Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock
Bedside
The first thing he became aware of was the smell. Disinfectant. Hospital. Doctors.
John.
His eyes shot open.
Sure enough, he lay on one of the clinic's hospital beds with his old woman disguise on the side table and gauze on his head and John, in a chair nearby, looking as though he'd seen a ghost.
Well.
"Sherlock," John's voice was so weak, his gaze so conflicted, full of relief and shock and pain.
"John," This feeling—guilt or shame, he hadn't had enough experience sorting them out yet—was choking him.
John looked as though he had a thousand things to say, but it came out in one word.
"Explain."
And Sherlock did.
Right there in the hospital bed, he told about his premonition of Moriarty's endgame, about his plan with Molly, about the final confrontation, Jim's threat of "three bullets," about the waste truck that parked in front of Bart's at 9:23 every day, the body swap, the slight of hand, the hiding, the hunting, the watching… everything. John listened. Sherlock could see the painful memories flash behind his eyes as he slid each new detail into place in the story. It was so much to absorb.
Sherlock put it all on the table for John to see.
Now, all he could do was wait for his friend's answer.