Sherlock's fitful slumber, imprisoned in a tangle of bandages and wires, drifted away on the lull of John's soothing tenor, reading to his partner.
". . . The fugitive was following the boulevards, but suddenly he turned into a side street and made his way toward the Temple, where, soon afterward, Father Absinthe and Lecoq found him conversing with one of those importunate dealers in cast-off garments who consider every passer-by their lawful prey. The vender and May were evidently debating a question of price; but the latter was plainly no skilful bargainer, for with a somewhat disappointed air he soon gave up the discussion and entered the –"
"Oh god, is that Monsieur Lecoq?" Sherlock mumbled, his voice raspy from sleep and the intubation he had received upon arrival at the hospital.
The detective heard, rather than saw, John put the book face-down into his lap. "Yes – one of my favorites from when I was a kid. Why, what do you think?"
"Lecoq was a miserable bungler," he rasped angrily, struggling to sit up before being gently pressed down by John's hand. "He had only one good thing, and that was his energy. This book makes me positively ill."
A hint of a smile honeyed John's voice. "Is that so?"
"Yes! The question was how to identify an unknown prisoner. I could have done it in twenty-four hours. Lecoq took six months to do so. It might as well be a textbook on what to avoid in detective work."
"Mmm," the doctor offered, laughing. "I'll suggest that to Lestrade for his newbies. I'm sure he'll be thrilled."
Sherlock coughed, bringing a hand to his mouth, only to be hit in the teeth by a venous port. He frowned querulously, squinting at John accusingly. His partner raised his hands in supplication.
"I actually wasn't in the room while they were working on you, Sherr, I promise. I was out with Lestrade so I could be with you when you woke up. As soon as you were in good hands, I went to give my statement."
Sherlock's eyes narrowed into slits, and John sighed, defeated.
"Yes, they saw. I'm sorry. I asked the paramedics not to but they didn't listen."
"And?"
"Lestrade didn't care. I told you he wouldn't. He asked me if you needed any transgendered health services, like mental health support, and when I said you were fine he dropped the subject. The only person that even seemed mildly interested in Anderson, and that's only because he wanted to know what insults were still apropos now that he knew."
The detective growled, a scratchy sound in his throat. "So like him. Bastard."
"Did you expect more of him?" At the vehement shake of the head, John rolled his eyes. "Exactly. Nothing has changed. I know you were worried, but they don't think any less of you. In fact, Lestrade said he was quite proud of you for the way you handled yourself during the investigation, given the nature of the attacks. And you know he's not one to praise with abandon."
Sherlock nodded, taking in the information with clouded eyes.
"Are you okay?" John asked, reaching his hand out to rest it on Sherlock's un-taped hand. "I mean really."
The man merely dropped his head onto his chest, falling silent.
"Yes, I am mad at you, Sherlock. But it's the kind of anger that comes when you love someone so much that it enrages you when they put themselves in danger. It's a protective anger. But we can talk about that when you're better, okay? Sherlock?" He put his finger to his partner's chin, forcing him to raise his head. "Please."
He nodded, slightly. "I'm sorry," he croaked. John caught the slight moistening of the detective's eyes before his vision was obscured by a cloud of black curls.
Vulnerability was not Sherlock's strong suit, and it tended to make him a shivering mess of anxiety. John unlocked the guard rail of the bed and put it down, pulling his flatmate partially into his lap – mindful of his leg wound – and rubbing soothing circles onto his thin back. "Shhh. It's okay. I'm not going to leave you, I'm not going to yell at you or kick you out. Don't even think those things. You know we go through this every time we have a tiff – it's not going to happen. I promise.
"I was just so afraid, Sherr. When I got that text, it felt like my heart fell out through my feet: I thought you were dead, or dying, and I was going to be too late to save you. You can't imagine the kind of things that went through my head. I have never ran so hard in my life. I would have killed that bastard with my bare hands if I could. But it's over, and we're okay, and you're safe and you will get better."
"I'm not going to run ever again, am I," Sherlock mumbled into John's chest.
The doctor shut his eyes tight for a second, running his tongue slowly along his lip before hashing out his reply. "I'm not sure. It was a pretty awful shatter: you needed a lot of surgery. But you're young and in amazing shape, love. With some physical therapy you might be able to manage it. And if you can't, I'll just carry you and run after the criminals myself."
Sherlock's voice, hazy with sleep, sounded significantly lighter at that comment. "We could get a little carriage and I could harness you to it like a mule."
John laughed, petting his partner's scalp affectionately. "Of course. A bit in my mouth and a carrot dangling over my head."
"More like a Jammy Dodger."
"Hey, now. That's Mycroft, not me."
They both laughed at that, loud enough that they missed the knock at the door as a nurse came in to check Sherlock's vitals. Embarrassed, they sprung away from each other – Sherlock gingerly, John more quickly – and looked in opposite directions as the nurse performed his duties, afraid they would start laughing again should they glance at each other.
With the hospital employee gone, John once again gathered his lover into his arms, running a heavy hand through Sherlock's hair. He leaned in, pressing a kiss to the detective's temple, resting his forehead there as they breathed against each other, a common ritual they performed after moments of stress. "I love you," he whispered.
"And I love you too. Especially when you run all the way from Whitehall to save me," Sherlock breathed, kissing John back with a reverence that only he could bring to such a simple gesture.
Sherlock fell asleep once more soon after, a welcome weight in John's tired arms. The doctor was reading the rest of Monsieur Lecoq, holding it up with his bandaged right hand, when there was another knock at the door.
"Come in!" he shouted, quietly enough not to wake Sherlock but loud enough to invite in the visitor.
He nearly dropped his book when the black curls of Sally Donovan came into view. Her face was partially obscured by a huge pot of purple hyacinths, their rich scent perfuming the room and obscuring the sharp sting of antiseptic and bacitracin, and she carried a small teddy bear in her left hand.
"Hi," she offered awkwardly, setting the flowerpot down on a low table in the corner of the room.
"Hello, Sally," John replied, his tone neutral.
Her face twisted into an expression of pain as she sat down, crossing and uncrossing her legs several times. "Listen, John."
"I am."
"I'm really sorry about all the awful things I've said to him," she said quietly, her finger brushing the tip of one of the flowers she'd bought. "I honestly had no idea that he was, was . . . "
"Transgender?"
"Yes. But that doesn't excuse it either. I was petty and infantile and jealous. And I'm sorry. I really am." She shrugged her shoulders delicately, looking ruefully at the flowers. "I know it's not saying much, but I thought some apology flowers would be nice?"
"No, Sally," John countered sincerely, "It does say a lot. It's a nice thing of you to do. Honestly."
The officer squirmed awkwardly in her seat, her shoulders twisting in the beige peacoat she wore everywhere. "I just feel awful. I had no idea of what he was going through, and to hear that from me constantly – and those things I said to you – I'm really ashamed, John, I am." She bit her lip, clearly holding back tears.
John reached over to pat her knee sympathetically. "It's okay, Sally. Honestly. I know you didn't mean it. Adolescent jealousy. Happens to the best of us. You should have seen Sherlock snap at Detective Inspector Dimmock when he first met him. Nearly bit his head off. Told him to take his word as gospel. I was expecting fire and brimstone to start pouring from his mouth."
They both smiled at the thought, and Sally's face relaxed significantly. "Please let him know I'm sorry, and that if he'd like I can come visit him in hospital while he recovers, bring him some cases and so on."
"That would be a godsend, Sally. You have no idea how obnoxious he is when he's bored."
Donovan grinned, rolling her eyes. "I bet. It's no bother. I'll see if I can get some criminology books he hasn't read, too. Academic journals and so on. Least I can do."
John's smile was genuine as he nodded agreeably. "Thank you. Really."
"Thank you for agreeing to pass on the message. And I'm sorry, again."
The doctor shrugged, standing up to embrace her as she gathered her things. "Honestly, if you could just be a friend to him – even just spare him a smile – it would mean more than anything. His world is a lonely one; sometimes I'm all he has."
She patted him on the back, nodding fervently. "Of course. He deserves that much from me."
Ignored by both of them as they shared their moment of camaraderie, Sherlock smiled softly in his sleep.