Within an hour, word spread through Royal London Hospital that the unconscious blond man brought in for a minor bullet wound and smoke inhalation was Dr. John Watson of the Emergency & Trauma Centre, and he had been speedily admitted and spirited off to a private room. The tall man who accompanied him had refused to leave Dr. Watson's side, but after some persuasion, the nurses convinced him to step back a few feet so that they could treat their patient. One doctor wondered if the man was his boyfriend, but no, that couldn't be right, Dr. Watson had a girlfriend. (Where was she, anyway?)
The tall man had calmed down slightly when the physician told him that Dr. Watson would be all right. The man stationed himself next to Dr. Watson's bed, neither moving nor averting his gaze and snapping at anyone who knocked.
For the first time in six months, Sherlock had a chance to deduce his best friend. He'd seen the wound before the nurse bandaged it and knew it was inflicted by a 9 mm bullet from a distance of 15 feet or less. Who shot him? Not Moran; he would have shot to kill and no distraction on Earth could cause Moran to miss a shot from such a close range. One of Moran's bodyguards? No. While many of his other lackeys had been incompetent, Moran would expect only the best from the people he hired to protect his person. That left Mary. Sherlock was rather annoyed that Moran had already killed her. He wished he could have punished her himself, and he wouldn't have been as swift and unstylish as Moran likely had been. Looking on the bright side, perhaps now John would finally stop going on his ridiculous dates.
He wished John would wake up. This chair is uncomfortable, the staff is annoying, and I am horrendously bored! The doctors said John would be fine, but Sherlock didn't completely trust them; he could tell by the state of their shoes that they were idiots. He had spent the last six months circling the globe in an effort to protect John and the mission wouldn't truly be over until John was awake and talking to him. He knew from Mycroft that John had suffered greatly while he was gone, especially at the beginning. Will he forgive me for what I've done to him? Can we continue to be friends? Sherlock didn't care if John refused to take him back, really he didn't. He had lived without friends for years before he met John and he could do it again. It was the uncertainty that drove him mad.
John awoke a short time later with IV fluids and morphine running into his right arm, a proper dressing on the left arm and oxygen tubing in his nose. Afghanistan? Slowly, it came back to him. No, this wasn't Afghanistan; the smell was completely different. And no, he hadn't had another nightmare about being shot again. He actually had been shot again, although this time the bullet had merely grazed his bicep instead of shattering next to his rotator cuff. As his eyes drifted open, he became aware of a man sitting on his right, leaning over him.
The man's voice was anxious as he said, "John, are you all right?"
John blinked, and Sherlock Holmes came into view. Thoughts of Mary intruded, but he pushed them out; he needed to focus on Sherlock. He took a long look at his friend. Sherlock's hair was short, practically a buzz cut. He had a new scar on his jaw and would soon have a bruise where John punched him. His cheekbones and collarbone were more prominent than usual and his eyes were bloodshot. So this is what happens when nobody reminds him to eat and sleep. Pupils look normal, so at least he's not using drugs again. And is he wearing jeans and a beige jumper?
"You're not dead," John said lamely.
"Brilliant diagnosis," Sherlock said, cocking his head. "Have you considered attending medical school?"
John groaned, then spat out rapid-fire questions. "Not now, Sherlock! What were you doing here today? How did you fake your death? And why? And why the hell did you make me watch?"
Sherlock began to speak, hands fidgeting nervously. "I've spent the last few months chasing Moriarty's associates all over the world. I needed to eliminate every one of them to ensure your safety. Moran was the last, and when I returned to England yesterday, my brother helped me prove that Moran murdered Ron Adair. We arranged for the police to be at the warehouse today to apprehend him. I set the fire and threw the smoke bomb to distract him and his men. I had already dispatched one of his bodyguards and was about to free you when I was, er, delayed by Moran."
John was nearly speechless. "You did all that to save me?"
Sherlock looked him in the eye and said, "I also jumped off a building to save you."
John blinked in disbelief. Sherlock Holmes, the self-proclaimed sociopath had risked his own life to save John? "Huh?" was all John could manage.
Sherlock raked his fingers over his stubbly hair, undoubtedly nostalgic for his messy curls. "The day of my 'suicide,' Moriarty had snipers fixed on you, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson. If I didn't die, Moriarty would have ordered them to fire. I had hoped to obtain the recall code from Moriarty, but he shot himself in the head, leaving me no choice but to jump off of Bart's. I had anticipated that such an extreme course of action might be necessary and I had Molly assist me in faking my death."
John's voice was a deadly growl, "That still doesn't explain why you made me watch!"
"I owe you a thousand apologies, John." Sherlock said in a low voice. For only the second time since John had known him, Sherlock looked contrite. He continued, "I never intended to make you watch. The phone call about Mrs. Hudson was to keep you away from Bart's until after the deed was done. It appears that for once, you were faster than I anticipated."
When John didn't speak, Sherlock kept explaining. "John, before all this I never understood the expression 'a fate worse than death.' I didn't believe that anything could be worse than non-existence. But when I contemplated the rest of my life without you, knowing that I could have somehow prevented your death but failed, I understood. I knew that the plan might not succeed, that even if I survived the fall, Moriarty's men would put all their efforts into killing me, but I went forward with it because the alternative was unacceptable."
John looked into Sherlock's panicked face for a long moment. A small part of him was still angry with Sherlock. The rest of him was overwhelmed with gratitude at the lengths Sherlock had gone to protect him and unbelievably joyful that his friend was alive and well. Is he really afraid that I don't want to be his friend anymore, after everything he's done for me? For someone so brilliant, he can be a right idiot sometimes.
He carefully wrapped his right arm around his friend's torso and whispered, "Sherlock, you really are a good man. Don't let anybody tell you otherwise."
Sherlock awkwardly rested his arm on John's shoulders and murmured, "So we're still friends?"
"Of course," John breathed.
Sherlock uttered a barely audible, "Thank you."
Neither man noticed Mycroft just outside the doorway, watching over them like a father might watch over his sleeping children. Silently, Mycroft closed the door and sauntered down the hall twirling his umbrella.