She spotted Mycroft Holmes' black sedan sitting in front of the hospital and directed her driver to pull in behind it. The sedan's driver had apparently been watching for her. While she was paying the fare, he got out and went to the passenger door to wait. She recognized his quick assessment of her threat potential, and she returned the favor. Military bearing and haircut. Dark suit meticulously tailored to his well-toned body. Comm earpiece left side. Armed. Bodyguard. He nodded as she approached, then reached down and opened the door.

Sherlock's brother was facing her, sitting with his back angled toward the opposite door. He looked as imperious and impeccable as he had on the only other occasion she had ever seen him. She and John had come to 221B to work on wedding plans, and Mycroft was just leaving. John had introduced her, and Sherlock's brother had been polite, but distant. She'd heard of Mycroft Holmes and his brother before she had ever met John. A wiser woman in her position would have avoided John to stay well clear of the senior Holmes, but Sherlock had supposedly been dead for more than a year when she'd met John. By the time she learned otherwise, it was far too late. That day in 221B, there'd been a flash of something in Mycroft's expression. It was only later that she learned he'd known more about her at that first meeting than anyone else in the room.

The driver closed the door, and Mycroft pressed a button on the armrest between them. There was a soft electronic click from every access point on the car. They were locked in. "Thank you for joining me."

"How is Sherlock?" She mirrored his posture, putting as much space between them as possible without looking as if she were shrinking against the door. She was wary of him, but not as frightened as she probably should be.

"He regained consciousness a short time ago. I'm told it is a positive indication. Your husband certainly seems pleased."

She knew John would be beside himself with relief. Why hadn't he called to tell her? "Is John all right?"

He studied her calmly. "Are you asking me if Sherlock has told him that you are the person who shot him?"

For a moment, she couldn't breathe. If John knew, then nothing else mattered.

Holmes didn't wait for her response. "He hasn't done so yet, but unless you listen very carefully to what I am about to say, I will do it for him. I believe that you love your husband, which is what tells me that you don't truly understand how important he and my brother are to one another. If you did, you would know that you might just as well have aimed that bullet at John."

It took a moment to find her voice. "I know that."

"The first time I met your husband, I attempted to enlist his help in keeping me apprised of Sherlock's activities. He refused. A few hours later, he killed a man to save my brother's life. John has become my greatest ally when it comes to protecting my brother from himself. Sherlock relies on John completely, and the loss of that friendship would cause irreparable damage to both of them. I will do whatever is necessary to keep them in each other's lives."

Her mind was racing. If he knew that she had shot Sherlock, then why were they even having this conversation? Why not have her arrested? Or 'disappeared'? Or did he just enjoy torturing his prey before he bit through the jugular?

If he wanted to keep John and Sherlock together, was he going to use that to justify getting rid of her? She took a steadying breath. "I'm not the reason their friendship has suffered. Sherlock hurt John more than he can possibly understand and then let him suffer for two years. I saved John from what your brother did to him, and I actually helped get them back together. I'm not in the way, if that's what you're implying."

His smile was chilling. "I'm fully aware of what it did to John when he believed Sherlock to be dead, and I've spent the past few hours watching it happen all over again. If Sherlock had died, I doubt even you would have been able to save John this time. I suggest you consider the possibility that your decision to pull that trigger might have been about removing someone you quite logically see as a rival."

She was suddenly livid with anger. "That's absurd. I acted on reflex, and it was not what I planned, but it was not about John! I have never seen Sherlock as anything but John's best friend, and anyone who thinks they see more than that is a clueless idiot."

He let the silence stretch out for a moment. "And even a clueless idiot would recognize that bit of defensive overreaction as an admission. You will need to perform a more honest self-assessment. I need your fully-informed cooperation if you hope to safely navigate this minefield you've wandered into. I do not wish to remove you from the picture, Mrs. Watson. Your husband would not be much support for Sherlock if he lost you."

Mary realized suddenly that he had found a use for her that somehow outweighed what she had done. He would have no leverage, if John knew. That thought calmed her. "What do you want from me?"

Mycroft seemed pleased. "I will protect your secrets, in exchange for which you will become an even greater ally to me than your husband. You have the skillset to identify threats that Sherlock ignores, and you can respond to them in ways he's not trained to do. You have the expertise to know what information will be useful to me, and you will make it possible for me to stay ahead of him. You will regain Sherlock's trust, and life will move forward on a safer path for all of us."

She had been considering the possible outcomes almost since the instant she had pulled the trigger. Mycroft asking for her help had been nowhere among them. "In exchange for my cooperation, you will ensure that John never finds out about my history, or that I shot Sherlock?"

"Yes."

"How can you stop Sherlock from telling him? And what about Magnussen? Or, do you expect me to make another attempt at resolving that issue myself?"

"Sherlock will do anything to avoid hurting John now. He won't tell him what you did. As for Magnussen, everyone has pressure points, including him."

She had no doubt that if Magnussen indeed had a pressure point, Mycroft Holmes could find it. "I'm certainly willing to try, but I doubt Sherlock will be interested in my protection."

He smiled. "It's your job to make certain that he never knows he's being protected. If he finds out what you're doing, you'll be as useless as the dozens of surveillance teams I've tried over the years. It won't be easy, but then you'll lose a great deal more than a job if you fail."

It was the nearest he had come to a threat, but she heard it clearly. "I will do my best."

He nodded. "I believe you." He shifted his position so he was seated facing ahead. "We'll be talking again soon. Good morning, Mrs. Watson." He pressed the button, and all of the doors unlocked.

She got out, and the car pulled away the moment she closed the door. When she'd gotten into it, she hadn't been entirely certain that she would be alive when the left it. Now, all she wanted was to find John.

He found her instead. She was halfway up the stairs to the third floor when he called her name. He met her at the top of the stairs and wrapped her in a hug that was pure relief. And then he innocently ripped it away. Sherlock's first word when he woke up, he told her with teasing concern, was her name.

He took her to Sherlock's room, and they stood outside at the large window while two nurses tended to routine tasks.

"They had to increase the morphine after he woke up. He's in a lot of pain." John wrapped his arm around her shoulders and tipped his head to rest against hers. "Christ, Mary, it was so close. I really thought..." He squeezed her shoulders. "He's gonna make it." His voice had dropped to a whisper that could have been a prayer.

The nurses came out of the room, and Mary got her first clear view of the patient. He looked even worse than she had expected, and this was the improved version. "John, why don't you go get some coffee. I'll sit with him for a bit. You must be exhausted."

He stepped back and smiled at her. "I guess I could hardly leave him in better hands."

The trust in his eyes ripped a hole in her heart. "I'll watch out for him. Go take a break." She squeezed his hand.

He turned and looked through the window, his right hand splayed out on the glass. "If he wakes up, tell him I'll be right back."

She walked a few paces into the room and stopped. The lighting was very low, and the curtains were closed. The hum of support equipment blended with the low purr of a fan that was running on the table under the window. She wondered why they would have felt the need to circulate air in a room that was neither hot nor stuffy. The artificial breeze was blowing across Sherlock's bare chest, and it made her chilly just looking at him. She walked to the far side of his bed and pulled up the light blanket that had been pushed down near his feet.

When she touched his left shoulder to see if he felt cold, he pulled in a sharp breath that snapped her focus to his face. He was looking at her. His eyes were wet and barely open, but he was trying.

"Sherlock, do you know who I am?" She was leaning close and speaking softly. "It's Mary, Sherlock." She tried to keep her voice calm. "I know you have no reason to believe me, but I'm so sorry."

He was fighting to keep his eyes open, but there was no comprehension in them. She wasn't even sure he could see her. "Mycroft said you won't tell John. I need you to promise me. You don't tell him. Sherlock? You don't tell John." She touched his forehead gently. "Look at me, and tell me that you're not gonna tell him."

His eyes closed again, and she looked at the settings on the morphine pump. At that dosage, there was very little chance that he'd understood a word she'd said. God help her if Mycroft was wrong.

She pulled the blanket and sheet up to cover his shoulders, then sat down to wait.

John came back ten minutes later with two cups of coffee. He handed one to her, then set his own down on the table beneath the window. Before he sat down in the chair, he stood next to the bed and just looked at his friend. He brushed back a few strands of hair from Sherlock's forehead with such tenderness that it made her heart twist. When he sat down, he looked across at her and smiled a little self-consciously.

"I've been holding his hand for 30 hours now. I'll stop when he can tell me to piss off." He settled back with his right arm extended, his hand resting over Sherlock's.

She had almost taken this away from him. Mycroft was right. No punishment would have been enough if she had succeeded.

Magnussen enjoyed the view from his desk. It was impressive by design, intended to present him to his visitors as a man who had London - and by extension, the world- at his feet. His chair was positioned to keep his face in relative shadow, backlit by the vista behind him. It also placed his visitor's face in full light and stripped away any artifice. Useful, as well as appealing to the eye.

Much like his PA.

Janine Murtagh was quite easy on the eyes. Her beauty was earthy rather than flashy. Seductive in a less obvious way that made her approachable. His previous assistants had all been men. Efficient, but of limited use as distractions. He soon learned the value of a beautiful, well-dressed woman moving about when client negotiations needed some redirection. She was competent, pleasant, and exceeding his wildest expectations in ways he could never have predicted.

All of his employees above a certain level were subject to ongoing periodic checks into their personal activities, and each knew it on a superficial 'part of the employment contract' level. What none of them knew was the extent or frequency of those checks, or that he had a meticulously cross-referenced database in his mind palace that was kept constantly updated. Something as mundane as his PA joining a yoga club, could have momentous import, if correlated with the right bit of data.

Mary Morstan had been simply one of the women Janine socialized with at the yoga class. When the intriguing brevity of her history had turned up in a routine check, he had ordered a deeper look. When that investigation began to hit one wall after another, he'd brought in his resources from various intelligence services, and been temporarily stunned by the results. The key to Mycroft Holmes had just been dropped into his hands. Owning Mary Morstan would accomplish what he had been unable to do with years of trying. He would have intimate access to the inner circle. Pillow talk with her husband would give him insight into his best friend who happened to be the brother, and pressure point, of his ultimate target. Mycroft Holmes would, at long last, cease to be a thorn in his side and become the most powerful asset of all.

But then Sherlock Holmes had unexpectedly injected himself into the equation. It appeared that he had taken up with Janine, but it was obviously a ruse whose purpose was not immediately clear. He'd heard that the young Holmes was as impressive a genius as his older brother. Hardly a man who would enjoy a relationship with a woman like Janine. It became apparent that Sherlock Holmes was using Janine to gain access to him, but it wasn't until Holmes approached him about Lady Smallwood that the plan fell into place.

He had gone to Holmes' flat, goaded him, dangled the bait, and opened the trap. As expected, he'd appeared at the office and tricked Janine into letting him in. The rest would have been simply paperwork. It was a burglary of an occupied dwelling, and it would be an excellent bargaining tool.

It would have worked perfectly, had he not underestimated Mary Watson. He actually owed Sherlock Holmes his life, as he had no doubt that the woman would have killed him. Instead, she had acted so perfectly for his own purposes that he could still barely believe his luck. He now had them all. It was a staggering piece of good fortune.

His head was filled with thick, gray fog like cotton wool. He felt heavy and light at the same time. Buzzy. Cool, plastic scented air and chorus of electronic beeps. Coarse, bleached sheets. Hospital.

Not dead.

He struggled to open his eyes to a swimming blur of shapes and colors.

"John?"

The shapes moved closer and he tried to blink them into focus. A warm pressure abruptly left his hand and moved to his face.

"I'm right here." John's voice. "Are you in pain?"

The pain was there, but bearable. He remembered it much worse. This was fine. He tried to smile.

"Sherlock, can you look at me?" John's voice.

Someone had said that before. Not John. He tried to locate the memory, but his thoughts kept skittering out of reach, banging into each other and coming back jumbled together.

Look at me. Sherlock? You don't tell John.

Mary's voice. Mary's face. Out of focus. Too close. Threatening. Dangerous. He forced his eyes open. It was suddenly hard to breathe.

"Sherlock, lie still. You'll hurt yourself." John's voice, urgent now.

Hands on his shoulders. Beeps. Dark. Sleep.

When the light began to filter through his closed eyelids an unknown time later, his head felt clearer. He listened for any sign that John was still in the room, but there was nothing. He was alone.

He opened his eyes a crack. Daylight. He took a tentative breath, and the fire in his chest made him gasp, which made it worse. His vision blurred with tears.

He was fumbling blindly for a call button, or a morphine pump, whichever he might find first.

"Wait, I'll get it. Hold on. Sherlock, I'm sorry. I just stepped out two minutes ago."

John.

Beeps.

"I bumped the dose. You'll feel better in a minute. Just breathe."

John's hands on his shoulders.

"Better?"

The fog was coming back, but he didn't mind. It was better than this fascinatingly unbearable pain in his chest. "John?"

"Yes, I'm right here. Can you open your eyes?" John's hand on his forehead.

Sherlock turned his face into John's touch. "Hurts."

"It hurts to open your eyes?"

It was John's Doctor voice, and it made him smile. "No. Chest." He was afraid to take a deep enough breath for a complete sentence.

"I need you to look at me, Sherlock. Come on. Open your eyes." John's stern doctor voice. "I'll close the drapes. It's too bright."

Look at me. Something dark. Just out of reach.

Rattle of drapery hooks on the track. Swish of fabric as the drapes were pulled shut. The light level in the room went down. He opened his eyes. John was leaning over him, so close that he could almost nip his nose. The thought made him giggle, and it barely hurt at all. Drugs must be kicking in.

"What's so funny?" John felt his forehead with the back of his hand.

"Kiss your nose." He meant to say 'nip', and that escalated the giggles.

John raised up a bit to get a better look at him. "You really are high as a kite, aren't you?" He was smiling. "Do you know where you are?"

"Mmmm. Hospital. How long?"

John's smile vanished. "Three days." His voice sounded tight.

Sherlock squinted, trying to see what was making John sound like that. "Are you all right?"

John turned his face away, and Sherlock frowned. It was getting harder to talk. He was so tired, but John seemed upset, and he needed to know why. A thought occurred. "Am I all right?"

John took in a sharp breath and straightened. His face wasn't turned away now, but it was too far away for Sherlock's limited range of focus. He made a clumsy grab for John's hand where it rested on the bedrail. "John?" He heard the beeps from the monitor pick up.

So did John. He looked up at the display and took a shaky breath.

"John, what's wrong?" Full sentence, but it cost him. He wouldn't be able to stay awake much longer.

"I'm okay, Sherlock." He leaned close again, and brushed one hand gently over Sherlock's forehead and down the side of his face, stroking his thumb softly over the cheekbone. "You're good now. I promise. Just rest." His voice was still rough.

"I'm sorry." He couldn't keep his eyes open any longer, and he let it all slip away.

John checked the monitors again to verify that Sherlock's heartrate and pressure were back to where they had been before John had lost control of his treacherous emotions. Too little sleep. Too much stress. Too many hours of unrelenting, useless adrenaline. He had managed not to fall apart through it all. He had no idea what had touched him off just now, but he could not allow it to happen again. Barely out of the woods, drugged out of his mind, Sherlock had picked up that John was upset. Sherlock would worry about him now, and that was the last thing he needed.

John should go home and get some rest. Take a shower. Shave. His personal hygiene for the past three days had consisted of splashing cold water on his face a few times a day, and brushing his teeth courtesy of the patient kit in Sherlock's bedside table. With Sherlock's acute sense of smell, he could probably tell when John was within a hundred yards now, just by sniffing him out.

He should go home. He should. And he would. Soon.

Just a few more hours. In case Sherlock needed him.

He walked around the bed to his chair, and sank into it. He stretched his arm along the bed and placed his hand over Sherlock's. A moment later, he turned the chair so he could lay his head down on his bent arm without letting go of Sherlock's hand.

End of Chapter 8