Chapter Sixteen

Eventually John felt guilty for occupying the bathroom for so long and stepped out, wrapping the towel around him. His strength and especially his self-confidence were restored he found as he looked at himself in the mirror. There it was, his clean but unshaven face, no traces of blood or dirt or tears. It could have just been another normal morning if it wasn't for the fact that he was in a hospital and that it was almost noon.

And then it dawned on him that while he had let his emotions run all over the place, he had not asked Sherlock what had happened. Sherlock had been gone for two days and, quite possibly, had been in Moriarty's hands all this time. And Sherlock had been the one who had asked himif he was okay, while that should have been his job. Sherlock had comforted him as he had lain there, bleeding from a gunshot wound and wiped away John's tears when he had probably gone through much worse.

He dried himself off, but for lack of proper clothes and his distinct dislike for hospital gowns, no matter how practical, he decided that the towel would have to do. He was worried about Sherlock now, but then again his mind had just not functioned properly until now.

He quietly stepped into the room again, finding Sherlock lying on his bed as he would on the couch, hands behind his head, one leg splayed over the other, staring at the ceiling. He didn't turn his head, and only said "finally." He sounded like himself again, John noticed somewhat relieved, somewhat disappointed.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?" he loved that he always said his name when he answered, as if to show him that he had his full attention.

"What happened to you?"

He could see about twenty different snarky remarks crossing his friend's mind, but none of them left his lips. "Can we talk about this at home? I dislike this part of the hospital."

"Oh, because this part is for the living, you mean."

"Precisely."

John chuckled. Yes, Sherlock was definitely back to his old self.

"Will you try to take a shower?" He asked, wondering how Sherlock would cope with having to be careful about the wound. Something told him that he wouldn't be careful. "Without trying to experiment on what water does to a freshly stitched up wound."

Sherlock turned his head, giving him a look that made it clear that he had anticipated John to say something of that sort. John expected him to go back to brooding and staring at the ceiling, but he just kept his head where it was, looking at him from the side. It was clear that he wanted to say something, but that the environment was not the place to do so. John walked over to the window, looking at the sight he only noticed now. "Sherlock, it's been snowing."

"Obviously.

No surprise for him, he probably smelled it or noted by the way the light was different. John didn't even bother to comment. He kept his eyes on the snow, watching as the snowflakes danced their way towards the ground and wondered how Conny and Jack were coping with this weather. He hoped they were okay.

His breath clouded the window, and for a second he had the silly impulse to draw something on the grey patch of condensed water. With a smile he turned around, only to find Sherlock still looking at him. He decided that it was perfectly normal. He had always done that, he just never had that effect on him. So he sat down on the bed and looked back. Sherlock seemed relaxed, almost too calm. He figured that he was just waiting to get out of here.

"I won't take a shower here," he said eventually.

"You want to do it at home?"

"Yes."

"Okay."

"John?" He still held his gaze. "Do you think they saw you?"

"Shooting?"

Sherlock nodded his confirmation.

"Do you think I'd get in trouble?"

"You could go to jail. I can't let that happen." He sounded resolute, but at the same time unsure, knowing that even he would not be able to help John out. "I'm glad you weren't hurt," he added after a while. "I apologise."

John frowned and Sherlock looked away for the first time, seemingly mad at himself. Just as John wanted to ask what he was apologising for, a knock interrupted him.

"Are you boys decent?" Lestrade couldn't hide the relief from his face and voice when he saw them both alive and awake.

John laughed. "It's not like you would have stayed outside." He could see Sherlock's lip twitch.

"Did you bring clothes?"

Lestrade entered the room and closed the door behind him. "I was so tempted to bring women's clothes," he said, grinning happily.

Sherlock sat up with one single fluid movement. "Just because we are hospitalised doesn't mean that..."

"Sherlock," John interrupted him. He actually shut up.

"Dr. Watson." Lestrade held out a bag with his clothes. Sherlock watched. For one second he was tempted to change right where he stood just to see the reaction on their faces. Well, he didn't care much for Lestrade's face.

Sherlock looked almost challenging and John wondered whether his ability to read him had returned. Thinking back it seemed like it was the case. They had had several short conversations without really speaking, Sherlock reading his mind without much trouble. He wondered why that was.

He excused himself and made his way back into the bathroom. Let these two talk for a minute, Lestrade surely had a full catalogue of questions. When he came out again, Lestrade was indeed scribbling away on his notebook, Sherlock sitting on the edge of the bed, supporting himself with his arms. He looked up when John walked back in, and kept his eyes on him when he sat back down on his bed, listening to what Lestrade asked.

Apparently Sherlock was avoiding giving any real information. He circumnavigated Lestrade's questions, rephrasing them until they had become yet another inquiry for his health. John was fascinated, and he knew that it would take just one more question for Lestrade to give up on him.

John was right. After Sherlock had again avoided a question as to the presence of the man who had held Sherlock hostage and the possible scheme behind things, he put away his notepad and pen and handed Sherlock the bag with his clothes. Sherlock stood up, stretching a bit as if to try if his body was still in working order and then began pulling out the clothes Lestrade had brought him. John watched him. He had never really seen him topless, he mused. He always wore t-shirts at night, and usually his dressing gown. He looked tough like this. Older somehow, more mature. John didn't quite know why that was, especially since he did not dress like any thirty year old he knew. His style was elaborate and expensive. But still, seeing him spread out on the couch on bad days or watching him curse happily at a failing experiment, he knew how young he could be. And now he saw the lean chest, stomach, and part of his back, muscles moving as he moved his arms. The wound was dressed nicely, but it reminded him of the desperate action he had had to take in order to save them both. It made him feel both proud and very sorry.

"John, quit staring at me, it won't disappear." Says he, of all people, John though.

Lestrade turned around to him, eyebrow raised. John knew he could either feel embarrassed again or go with it.

"I hope it'll heal quickly," he said, avoiding Lestrade's eyes.

Sherlock just smiled and put on a shirt, covering himself up and causing John to finally look away. "You did not happen to find my coat?" he inquired. Lestrade looked back at him, obviously irritated. "We didn't really look for it, to be honest. There are other things we were focused on, like bombs."

"There are no bombs," Sherlock said dismissively. "In case you find it, I'd like to have it back."

The detective inspector shook his head lightly. "I really liked you last night when you didn't say much." He knew he was asking for it, but he apparently did not care enough to swallow the remark.

Sherlock's eyes hardened, but John knew that he was acting. It had become a bit of a hobby of his to watch Sherlock intimidate even the most self-confident people, and Lestrade was no exception. "Alright, I think I better go and get some work done. Could you call me when you feel up for questioning?"

John nodded and Sherlock stared. "And, you're welcome for the clothes." He nodded into John's general direction and walked out.

"Sherlock, he was in such a good mood." He couldn't keep the grin off his face.

"Ah, he'll live." Sherlock answered, grinning back.

"Now, let's go home."