Weeks passed and John sat by Sherlock, holding his hand, telling him stories, wishing and prayer harder than he ever had before. He prayed for healing and for forgetting or for a quick death. He prayed for the chance to say goodbye. He prayed to never say goodbye.

John had to go back to work because he couldn't take staring at his lifeless love for hours on end. Sarah or Molly or Lestrade, sometimes even Mycroft, would come and sit with Sherlock while John was at work, but sometimes they left him alone. No one could afford to be gone from work for days and weeks on end. Not even John.

At least I work in the hospital, John thought as he was walking out of Sherlock's room. He had made a habit of eating his lunch on Sherlock's bedside table, talking to him about the goings on outside the four walls of this room.

Eventually, the hope of Sherlock ever waking up was fading away. People just didn't wake up from comas this long. But this was Sherlock and if anyone could live, it would be him. At least that's what John told himself.

But he kept working, John did. And the doctors cared for Sherlock. Lestrade hadn't found anyone else to help with cases, no one found anyone to help because that would be admitting a defeat, something Sherlock would never allow.

Now, John was sitting on the edge of the empty hospital bed with his folded hands between his knees. Tears were rolling down his face. He stood and turned to pull up the sheets. He knew they'd be taken off and washed, but he couldn't leave it unmade. It felt like a closing finally coming to a tragic film.

As he straightened the top fold, he felt a hand on his shoulder and he paused before turning around and looking into the deep and beautiful eyes he thought he might never see into again. Sherlock leaned down and took up the hand that was straightening the bedclothes. He raised it to his lips and kissed John's fingers.

"You can leave it, John." The doctor turned his body to face his husband. His head hung to the ground and Sherlock put a finger under his chin and lifted it, pressing a quick kiss to his lips. "It's over. We're going home."

"I just—I can't believe you're here." John had almost given up hope and then the heart rate changed. Sherlock's eyes blinked open. He gasped a breath. The doctors rushed in. There had been tests and nutrition and lots of talking and explaining and even some physical therapy. He wasn't healed—he probably never would be—but he was alive. He was here.

Now, standing in front of John, raised for a moment from the wheelchair he'd be imprisoned in for a while, he seemed like a mangled ghost of his former self. As he lowered his body back down, John wiped a tear from his own cheek.

"So much sadness." Sherlock said. "I wish I could take it away."

John pushed the chair down the hallway toward the elevator. He didn't think he'd believe Sherlock was alive until he had pushed him out the front doors of the hospital.

He walked down the sidewalk and Sherlock threw his head back, the sun shining on his face, a sun he'd never much appreciated before. John looked down into the tired but glowing face, enraptured, amazed as he had been the first time they had met. Amazed that such a man could exist, exist for him.

He kissed him again, slowing the wheelchair so as to avoid crashing into anyone. A tear dropped onto a bandage on Sherlock's face and John almost laughed.

"There's no goodbye here, John. Not now."

A/N And that's the end, folks! I wanted to give you a happy ending; I don't know if I could kill off Sherlock. I hope you enjoyed it! It's really my first shot at fan fiction, so I'd love any advice from you more seasoned writers out there! I've got some good ideas for my next fic so I hope you'll all stick around!