He had been unconscious for some time, slipping from reality into dream. Everything was bright and burned his eyes as he battled against his body to draw them open. When he succeeded, he was disappointed. There was no Irene, no John, instead a cluster of concerned faces peered at him intently, voices shouting urgently, so many that it blurred into an invariable continuance of noise. The ceiling rushed past above him, he was lying down, and everything was white, except for the curious splash of scarlet in the corner of his restricted vision. He could feel the metal inside him; feel the uncomfortable friction of it against his skin, pressing on the fabric of his being, an intruder in his body. He wasn't scared. He was overwhelmed, yes, oppressed by the bombardment of so many new strains on his senses. Sherlock catalogued the distressing familiarity of the cool needle probing beneath his skin, its sharp sting as it injected him with an unknown substance, probably morphine. He felt the blood drying and cracking on his chest where his life was pouring out of him as they rushed him through the hospital, heard the irritating nasal whinnying of the doctor at his head as he exerted himself in manoeuvring the bed. Then the darkness descended, the vision faded, and he was unconscious once more.

John walked dazedly through the hospitals endless corridors. He could hear the distant hum of the electric lighting which gave out a sickly artificial emanation, it hammered against his skull. He swayed precariously and had to fall against the wall. When the world stopped pirouetting around him, he started walking again, shuffling closer to his destination. A young nurse hurried past him, disappearing almost as instantaneously as she had appeared, leaving behind the lonely swing of the heavy doors on their hinges, which fell closed again with a dismal finality. He reached the ward and peered at the lettering, his vision swam and he felt sick again, but he pushed at the door. It opened with little resistance into a stuffy and similarly lit room lined with beds. John gave a sharp intake of breath which was tainted by chemicals and the aroma of chlorine and other less apparent substances. Sherlock's bed was empty. Everything had been cleared and two nurses were busy disinfecting the bed and tirelessly changing the already immaculate sheets. He approached them with caution, fear already settling itself into his heart. "Excuse me," his voice cracked, John began again. "I was wondering if you could help me, I'm looking for a Mr Sherlock Holmes, he was the patient in that bed." He relayed, his voice a little steadier but still unable to conceal his worry. One of the nurses raised her head and gave him a curt nod and a thin smile. She passed instructions to the younger nurse to continue her task, and led him back down the corridor, making no allowances for John's slow limping walk with her brisk pace. They reached a separate room halfway down the corridor which John had failed to notice. The room was a private sleeping area for patients who were recovering from contagious illnesses such as colds and flu, or those who were particularly troublesome in their manner. If this was the case, John had a suspicion that his friend had not accommodated his bedfellows too kindly to end up in such isolation. The nurse deposited him at the door to the room, giving him a pleasant enough smile, and turned on her heel.

Sherlock Holmes sat propped up in bed by a number of pillows. He looked a mere shell of the man John had been running about London with only days before. His eyes were sunken and his skin held a dull pigment which made it look grey and sickly. Sherlock was dressed in loose fitting hospital regulation pyjamas, white and pin striped with blue, they hung off his narrow frame comically. John could see the tip of a coarse bandage wrapped tightly around his friend's torso, and he felt again a pang of guilt that gnawed relentlessly at his insides. Irene sat loyally by his bedside, she looked dogged and impossibly tired. John wondered how anybody could remain conscious in that state. She laid a gentle hand on his arm, and Sherlock covered it with his own. John felt as though he were intruding, he nearly backed out of the door, when Sherlock raised his head. The warmest grin overtook the detectives face, John almost feared it would split his cheeks it was so wide and dazzling and full of life. "John!" Sherlock said with such enthusiasm that John couldn't help but return the grin. He limped to Sherlock's bedside, his friend made to get up, seeming to possess the full intention of enveloping him in a hug though he was clearly unable to endeavour such movement. Irene threw a firm but loving hand against his uninjured shoulder, pinning him in place. He scowled in annoyance, but beckoned John to his side with a frantic flap of his wrist. John couldn't see a chair in the small room, but Irene stood from hers and offered it to him. She made to leave in an attempt to give them some privacy, but Sherlock snagged her sleeve. She released herself and touched a warm hand to his cheek in reassurance. John watched Irene slide out of the room quietly, but not before she stooped to whisper in his ear. "He has had a considerable dose of morphine, he's not fully himself." She said, barely audible for even John to hear. He shot her a worried glance, "He's not, different," she said with a pause "but his mind has been sharper." She clarified, giving him a pat on the arm before taking her leave. Sherlock looked stricken, like someone had torn away a part of his soul. He fixed the door with a longing gaze before turning to his friend.

Sherlock's mind felt cheated, for some reason it was deprived of its usual speed and active exuberance. It felt like a champion sprinter being restrained by a tether, a mental obstacle he was unable to overcome. Something blocked his generally instantaneous accessibility to the freakishly unobvious and it was infuriating.

"You're healing well." He said at last, eyeing the part of John's thick jumper that concealed his bruised ribs intently. "Though you psychosomatic limp has returned I see." Sherlock observed. John looked at the stick in his hand miserably. "Your therapist has prescribed, with a predictable amount of inadequacy, a few weeks of bed rest. Not to worry," here a wry smile stole over his face, "I'll soon have you free-running all over London, leaping before you look, devil take the hindmost again." John smiled faintly. Sherlock's face fell, "Is something wrong?" He said, unconsciously he slipped a hand underneath his shirt, he brushed the bandages thoughtfully. He could feel the wound; a deep valley in his flesh, his skin was hot and pulled tight across his sharp collar bone. When he moved, he could feel the muscles quiver in his shoulder. He felt weak. He hated it. Sherlock removed his hand. John was trembling. "No, no, nothing's wrong, apart from the fact that I nearly got my closest friend killed by some psychopathic burglar, by a bullet that was meant for me, in a street that I led you down, when all you wanted to do was go left because you're so bloody stubborn!" He bellowed, his voice shook, "Why didn't I listen to you?" He said more quietly, letting his head fall heavily into his palms in self-loathing. Sherlock remained silent; he sat in bed, quite confused, watching John intently. "Anything else?" he said at last, raising an eyebrow. John looked up; tears stained his cheeks as he considered his friend's question seriously. "And, I think someone forgot to tell Mrs Hudson." He murmured, as the older lady presented herself in the doorway, hands on hips, looking as though she was about ready to give them a good hiding. Sherlock and John gulped in unison.

Mrs Hudson sighed dramatically. "My boys" she addressed them, striding into the room and taking their hands with surprising zeal. "Thank goodness you're alive." She said earnestly, John gave up his chair to accommodate their newest visitor. Irene appeared to have left them, probably to wait at 221B and return later. With all this attention, Sherlock was almost beginning to look popular. Mrs Hudson stayed for close to two hours; they talked about mundane things like groceries and television. John considered how fortunate it was that Sherlock was currently anesthetised by vase quantities of morphine, and thus unable to complain or even roll his eyes at the benign conversation due to his uncharacteristically cheerful mood. When she left Sherlock smiled warmly and she laid a hand on his arm in a motherly gesture, "Well I best be off, get well soon dear." She said,

"Hold the fort Mrs Hudson." He returned. They watched her walk out the door. After they could no longer hear the click of her small heels on the linoleum, they lapsed into an awkward silence, punctuated occasionally by one of them clearing their throat in an attempt at conversation, but giving up before any words presented themselves.

John eyed a small clear plastic container set on the cheap plywood side table. He picked it up, turning it over in disbelief, letting the shining shards of bullet chink against each other. Sherlock watched John. John's expression was pained, he looked so very tired, and, oddly, though he would never say it aloud, older. His eyes clouded with a deep contemplation and sorrow, the likes of which Sherlock had never observed before. "Why did you keep these?" He asked. He looked repulsed as he studied the fragments of bullet the surgeons had extracted from his friend's torso. Sherlock, on the other hand, was gripped by a morbid fascination. He had had coveted them, those brilliantly complex little shards, and requested that he should keep them, and so they were cleaned and presented to him by a grim faced practitioner, who handed them over like a trophy. This was the tiny bit of practical proof he could keep for himself to remind him how he had come by what proved to be a deep, circular scar in his flesh. Not that he would forget, but there was something deliciously captivating about the way they glittered, that would always spark his nostalgia of the day he felt truly connected to his Dr Watson through the marks on their bodies and the unity of their minds. The day he knew John was a man he was glad to take a bullet for, and always would do. He would do everything he could to make sure John did not feel guilty for letting him. It was the day Sherlock Holmes became not a great man, but a good one too. He had acted out of instinct, by what was right, to save his dearest friend. What made him a good man was the pure, possessive, instinctual, very human reaction to danger. Every normal person was born with this knowledge buried deep within their psyche, but Sherlock was not every normal person, and he had to learn this for himself. Unlike normal people, who were born good people and had the opportunity to make themselves into great ones, Sherlock Holmes was born a great person, with a great mind, and to become essentially human in his characteristics, what he had to discover was how to be a good person too.

John bowed his head again; carefully he set the pot back on the table. He looked up into Sherlock's soft grey eyes to find them already meeting his own. "Thank you." He said with emotion. John stared, entranced by those passive pools of graphite. Sherlock reached out a hand, placing it tentatively on his friend's shoulder, "No, John, thank you." He said. John frowned,

"For what?" he squeaked, feeling the weight of Sherlock's arm resting on him. Sherlock's lips quirked into a gentle smile, "For making me human."