Thank you for the feedback, it means a lot to me to know that someone is reading. This chapter is a bit short but I thought I'd rather post it now as I don't know how much time I will have to write over the holidays.

Thank you for reading!

ML

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The first conscious thought that entered was pain. It seemed to be all around; in his legs, arms, face, everywhere. Breathing hurt, blinking hurt. Everything hurt. John was lying on his back, staring at the dark night sky which had a rather odd, reddish hue in it, trying to tackle the pain and push it further from his thoughts so as to be able to function.

He turned his head to his right and saw Sherlock lying next to him, on his side, his face blackened by the smoke and visible burns all over his bare arms. He appeared to be unconscious; however the even rising and lowering of his chest showed him to be alive. A surge of relief rushed over John as he realized they had both indeed survived the flaming inferno that was still ongoing just some hundreds of yards away from them. John reached out with his hand to touch Sherlock; as his fingertips met the normally pale but now blackened skin, he felt a wild jolt of pure joy. Sherlock was alive. Sherlock was alive and he was there, just some tens of inches away from him.

As much in physical pain as he was, John didn't remember a time when he would have felt happier.

Sherlock moved a bit under John's touch and opened his eyes. The crystal-clear clarity of his pale eyes in the darkness of the surrounding night and in his face smudged by soot and dirt and blood was striking; his gaze pierced into John like ice picks. For a second or two Sherlock seemed disoriented; then he recognized John and the look in his eyes softened and his face relaxed into a faint smile.

"John." His voice was hoarse and not much more audible than a whisper.

John smiled back at him. "That was close, eh?" He felt the smoke still in his throat; it was like someone had rubbed the insides of it with sandpaper.

Sherlock coughed. "I'd say."

They stayed silent for a while, both recognizing how close death had been and how lucky they were to have escaped it. The still ongoing destruction of the mansion made the night waver with red and orange; the crackling of the fire that was close enough for them to feel the distant warmth of it filled the otherwise silent night. The lay there, in silence, sharing something that no words could have delivered. Nothing reveals your true self and emotions like coming face to face with death; and now, as they both had looked it in the eye and walked away, together, the truth of them, of what they were and what they were to each other was too bare, too strong to be put into words.

After some time John spoke, his hand still resting on Sherlock's shoulder, as if reassuring himself he was really there. "What happened back there?"

Sherlock shook his head, just enough for John to see the movement of his dark locks. "I don't know. I don't remember anything after falling out from the window."

John frowned. "Neither do I." He lifted his upper body a bit and looked at the direction of the mansion, now completely consumed by the flames. "I wonder how we got here."

Sherlock lay immobile, staring at the sky. "I have no idea." His voice was quiet. Then he continued, "I guess you dragged us here."

John glanced down to Sherlock. "Or you."

Sherlock didn't reply at first. When he did his voice was very calm. "I doubt it highly, John." He kept his stare directed towards the starry sky. "As it seems I am unable to move my legs."

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When the firefighters arrived some half an hour later, most of the building was gone. They were not left with much to do, basically just to put out the already dying flames; there was practically nothing left to be salvaged and it was more than obvious that had anyone been inside the house, they would have been dead a long time ago.

When John had heard them coming - they are never were discreet in their manner of approach - it had took him quite an effort to will himself to get up and leave Sherlock in order to get help. He hadn't felt comfortable leaving Sherlock there by himself, unable to move and basically helpless, and it was only when Sherlock had pointed out that if John wouldn't go and get someone to carry him out of there John would have to do it himself that he had agreed to go.

An ambulance was called. The firemen covered Sherlock with a blanket and told him not to move; a little bit unnecessary given that he wasn't able to - -which Sherlock readily pointed out to them.

They waited there for what felt like a lifetime, Sherlock lying on the ground and John sitting next to him, trying his best not to let his worry show too much. The fuss and bustle around them, the shouts of the firemen and the general chaos caused by the situation all seemed to be very far away; it was just the two of them, waiting quietly in the chilly night.

"You'll be fine." John's words were delivered with firmness, but the heaviness he felt lurked somewhere in the undertones of his voice.

Sherlock looked at him, narrowing his eyes a bit. "Are you reassuring yourself or me?" His hands rested on his chest covered by the blanket, the long, elegant fingers entwined; had it not been the severity of the situation it would have looked like he would have just leisurely laid himself down to the grass to gaze at the stars. He didn't appear to be nervous or afraid; but John knew that he was thinking about the prospect of not ever walking again.

John didn't turn his look away. "Does it matter?" The truth was that he didn't know.

Sherlock held his gaze for a few seconds and then turned his eyes back to the sky. They seemed to absorb darkness, appearing much darker than normally. "I suppose not." He adjusted himself a bit. "Is it your medical opinion? That I will be fine?" His voice was very even, very matter-of-fact; but in his demeanor John saw that he was, indeed, terrified.

John thought for a few minutes. When he replied his voice had a new notch of seriousness in it. "It is impossible to say. Depends on the injury."

Sherlock nodded. The expression on his face tightened. "You could have lied."

John sneered. "Yeah, that works so well with you." He reached out his hand and took Sherlock's into his own. It felt cold as he squeezed it tightly. "No matter what, I'm with you, Sherlock. Always." His voice was quiet.

Sherlock didn't reply, just stared to the vast darkness of the cold night sky that opened above them. The stars stared back at him, offering no comfort.

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The following days were a very strange time. On one hand John was grateful and happy beyond his capability to express over the fact that Sherlock was alive; on the other, he was worried, afraid and felt guilty over what had happened. It was an odd mixture of emotions, and days passed very quickly; most of his time he spent by Sherlock's bedside in the hospital.

Having gone through quite a lot physically Sherlock slept a lot; John sat next to him in the quiet room, sometimes reading or thinking but mainly just staring at the man he had thought to be dead. It was almost as if John would have been afraid that if he let Sherlock escape from his view even for a second, he might be gone again.

And that was something John wasn't willing to risk.

They had talked about what had happened, starting from the faithful night at the Reichenbach warehouse. John had made it more than clear what he thought about Sherlock's manner of handling things - his trail of thought followed very much along the lines Sherlock had assumed - and that if Sherlock would be thick enough to try to pull something like that ever again, John wouldn't bother coming after him any more. Sherlock had accepted the scolding but then pointed out that it would be quite impossible for him in his current state to go about himself anyway, which conveniently distracted John enough for him to drop the subject, at least for a while.

It was about a week since the fire now, and Sherlock's condition showed no signs of improvement. John saw that it started to get to him; with every day that passed the bedridden consulting detective grew more restless and the anxiety over the possibility that his legs might not be able to function properly again gained more and more foothold in his already overloaded mind. The doctors told him to be patient; but patience had never been among the virtues Sherlock possessed.

On the eighth day of Sherlock's hospitalization John had dropped down to Baker Street to get some things for Sherlock - why he needed a laser pointer and a letter knife in a hospital John wasn't able to tell, and he knew by now that it was very little use to ask. As he came back to the hospital and made his way to Sherlock's room, he was almost knocked over by a nurse with a very rigid look on her face storming out from it.

Sighing John closed the door behind him and looked at Sherlock who was amusing himself by throwing a ball to the opposite wall and then catching it through a bounce from the floor. The expression on the dark man's angular face revealed nothing, he looked very much like he always did; but the aura of restlessness sat on him like a bird of prey watching over his shoulder, colouring his whole presence.

It was a lovely day outside but the curtains of the room were drawn; John couldn't help thinking about the resemblance between the darkness of the room and the mood of the patient.

"What was that?" John walked to the window with the intention of letting some light into the room.

"Don't... touch them." Sherlock's tone was perfectly neutral. The ball made a dull thumbing sound as it hit the wall.

John rolled his eyes, knowing full well that even if Sherlock couldn't see it he could probably guess it. He turned around to look at him, folding his arms over his chest. "They are all trying to help you, you know. No need to insult them."

Sherlock let out a long exhale. "I take it you're referring to Nurse Louise?" Another thud of the ball. "She was annoying me."

John sighed. "Everyone is annoying you."

"Can you blame me? At least when I was strapped into Molly's or Irene's bed the immobility was not because my body had failed me." His voice sounded tight.

John walked to the bed and sat down on the chair next to it. He looked at Sherlock; let his eyes rest on the features he had thought he had lost. For John it made no difference whether Sherlock would ever walk again; he would love him all the same. But now, as he observed him, saw the strain on his face and the fear and rage of a caged wild animal in his every movement, he knew it was not what Sherlock needed to hear.

John wished he could have told him that it would be OK, that he would get better; but he didn't know.

Sherlock stopped throwing the ball and turned his look to John. The look in his eyes was very steady and very clear. "I can't do it. I won't do it."

John was puzzled for a second. "Do what?"

"Live like this. I refuse." He gestured with his hand towards his immobile legs.

John shook his head. "What do you mean? That you'd rather do yourself in? You must be joking." The disbelief was more than apparent in his voice.

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders. "What if I'm not?"

John knew that what Sherlock was saying was coming from the frustration and uncertainty he was feeling; but still, the look in his eyes was so even, so reasonable that it made John's stomach turn. "That's ridiculous."

Sherlock didn't even blink. "Call it what you want."

"You just have to give it some time. Be patient." John's mouth felt dry; he wanted to desperately find the necessary words to stop Sherlock from even thinking such ludicrous thoughts.

Suddenly the look in Sherlock's eyes was very bare, like a mask had been lifted from his face. They were the eyes of an animal caught in a trap, listening to the footsteps of an approaching hunter. "How much time, John? How long do I have to wait and be dependent on others?" His voice was sharp.

John stood up and placed his hands on both sides of Sherlock's head. Pulling his face very close to his own and staring into his eyes with a very solid, even look he said, "Listen to me, you git. I won't have you talking like this. You will get through this, one way or another. Period, end of sentence. You hear me? I refuse to let you go for a second time." His voice was very quiet; and yet it carried with it all the strength he had in him. All the love John felt, all the gratitude he had for having Sherlock back; and all the fear of losing him once again.

There was a flash in Sherlock's eyes, a recognition of sorts; but when he closed the distance between their lips and kissed him John knew that there hadn't been an agreement.