Chapter Three

Swirling darkness was all around him. The darkness and the pain that threatened to swallow up his entire being. He was going to drown in it; dragged down by its ravaging claws. He had to escape, to break free and return to the light, to safety.

John thrashed and groaned where he lay, arching his back and twisting from side to side.

"John, wake up. John! You're safe. I'm here. It's Sherlock. Open your eyes, John." Sherlock soothed John, trying to break him out of whatever nightmare he was in. Gently, he pushed John's shoulders back into the mattress, holding him in place.

Sensing defeat, John's eyes slowly flickered open. They darted across the room before coming to rest on Sherlock's face. John groaned and tried to arch his back again.

"Hey, John. You're okay. Who am I? Where are you? Tell me."

John blinked several times and took a few deep breaths. His muscles seemed to ache, and his jaw was stiff and sore. He licked his lips carefully before speaking. "You're Sherlock. I'm in hospital." Even to John, his voice sounded rough and gravelly.

Sherlock smiled and released his grip on John's shoulders.

"What happened?"

"You had a seizure, John, when the doctor was speaking to you. He said they'd been expecting it. It's possible you might have another one. I wasn't meant to tell you that in case it worried you unnecessarily, but I'm not going to lie to you."

John nodded and closed his eyes briefly. He only opened them when Sherlock spoke again.

"Lestrade's here to see you."

Slowly, John turned his head to see Lestrade. He looked a little pale, and licked his lips nervously as John raked his eyes over his figure. They had only met twice since Sherlock's return. John was well aware that Lestrade was only interested in Sherlock, not him, or so he thought. Both meetings had been in Sherlock's presence, after all, and were both to do with a case – one of the few which John had agreed to go on since Sherlock had come back.

"Hi John. Uh, you look pretty awful, to be honest."

"Cheers, mate." John's voice dripped with sarcasm.

"It's weird, seeing you in hospital. Normally it's Sherlock who's got himself into some sort of trouble, not you."

"Yeah, well, maybe it was time things took a different turn." John gave a weak smile. He and Lestrade were both trying to make light of the situation. John supposed Lestrade was dreading having to deal with Sherlock on his own again, while John was out of action, and unable to 'handle' him.

"John. Are you thirsty?" Sherlock asked, already reaching for the jug of water and a cup.

"Yes, but I can do it myself, you know."

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow as he poured a drink. "Really?" Making an obvious show, he placed the cup into John's hand and retracted his own. He nodded. "Go on, then."

John lifted the cup, but found his hand shook badly, and that he couldn't simultaneously lift his head and the cup without finding the strain too much. He rested the cup back down on the mattress and slammed his head into the pillow in frustration. "Fine, you've made your point. I can't do it. Now give me a sodding drink."

At John's request, Sherlock lifted the cup with one hand and put it to John's lips. He slid his other hand carefully under John's head and lifted it to a suitable angle for drinking. His hand felt warm against John's skin. John drank slowly, aware that if he choked or dribbled it would be humiliating – having to be helped like this at all was bad enough.

When the cup was empty, Sherlock slowly lowered John's head back onto the pillow and placed the cup back on the tray. John blinked the tiredness from his eyes, but he knew he wouldn't be able to fight it off for long.

"Just go to sleep, John." Sherlock gently urged.

"I'm fine for a bit."

"No, you're not. You're tired and need to sleep; it'll help you recover faster."

John huffed and rolled his eyes, but allowed them to fall closed, once he was sure Sherlock had seen the manoeuvre. Within seconds, his breathing evened out and he was fast asleep. Sherlock gave a small smile of victory, but, as Lestrade could see, it was also tainted with sadness. Lestrade disliked seeing John like this, so he couldn't imagine what it was doing to Sherlock.

After a few minutes of silence, Lestrade spoke. "This won't last forever, Sherlock. He'll be okay again."

Sherlock looked up at Lestrade with a pained expression. "It's worse than you think."

"What, why?"

"I told John that the doctors think he'll have another seizure soon. But it's more than that. They think the brain damage might result in epilepsy, especially with the emergency surgery they had to perform."

"Lots of people have epilepsy, Sherlock. It's not the end of the world."

Sherlock sighed and focused his gaze back onto John's face. "I've researched it. Epilepsy requires drugs to prevent the seizures, or just lessen their regularity. The drugs have lots of side effects, especially when you first start taking them. It could take months to find the right ones, which means months of John being sick and tired and dizzy and miserable…"

Lestrade leaned forward a little. "Don't jump ahead, Sherlock. We don't know if John has epilepsy yet, and if he does, we can't know how he'll react to the drugs until he has them. Maybe he'll be a little rough for a while, maybe he won't. That doesn't mean you won't be able to take cases or anything."

"I don't care about the cases, Lestrade! I care about John, his life. What if he decides it's not worth living anymore? What if I can't look after him in the way he needs? He hasn't forgiven me, for leaving him. Maybe he's too tired to be angry at the moment, or maybe it's just easier for him to act like nothing's wrong, but I can feel it; he's not happy with me, and I don't know if he ever will be again." Sherlock cut himself off abruptly, realising he's said far more than he'd meant to.

"Now you're definitely jumping too far ahead, mate. Maybe John is still angry, I don't know; but he'll come round eventually. You're doing everything you can for now. John still needs you, Sherlock, however much that may annoy him at the moment, it's true. He depends on you to live, and if there are complications, he's going to need you more than ever before."

Sherlock didn't reply, but simply sat, staring blankly at the bed, lost in thought. His shoulders slumped forward a little, and his head was bowed. Silently, Lestrade willed John to forgive Sherlock and move on, before the guilt crushed him completely.

Eventually, after a few attempts at stunted conversation with Sherlock, which were met either with no reply or with monosyllabic answers, Lestrade left him alone with John. As he walked along the corridor towards the exit of the hospital, his phone rang.

"Lestrade."

"It's Donovan. We've found another one."

Lestrade cursed under his breath. "Where?"

"Corner of Baker Street, can't miss it if you're walking along. Did you tell Sherlock?"

"Mycroft knows – he warned me not to say, because Sherlock won't keep it from John, and something like that won't help him recover from the accident."

"Hmm."

"What is it, Donovan?"

"What if it wasn't an accident – what if someone did this on purpose, to leave Sherlock on his own to follow the clues?"

Lestrade was silent for a while. "Maybe… Even more reason not to tell Sherlock yet, then. Mycroft's keeping the hospital under close surveillance; they're safe for now."

"How soon can you get here, sir?"

Lestrade consulted his watch. "I'll be 20 or so minutes."

Elsewhere in the hospital, Mycroft was also making a phone call. "Meyer, you're needed."

Will Meyer was a man of slight figure and average height. He had sharp green eyes which were set in a long but handsome face. His hair was dark and wavy, but he kept it short. Will was the agent who had tracked Sherlock on the ground while he'd been away; working as Mycroft's eyes and ears in a way Sherlock never would. He dived in to assist Sherlock when assistance was needed, and over the two years, they'd built up something of a bond between them. Will may have been 10 years younger than Sherlock, but he was sharp, sure-footed and wise; he knew when to take a risk and when to back down, which was a valuable which Sherlock didn't possess, but which Mycroft knew was needed.

He held the phone close against his ear and was already pulling on his boots. "Yes, sir. What for?"

"Sherlock needs protection, and I believe he tolerates you well. You'll also have to protect John Watson."

"He's the one in hospital, right?"

"Indeed. I'll expect you to be at St George's by two o'clock. You'll receive full instructions and briefing upon arrival."

Mycroft disconnected the call before Will had a chance to reply. Quickly, he slung his backpack over his shoulder; there was no need to pack it, for Will was always ready for any call or order. Wherever Mycroft pointed, he went, not even looking back to see whether he had backup or not. Will was a force to be reckoned with, which was exactly why Mycroft had called on him.

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