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The soft, grey light of the early morning London sky filters in through the thin, green curtains at the window. As the light becomes more insistent, Sherlock stirs in his chair. His neck feels stiff, and for a moment before he opens his eyes, he imagines that he has dozed off in his favourite armchair in Baker Street. Of course, he is not. He straightens up in the hospital chair and rubs his eyes. John is not in the room. Probably getting coffee, Sherlock thinks.
It is only then that he notices Amy. Bundled in hospital blankets and lying very still, she blinks at him.
'You're still here.' She croaks.
'So are you.' He replies, his voice cracking, half from lack of use and half from relief. 'I didn't think you'd wake up.'
'You're still here!' she repeats and smiles, her pale lips drawing a thin line across her face.
'I didn't want you to be alone. People shouldn't… go alone, if they can help it.' Sherlock tells her as he looks out of the window.
'Thank you.' She says, her voice growing in strength. 'I think though, Sherlock Holmes, that I won't be going anywhere soon.'
He smiles, he laughs; 'Good,' he says, 'because coming to the hospital to see you all the time is getting a little bit boring.'
'I'll have to accompany my skull to see you at the infamous 221b Baker Street.'
She smiles and tries to laugh, but she's still too weak to manage it. But just the thought of laughing with her new friend raises her heartbeat and brings the tiniest amount of colour to her cheeks. No one else would've noticed, but Sherlock Holmes, who notices everything, sees and revels in it.