

Oh, no. "John, is Sherlock okay?"

"I don't think he's going to make it, Mary. Mycroft is here. I need you." His voice was ragged with grief.

"I'm on my way. I love you."

She was surprised to see sunlight coming through the kitchen window. Her body was stiff and sore from the hour or so sleep she'd gotten sitting at the table with her head on her arms, but she shook it off to get rapidly dressed. The taxi arrived a few minutes after she locked the front door and sat down on the steps to wait.

After John closed the door behind him, Mycroft stood up and walked to the other side of the bed. Sherlock's head was turned that way, maybe listening unconsciously to the sound of John's voice. He sat down in John's seat, and placed his hand over Sherlock's. For several minutes, he watched his brother's face for any sign of awareness.

"Sherlock, I owe you an apology. I badly misjudged a situation some months ago, and you are paying for that mistake." He watched his brother for a reaction, then smiled. "I had half-expected that an apology from me would be shocking enough to wake you, but that's not why I offered it. I need to ask two favors of you. The first is that you employ that ferocious will to fight your way back from this. It's my fault that you've been hurt, and I don't think I can live with it if you don't recover." He paused to regain control, surprised by how much the admission affected him. Surprised to suddenly realize how true it was. A world without his brother was unthinkable. "The second is that you refrain from saying anything to John about who shot you until you and I have a chance to talk about it. What she did was the inevitable result of actions I set in motion, and I have a plan to address it." He took a breath, choosing his next words carefully. "Your doctors seem to believe that your brain may have suffered irreparable damage from this, but they also thought you died before they could even begin to save you. You proved them wrong. Please, Sherlock. Do it again."

When John came back to the room, Mycroft had returned to his own chair, both hands clasped in his lap.

John took his place at Sherlock's right side and reclaimed his hand. "I called Mary," he said softly. He sat back and scanned the monitors.

Mycroft heard the beeps change at the same time that he saw John sit forward, ramrod straight in his chair. The heart monitor had sped up, but then steadied. John let out a shaky breath.

The heartrate remained higher than it had been before. When Sherlock's breathing quickened, John got instantly to his feet.

"Sherlock, it's John. Can you hear me?" His left hand was resting on Sherlock's shoulder, his right cradling his face.

Mycroft stood up and took his brother's hand.

"Sherlock, it's John. Come on, I know you're in there."

The heart monitor sped up again. John looked up. "It's okay. He's still stable."

Sherlock pulled in a quick breath, and turned his head to the right. Toward John. And he opened his eyes.

He clamped them shut an instant later, and gasped.

"It's all right. It will ease up in a minute." John reached over and pressed the call button for the nurses' station, then hit the button on the morphine pump three times to increase the dosage. "Just breathe." He bowed his head and whispered, "Please, God."

Mycroft took the opportunity to lean close. "Sherlock, it's Mycroft. Look at me."

Sherlock turned toward Mycroft. With obvious difficulty, he opened his eyes again. John moved quickly to Mycroft's side of the bed to put himself in Sherlock's line of sight. Sherlock looked at John then Mycroft, but it wasn't clear if he recognized either of them. A breathless wait later, he whispered, "Mary," looking straight at Mycroft.

Mycroft nodded, and Sherlock closed his eyes.

"He's all right. He's all right." John said it with a touch of disbelief. Then he went back to his chair and sank into it. A moment later, he bent forward and covered his face with both hands.

Mycroft stood watching his brother for a moment, then walked to the door as a nurse appeared in response to John's call button press. He stepped back to let her in. "John, I have some calls to make. Please tell Sherlock I will be back later." He waited until John acknowledged him with a nod. Then he stepped out of the room and let the door close behind him.

They were about ten minutes away from Royal London when her phone went off again. Heart sinking, thinking it would be John telling her that Sherlock had died, she looked at the caller ID. Withheld. Not John. She took a steadying breath, then answered the call with an odd sense of finality. "Yes, hello?"

"Mrs. Watson. This is Mycroft Holmes."

"Is John all right?" It was the most neutral thing she could think of to say.

Mycroft's tone was cool and distant. "Your husband is fine, Mrs. Watson. In fact, I would say he is beside himself with relief." Before she could respond, he added, "I wonder if you would stop and see me before you go up to see him. I'm in my car out front."

The good news is, Sherlock is apparently improving. The bad news...

"Yes, I can do that."

"Good. I'll expect you shortly." He ended the call.

Mary sat back and closed her eyes. The beginning of the end.

He knows.

End of Chapter 7