Oh, God, it hurt.

It hurt everywhere. His arms, his legs, his head, his chest, from sharp, stabbing pinpricks to feeling like he had been crushed by a building. He felt extremely light-headed, with a scratchiness in his throat, and it hurt his aching chest to breathe. The last thing he remembered, he was sitting on the couch back in the flat. What had happened?

He groaned softly and heard movement next to him.

"Sherlock?"

He managed to open his eyes and look up to see... Lestrade and Donovan?

"Oh, god." Donovan choked in a breath and held her hand over her mouth. Lestrade shook his head in disbelief, pocketing his phone.

"Wh- what... where-" he was cut off by a round of coughing, to which Lestrade quickly offered a drink.

"Here, drink this, and don't try to do too much," Lestrade spoke hurriedly. Donovan stood nearby, watching, as he took a long drink.

"How do you feel?" Lestrade asked slowly once he was finished.

He sat back for a moment as he did a mental check-up. "... Terrible," he rasped. Donovan let out a breathless laugh.

"Can you promise us you're not going to do something stupid ever again?" Donovan asked. The slight anger in her voice was weakened with the underlying tones of worry and relief. He nodded.

"No, really. Ever again," Lestrade warned.

"He found you just- just lying there, in the middle of- surrounded by-" Donovan couldn't even form a sentence, and Lestrade sent her a comforting look.

"Wh- where's Sherlock? What happened? Is he okay?"

Donovan stiffened before looking down. Lestrade's relieved look turned into a grimace, and John frowned.

"What's happened?"

"He's fine," Donovan snapped sharply. John looked up in concern. "He's busy. With the case."

"Oh. Well, that's... good. I suppose." He shifted around to try and sit up more, and Lestrade and Donovan quickly helped him up.

"You gave us quite the scare, John," Lestrade started. "You've been out for two weeks. Fourteen days."

"What?" John turned to look at him sharply. "What happened?"

"You were shot." His gave swiveled back to Donovan as she spoke. "You and Holmes were chasing after Moriarty, when-" Donovan broke off again. "Sherlock ended up finding you later on, in an... alley, covered in blood." She looked down, blinking. "It was horrible."

"Moriarty's nowhere to be found." Lestrade sent Sally a sympathetic glance before continuing where she left off. "Of course, we were all shaken up for days- still are. God, John, you couldn't have-" Lestrade barked out a laugh and couldn't meet John's eyes. "I- I've seen violence, seen gore, but you were about a drop away from bleeding out, John, literally lying in a pool of blood. You were delirious when we found you, coughing it up, it was staining your hands and your shirt- we just- your heart stopped, you know? For fifteen minutes. They declared you dead. I can't-" he shook his head, eyes on the floor.

"We haven't been doing so well since... since then," Sally began again. "Moriarty had some bombs planted when we thought we had a lead- and if Sherlock hadn't been there to find them, London wouldn't have a police force anymore. But that's it. For two weeks, everyone on the Force has been worried sick about you, and Sherlock's been running around London doing god-knows-what. As usual, I guess, but it's more worrisome when we don't have anyone to keep an eye on him."

"So basically, John, don't get shot again or I'll kill you- after I kill Sherlock, which will happen," Lestrade butt in, earning a laugh from all three of them for a moment.

"So where is he now?" John asked, when the door suddenly clicked open. He didn't miss the glance Donovan and Lestrade shared as the doctor walked in, just as they didn't miss the disappointment flash across his face.

"Hello, Mister-well, Doctor Watson. I'm Doctor Pond," the man said with a smile. "You gave us all quite the scare," he added with a laugh. "A lot of people worried, you know."

John managed a polite smile. "So I'm aware."

Just then, Anderson walked in, freezing momentarily when he saw John. A smile quickly lit up his face. "Hey, you're alive!"

John awkwardly smiled in return, nodding in agreement. Lestrade, he could understand, but... Donovan and Anderson? Since when did they care?

"Mister Watson, if you could just raise your arms for me, one at a time," the doctor went on. John complied, raising his arms and legs and then turning his head and moving his legs and feet. The three policemen didn't move, and it was awkwardly silent for a moment. Where is Sherlock? He wouldn't have made it any less awkward, but a bit more... normal, John guessed. Expected.

The doctor quickly checked his vitals before stepping back. "The machines say you're doing fine. We had to switch them, of course, after they shut down on us the other day."

"Thought you'd died again," Anderson muttered gravely. "We were in a panic."

"If you need anything for now, just use our call button," Doctor Pond continued. "It'll be a while before we release you, though, just to make sure you make a full recovery.

"Thank you," John said as the doctor nodded and left. He turned to the three other people in the room; two of which realized they still had to answer his question.

"Well?"

"He's in his lab- or, he was 30 minutes ago," Lestrade started. Anderson rolled his eyes.

"Of course, 'Sherlock 30 minutes ago' isn't the same as 'Sherlock right now,'" he added. "He didn't leave your side at all for nearly two full days, and then he just up-and-left. It's like he never cared in the first place."

John winced, and Sally elbowed Anderson in the ribs. "Wrong words. What he means, John," she went on briskly, "is that it's a bit... well, erratic. The whole force- mostly us three- has visited every day, just to check up on you- you know, like normal people. Sherlock-" she laughed once- "Sherlock quite literally didn't leave your side and then hasn't been back since. We don't know where he is half the time- the other half, he's burrowing into the police business. I honestly think-"

She was cut off when the door swung open.

"Hello, John," Mycroft said in his pleasantry-conversation voice before turning to the three policemen.

"If you'll excuse us. Terribly sorry."

Lestrade was the first to react, nodding in agreement before passing by John's bed with a wave. "Don't die again," he laughed as he walked out. Next was Donovan, who patted the food of his bed with a smile and offered a "feel better, John." Anderson followed suit with a wave and a surprising (to John, at least), "hope you're better soon, Watson."

"That was dreadful." Mycroft closed the door and turned to face John, who took a deep breath.

"This whole thing is 'dreadful.' I got shot?"

"Two inches from the heart."

John spluttered, at a complete loss for words. "W- what?"

"You should be dead. Honestly, John, I'm a bit surprised you're not. Sherlock found you almost a full ten minutes later. The ambulance came fifteen minutes after that. You managed to stay alive for half an hour with constant blood loss and a bullet embedded in your chest. You did die, actually, for eight minutes. They declared you dead after seven minutes of being totally unresponsive. Then a coma for two weeks- four days ago, your monitors malfunctioned and told everyone your heart had stopped- and now, here we are."

"That's..." John closed his eyes and leaned back, inhaling deeply. "That's a lot to take in." His chest still ached; he doubted the doctor could give him any painkillers right now, the state he was in.

"Just making sure you had all the facts."

"So what are you doing here?"

"A check-up, Doctor Watson." Mycroft twirled his umbrella in his hands. "What with the faulty machines and having the... chance... to see your decimating injuries, I also do enjoy seeing you alive."

"Where's your brother?"

"At your flat. He left the lab twenty-five minutes ago. He's fine."

John let out a long sigh, rubbing the fabric of the sheets between his fingers.

"The police force does care, you know," Mycroft went on quietly. "Donovan and Lestrade have spent as much time here as they have on Moriarty's case. Anderson, too, along with several other members of the force, and Mrs. Hudson. Your sister called. She was busy, but worried. You're in high demand, John."

What about Sherlock? John bit back his response.

"So when can I leave?"

"It will only be a few days. No rush. Now, I have other... impending matters to get to, but I wish you a quick and full recovery, John." And with that, the elder Holmes left the room.

John let out another sigh, glancing around the room. He felt like Sherlock. Bored!

John actually had to restrain himself from using the call button to request a syringe full of water to use as target practice against the opposite wall. You're being childish, he scolded himself.

...BORED!

"Sherlock Holmes!"

"What now, Inspector?" Sherlock growled, rising from his seat in the kitchen. He walked into the living room to find Lestrade's fist punching him right in the face. Sherlock reeled backwards, a hand on his jaw.

"John Watson, after two weeks comatose and fifteen minutes of death, is finally awake, and do you know what his first word is?" Lestrade hissed, stomping up to Sherlock and glaring at him. "Do you know? Of course you don't, you weren't there."

"What," Sherlock spat, "was it, then?"

"Sherlock! It was Sherlock, you bloody idiot, a man is shot in the chest and his first word when he wakes up is your name! And you don't care! The first five faces he sees are mine, Donovan's, Anderson's, his doctor's, and one of the Holmes brothers, but is it you? Oh, no!"

Lestrade stepped back, fists clenched. "His first word is Sherlock, his first coherent sentence is 'Where's Sherlock,' and then 'what happened, is he okay?' I had to watch disappointment cross over his face five damn times, Holmes!"

"And you came here to lecture me on the selflessness of my flatmate? No need," Sherlock growled.

"I came here to shove in your face how much of a bloody arse you are and the HELPlessness of your flatmate! Jesus, Sherlock, you do care, don't you?"

"Why does everyone worry so much about whether I care or not?!" Sherlock shouted. "Would caring have helped? At all?"

"It sure helped when you found him and tried to stop the bleeding," Lestrade seethed. "The doctors said if it had been any longer, or if you hadn't done anything to help him, you would have found his corpse instead." Sherlock flinched. "They said any verbal stimulation could have woken him up by day six. Day six, Sherlock. A full week ago!"

"So why didn't it?" Sherlock retorted. "I'm sure our lovely police force tried to make it happen." And why didn't you tell me before?

"We did." Lestrade's voice was bitter. "It had to be a voice he could recognize anywhere, that he had a 'strong emotional connection to.'"

It was silent.

"We called his sister and nothing happened." Lestrade looked away.

"So what did you do that- that woke him up, then?" Sherlock swallowed, raising his chin.

Lestrade sat on their couch. "You really want to know, Sherlock?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"I called you. On my cell. One last, final act of desperation, you know? 'Huh, maybe he'll pick up and his voice will wake him up, since he can't be bloody bothered to show up here.'" Lestrade let out a weak laugh. "It went to your voicemail. 'Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. Leave a message.' And he woke up. To your voicemail."

Sherlock looked at his shoes.

"Are you ashamed, Sherlock?" Lestrade's voice hardened a bit. "Please, be honest with me. Are you relieved? Ashamed? Happy? Annoyed with me? Couldn't care less? Secretly wish he wouldn't wake up?"

Sherlock suddenly slammed his hand onto the kitchen table with a bang. "Don't even think that I don't- don't- that I-"

"Well, Sherlock, I don't really have much else to go on." Lestrade shook his head, gesturing helplessly. "Really, mate."

Sherlock swallowed a lump in his throat, sliding a glance at the Inspector. He didn't say anything, but from the slightly surprised face Lestrade sent him in return, he guessed his eyes gave him away.

"Sherlock, you need to go see him," Lestrade continued quietly. "Really."

"But Moriarty's case-"

"DAMMIT, Sherlock, I'm not saying it for you!" Lestrade shouted, jumping up again and standing nose-to-nose with Sherlock. "I'm begging you for John's sake!"

"And I know you haven't seen him in- in a while." The Inspector's voice returned to its defeated tone. "And I know it's been difficult. But when John woke up- God, Sherlock- he looked afraid. He didn't look relieved, or happy to be alive. He looked worried, and weak, and- and a bit afraid. He needs you, and I know you two blokes are too thick to realize it but he does! As much as you need him. And you do, too, it shows- badly. Don't kid yourself, Sherlock. You're getting a second chance here. Most people aren't that lucky. Don't waste it."

The Inspector stepped back, glancing at Sherlock's face. "Well. I'm going home now; you should clean up your face before you do anything else." He rubbed his neck awkwardly before backing away, stepping out of the flat.

Sherlock sighed, rubbing his jaw slightly with his eyes locked on the door. Damn, that had hurt.

Author's Note:

Yayyy John's back :) I couldn't keep him away for very long, haha. But no, we can't have Sherlock rushing back to see him- that would be way too simple and wouldn't go with how our favorite detective has been acting so far. So we get Lestrade punching Sherlock and John's 'what-the-hell-is-going-on' point of view, which is great. The Epic Holmes Fight will come in the next chapter, too, don't worry. And, of course, the case will come back! I've been trying to juggle Sherlock's thinking + angst + an entire case and it's gotten a bit difficult, but no worries anymore (I think). It's actually easier to write Sherlock, the case, and John altogether, surprisingly, even though it's an added element. It runs more smoothly.

And yes. Donovan and Anderson. 'Whaaat? Them? Nice? Whaaaat?'

I feel like Donovan and Anderson are kind of under-appreciated characters, in a way (as in, they have too much potential for me to write them off as 'those two annoying cops'). Yes, Sherlock (and therefore John) hates them, and they are rude, annoying, etc. to him, but I realized while I was writing- they hate Sherlock, not John. If the two detectives met John on another case- say, they needed a doctor to help an almost-murder-victim or something- they'd probably end up liking each other, wouldn't they? Two average/good policemen and a good doctor, all three sassy, everyday, mundane-yet-extraordinary people- I mean, Greg and John have kind of an easy, grudging friendship, right? So why not all four of them? I consider Lestrade to have a friendship with Donovan/Anderson (the beginning of ASiP shows Lestrade and Anderson being interviewed together), so they're kind of the police trio there. Donovan, as mean as she is to Sherlock, would actually care about John if he was victim to a case Sherlock and the force hadn't yet solved. She'd pity John because Sherlock wasn't there and would end up going to the hospital (dragging Anderson along, of course), and would realize 'Hey, John's not that bad of a bloke,' yknow? And Anderson would realize it too (more along the lines of 'hey, John's got to put up with him, even more than the rest of us. Poor guy. He's actually not that terrible.') and they'd be nicer to him.

Anyways. Sorry for rambling- I could literally go on for hours on the under-usage of Sally's character, who in my mind has really dynamic potential, but I won't. Just realize I'm not always going to write her from a depreciating, Sherlockian point of view, and it might transition over to a more 'Watsonesque' appreciation sort of thing. Sally's cool with John.

But yes. Thanks for reading! That's all for now, the next chapter will be up asap. Comments/critiques/reviews are greatly appreciated :)