Black. Heavy, suffocating black was pressing in on him from all sides. He couldn't see. His limbs were too heavy. He couldn't move. He fought against it. He had to get up. He had to get back. He had to get to John. A glint of light. He willed himself toward it, dragging his mind forward.

The grey light widened to an image of a darkened hospital room. It blurred into focus. There was a man sitting at a table across from his bed, pale face tinted blue by the glow of a laptop screen.

Sherlock struggled to sit up. His body didn't cooperate. The air felt heavy around him, intensified gravity pinning him in place. But the man at the table seemed to sense his wakefulness. He stood and walked to the side of the bed.

"He's alive."

The information was like a shot of morphine. Sherlock felt his entire body relax, and his leaden eyelids fell shut once again.

Molly paced the waiting room. Both Sherlock and John were here and she wasn't being allowed to see either of them. They were requesting 'clearance' for her and waiting for a response. Clearance? What kind of hospital was this? And where was Mary? At first she'd assumed Mary was already in John's room, but when she asked she was told no one had been admitted. Was it possible they hadn't told her? John's wife!

Molly had her number; she would call just to be sure.

Sherlock had slept for more than twenty-four hours when he finally opened his eyes again.

"Are you still here?" his voice croaked with disuse.

"Have your observational skills deteriorated so far? You might have noticed I'm wearing an entirely different outfit."

"Your outfits are rarely worthy of notice."

"Feeling better already I see," Mycroft returned with a cold smile.

"Where's John?"

"Released yesterday. Your antidote worked perfectly. We were able to get him the injection in time. I must admit it was a rather clever bit of chemistry you managed."

"Yesterday?"

"Saturday. You missed it."

"Why didn't he wake me?"

Mycroft frowned, raising his umbrella and inspecting the tip for scuff marks. "No, I'm afraid he wasn't here. That annoying morgue girl was here for a while, but no one else."

There was a short silence.

"Honestly, Sherlock, are you surprised? When Mary came to pick John up—"

"What?" Sherlock snapped.

Mycroft glared at him. "As I was saying, when Mary came to pick him up she was absolutely furious with you, and John was none too pleased either. Nine days being poisoned by a bullet he took for you, and you didn't notice? I can't say I blame him."

Sherlock's expression remained fixed, but Mycroft observed the twitch of his fingers on the bedspread. "Where is he now?"

"I believe Mary said she'd take him back to her place. She is a nurse, among other things. She'll see to his recovery."

For a moment Sherlock looked broken, like a shattered window, gaping and hollow, but it vanished in an instant as his face resumed its blank exterior.

"Leave, Mycroft."

"Come now, Sherlock, you know you don't have to tell me to leave. I must be the busiest man in London on a Sunday. I couldn't possibly stay another minute." He reached the door and turned back. "Don't try to leave. Your doctor says you're still in danger of suffering another collapse. You were lucky to come out of it this time; I wouldn't count on luck again."

Sherlock was silent, glaring at the opposite wall.

"They're insisting you stay over at least another night for recovery. And you will, Sherlock. Try anything and you'll find the nurses here are stronger than you'd expect."

The door clicked shut behind him and Mycroft paused, just for a moment.

He had warned Sherlock not to get involved. Of course it had been too late even then. And now… He would watch Sherlock closely now.

Mycroft opened his umbrella against the light raindrops as he exited the hospital.

It was Monday evening and Molly had come straight to the hospital from work. Sherlock had been asleep the last time she visited and she hoped she could catch him awake this time. She was a bit nervous about what he would be like if he was awake though. A sleeping Sherlock was much less forbidding than an awake one. And he must be so upset about John… She swallowed, thinking about the way John had looked when she had finally been allowed to see him the night they brought them in.

She and John had never been close. Apart from the occasional Christmas or birthday do the only times she saw him were when Sherlock brought him to the lab. She remembered the first time Sherlock brought him in. She'd been shocked. Sherlock existed in a world of his own, practically oblivious to the people and voices around him, often not knowing or caring who he was talking to or even whether other people were still in the room. So when Sherlock brought John to the lab she was stunned to see that Sherlock watched him. Even just out of the corner of his eye, Molly knew he was tracking John's movements, glancing up if he left the room or entered it. He was aware of John's presence the way he was of no one else's.

And Molly had understood immediately. Sherlock was in love with him. Of course he was. It was no small feat to hold any percentage of that great brain's attention, and John did it effortlessly. There was nothing so special or spectacular about John Watson, which made it all the more heartbreaking. Molly had believed the scientist could never love an ordinary person. But when he brought John to the lab she realised that he could; it just wasn't her.

She didn't resent John though. It wasn't his fault. It wasn't as though he had swooped in on Sherlock, snatching him up and taking him home and keeping him there, pulling him into his work and his life in an irrevocable way. No, Sherlock had done that to John.

Initially she had considered whether she would be able to kill Mike Stamford and make it look like a workplace accident. But of course Sherlock would figure it out. The difficulty of being in love with the world's most brilliant and beautiful detective: you can't kill people to get to him.

It hadn't taken long to get used to John though. He was reserved, not overly warm and friendly, but nice enough. Adjusting to Sherlock looking at someone with that expression was much harder.

John was an idiot for not knowing, but it was obvious he cared for Sherlock a great deal. He looked at Sherlock like he was the most amazing person in the world, and the most important person in his world. It had broken her heart, seeing him at Sherlock's funeral. She'd spent sleepless nights wondering if she should break the promise she'd made to Sherlock and just tell John he was alive. What did she owe Sherlock anyway? He'd never exactly been kind to her in the years they'd known each other. But in the end there had never been any question where her loyalties lay, and she had avoided John the best she could.

John had, justifiably, been cold toward her at first when Sherlock came back. But he'd warmed eventually—probably, hopefully, understanding he would have done the same had their positions been reversed. She knew he had fully forgiven her when he invited her to his wedding. It was sweet that he counted her as a good enough friend to be invited to the relatively small wedding; he was sweet. They had never been close, but Molly felt tears welling in her eyes that first night they'd brought him in, and she didn't bother trying to stop them as they spilled over, running freely down her cheeks.

Mary was with him now, but Sherlock must be devastated.

She had thought maybe once John was married Sherlock would finally stop looking at him that way. But he hadn't, and now she knew he never would. She supposed people like Sherlock didn't fall in love lightly. But then she really didn't know. There was no one like Sherlock.

She was walking through the hospital lobby when she nearly collided with him. She looked up, startled to see him out of bed. Under his signature coat he was wearing the clean clothes one of his brother's assistants had dropped off for him while he was sleeping. He was thin, but he was always thin, and a shower and the few days of rest on an IV had him looking… Well, Molly had found it was better for her overall mental health if she didn't think too much about the way Sherlock looked.

"Sherlock! Erm, hi! I was just coming to—Did they release you already?"

"Just now."

She grinned sheepishly. "Ah, you're speaking English again; that's good."

"What?"

"I just, erm—"

"Thank you."

"What?"

"For helping me in the lab. I couldn't have done it without you."

She blushed. "Well, you know, it was for John. I was happy to help."

Sherlock watched her for a moment and Molly's blush deepened. "Always, you know I'm always…" she fumbled, "happy to help."

"If there's any way I can repay you, I'm in your debt."

"I—" her voice cracked and she cleared her throat. "H-how's John today?"

Sherlock's face darkened. "I wouldn't know."

Molly blanched. "What? Why not?"

"I haven't seen him since—"

"You haven't seen him?" she asked in utter disbelief.

Annoyance was clouding his face. "He went straight off with Mary; how would I see him?"

"But"—Sherlock glared at her—"but I just had a text from Mary this morning! She said there was no change."

"No change? What do you mean, 'no change'? Explain immediately."

"Sherlock," Molly said carefully. Was it possible he didn't know? Had his brother not told him? "You do know John's been in a coma since they brought him here, don't you? He's here. Or at least he was this morning."

Sherlock grabbed her arm and she cried out at the force. "Where? Where is he?"

"Upstairs, five-twenty-one."

Sherlock dropped her arm. He spun on his heel and dashed upstairs. Molly stood stunned for a second before running after him.

She reached John's room just a moment after Sherlock.

"You!" she heard Mary shout from the other side of the door. She threw it open in time to see Mary jumping up to block Sherlock's path. "Stay away from him! This is your fault!"

"You will get out of my way or I will put you out of my way." The detective's words were dripping with venom.

Molly was paralysed in the doorway.

"Are you threatening me, Sherlock? John's not enough? You want to put me in a coma too? He might never wake up, that's what they're saying." There were tears in her eyes but her face was as hard as flint.

Sherlock took another step forward, looming over her. "I will give you one more chance to move."

There was something dark and dangerous in Sherlock. People called him a sociopath. Molly didn't know what he was capable of, but Mary was undoubtedly going to find out if she continued to stand between him and John.

"Stop it!" Molly shouted, regaining her wits.

They both turned.

"Just stop it!"

Sherlock flexed his hands. "Molly, I think Mary should have her own hospital room. Give me one reason why I shouldn't get her one."

"Because you owe me a favour, Sherlock, and I'm asking you to stop."

Sherlock looked at her for a second, and then stiffly took a step back.

Molly turned to Mary. "And Mary, leave him alone. You didn't see how hard Sherlock worked on that antidote. I did. He almost killed himself inventing it and it's the only reason John's alive right now."

"John wouldn't have needed an antidote in the first place if—"

"Shut up," Molly snapped.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows at her.

"It's not Sherlock's fault. The situation is what it is. You both care for John. Tough tits. You're going to have to find a way to deal with it that doesn't involve killing each other."

"But—" Sherlock started.

Molly was having none of it. "Mary, you've had your time with him. It's Sherlock's turn now."

"But—" Mary started.

"Out!"

"Fine," Mary snarled at Sherlock, "but don't think they're going to let you stay after visiting hours. That's for family only."

"And since when do ex-wives count as family?"

"What?" Molly breathed, trying not to visibly gape. "You're divorced?" No one told her anything. Really. Nothing.

They ignored her.

"The papers haven't even gone through yet," Mary shot back at Sherlock. "I'm much closer to family than you are."

"Do you want to know the statistics on how often ex-wives either murder or are murdered by their ex-husbands?"

"Sherlock," Molly warned.

"I'm the one who should be here. He married me for fuck's sake!" Mary shrieked.

"And he chose me," Sherlock growled.

"Oh, and what a choice that was! Look where that got him!"

"Mary!" Molly said sharply.

"They won't let you stay here," Mary said, glaring at him fiercely.

"Look, we'll sort it out later," Molly said, exasperated. "Mary, let's go."

"Don't think this is over," Mary flung the words back at him as Molly steered her toward the door.

"Eager to continue," Sherlock sneered.

Molly didn't look back as the door swung shut behind them. John and Mary were divorced? How? When? Why? And more importantly, what did that mean for Sherlock?

She hoped to god John would wake up soon. He had to stay alive. He had to. Because while John had lived a broken, faded existence for two years when Sherlock died, she felt a cold grip of fear around her heart when she thought of what might happen to Sherlock if John died. Because Sherlock didn't fade. He burned.