John watched as Sherlock paced, his face pale and gaunt in the light. He moved like a ghost, his long legs gliding over the pavement. The blood was dried on his face and his wrists were covered in red welts and bruises. For a moment, he looked straight at John, but he didn't see him. Instead, he kept walking, head down, eyes lowered. Everyone walked past John now, not noticing his existence.

"Is he still ignoring you?"

John twisted his head and saw Lestrade, his speckled hair glinting in the fading light. It had been a few hours since the ordeal in the warehouse, and now, the sun was low in the sky, casting a hazy glow over the street and dark frosty pavement.

Lestrade sat down on the edge of the ambulance next to John, pushing the edge of his orange blanket to the side. John was clothed in jackets, hats, scarves, gloves, blankets and throws, but it didn't matter. He was still shaking, constantly shaking. "So? Has he said anything to you?"

John shook his head. "No. Still pretending I don't exist." He sighed and tugged the blanket closer to his chest in a vain attempt to stop the shivering. The doctors had said it was a side-effect of the poison, but John had been in enough battles to know what this was - PTSD. It would go away eventually, when the memory, the freshness started to fade, but until, then he was stuck being terrified.

"He's just in shock. He'll get over it eventually." Lestrade dug his fingers into a pocket and pulled out a cigarette. "You want one?"

"I-I don't smoke."

"Neither do I, but it's been a hell of a week."

Clicking a lighter, Lestrade let the tip of cigarette glow and then he put it in his mouth, blowing the smoke in a ring. John stared at the warehouse. It was swarming with people - John had seen Anderson and Donovan amongst the constant trickle of detectives and policemen and doctors - and now it was silhouetted in the light. It was menacing. Evil-looking.

"Is he still sticking to his story?"

Lestrade nodded and said, "Yup. Not budged. Still says you had taken the poison, he woke up and just as you were dying, a man stormed in and shot Tyler Wilkes. He quickly administered the antidote and then wandered towards Sherlock, laughing. He said something and then, still laughing, left." Lestrade shook his head. "We haven't found any trace of a man, but his story is the most plausible idea we have as to how you survived. How are you feeling? Any side-effects?"

"No," John replied, shuffling his feet and avoiding the gaze of two curious doctors. "What did the man say? The one Sherlock saw?"

Lestrade paused and took a drag from the cigarette. "'I owe you, Sherlock.'"

John looked down at the ground. There was no doubt in his mind that the man had been The Spider's master, pulling the strings of his puppet from above. Why he had decided to reveal himself, John had no idea. Nor did he know why his life, so fragile, so close to falling into the thin veil, had been saved.

"Anyway, I'd better be off - the rookies are no doubt messing up the crime scene. I'll let you have a night's rest before I get a witness statement, ok?" Lestrade dropped his cigarette and crushed it with his shoe. "Take it easy...and look after him, John. I think this has affected him."

"Yeah. Yeah. Ok. Thanks."

Lestrade strode back towards the warehouse, vanishing into the throng of people. John hugged the blanket closer to his chest and waited. For what, he didn't know. For the end, for the night, for the shaking to stop. His eyes strayed to the side and he saw Sherlock standing against a wall, back to the warehouse, his long coat swept upwards by a cold wind.

He was just another man. Another corpse.

If only the dead could be woken with a kiss - woken and made to dance.