It was hours that Sherlock waited and paced the floor of the waiting room. His hands remained wringing themselves behind his back and his head would bobble from looking down, studying the carpet, to looking up and analyzing something about the ceiling. He was silent.

Molly Hooper and Greg Lestrade were with him, waiting for the news.

Finally, he angrily muttered, "Why… WHY is it taking so long?!"

Molly walked in the path of Sherlock's pacing and stopped him. She was worried and tired for both John and Sherlock. Greg was the one who had called her, and of course she came. She now looked into Sherlock's red eyes. "What do you need?" she asked him.

"I need… John to be ok."

She reached out to him and placed her hand on his arm. Sherlock didn't move; he didn't even blink. She slowly put her hands around his waist and gave him a hug.

At first, he didn't do anything and the awkwardness of the moment permeated the space. But after a few seconds of her not letting go, Sherlock wrapped his long arms around her and held her tight…

"Thank you." Sherlock whispered.

"For what?"

"For always being good to me… even though I haven't been good to you." Sherlock whispered in her ear.

They pulled apart.

A part of him ached knowing that Molly ached. He knew… He always knew she loved him. He didn't know how to reciprocate the feeling. He couldn't. Not with her, at least. He just didn't feel that way about her. He wondered what that said about him… Molly was a good person, a pretty girl. She tolerated him, mostly. He always assumed it was simply because he was a self-diagnosed sociopath and figured he'd never truly understand love or sentiment. He didn't know if not saying anything was being merciful, or if it left her with hope. He never knew. He hated not knowing. He briefly wondered if Molly could see him not knowing.

That's not important right now, he thought to himself. He buried those thoughts deep in his Mind Palace. Detaching himself from those thoughts and feelings cleared Sherlock's brain and made space for facts and deductions.

He cleared his throat and took up his pacing again. His path was altered this time, as he moved around Molly. She quietly went back to her seat and it appeared that her and Greg shared a "look". Sherlock couldn't deduce what that meant. For God's sake, he couldn't deduce ANYTHING right now. His brain just kept replaying memories with John. Every comment that Sherlock said that made John laugh or grin played next to memories where John grimaced and yelled at him. He never seemed to have a moral compass until John entered his life. Most people didn't feel like it was their responsibility or didn't have the patience to tell Sherlock what was right, wrong… appropriate or inappropriate.

He remembers their conversation on "timing". It didn't start as a conversation of course. It started with Sherlock whispering "Not good?" to John after an inconsiderate comment about Jennifer Wilson's stillborn daughter during Lestrade's drugs bust at their flat on that first case. Later, during their Chinese food dinner at around midnight, John had confronted him about it.

"So… Sherlock. I wanted to ask you something about what you said earlier, in the flat…" he had looked up at Sherlock, seemingly unsure of how to continue. Or maybe unsure of how Sherlock would react.

"Yes?" was all Sherlock said in reply, narrowing his eyes at him as he took a bite of lo mein.

"Did you really not know? I mean, did it really not occur to you that Jennifer might still feel sadness and hurt over the loss of her stillborn daughter?"

Sherlock had initially wanted to get angry. He wanted to huff and sigh and get up and walk away. But John was polite and persistent…and surprisingly not judgmental.

"Does it matter? I solved the case. I figured out that the name was her password."

John paused for a minute before finally saying, "It would help me… make a deduction if I knew."

Sherlock's eyebrows rose in surprise. He sipped his water, wiped his face, and sat back in his chair.

"John, I am not a man of sentiment. I detach myself from emotions to focus on the work. Caring is not an advantage."

John seemed to mull over the words in his head. He pressed on though.

"Yeah but, Sherlock surely even you have experienced heartbreak in your lifetime. You've had to have felt… something."

Something had made Sherlock flinch, but he had only gazed into John's eyes. He did not know how to deal with the thoughts starting to flood his mind palace, so he did what he always did… changed the subject.

"You shot and killed a man tonight to save your flat mate whom you've known for less that 48 hours. You hardly seem affected by it. Perhaps it is I that should be making a deduction about you." He instantly regretted the comment when he saw the flicker of surprise and anger bounce across John's face. He was ready for him to bring up the fact that he had almost taken a pill from a serial killer. But he didn't.

John just returned his gaze, long and hard, searching for something.

"Fair enough. However, I know you get excited about having a case… having something to occupy your mind. But there are other people involved that have lost someone or something important. You have to try to remember that. People get attached and letting go is really difficult. It's ok to get excited… but you're timing was a bit not good tonight. We should work on that. Maybe not for your sake. But for other's. Not everyone is a sociopath, ok?"

John broke his gaze and took in a mouthful of rice, seemingly ending the conversation there. What he had said was firm, gentle, and matter-of-fact. Sherlock was not prepared for it at all and had just sat there for a few minutes before taking a bite of an egg roll. Of course not everyone was a sociopath. He knew that. But he had never considered that the fact that how other people felt should affect his actions.

John had the patience to teach Sherlock. Or at least try. He didn't know why or how John had that patience. But John had become Sherlock's moral compass. After that night in the Chinese restaurant, he'd wanted to make the doctor-soldier proud of him. It was one thing to impress John; it was another thing to make John proud. Sherlock could be impressive, but to live up to John Watson's expectations that he actually try to better himself… it was a challenge Sherlock lived for.

Every look, every glare, shake of the head, sigh… Sherlock had catalogued it all, first referencing his own behavior and then cataloguing John's reaction to tell if what he had done or said was appropriate. Sherlock hadn't even realized he was doing it at first. Upsetting John in the slightest often put him in moods where he wouldn't talk for hours or he'd just keep playing his violin until he felt he had worked out a conclusion for what he had done wrong. Sometimes, he couldn't figure it out.

Sherlock hadn't realized that he had stopped pacing and was staring out the window of the waiting room at the rain. He was so lost in his mind palace that it took Greg

shaking him a few times to pull him out of it.

"What? What is it?" Sherlock spoke in a low, barely audible tone, as he was jolted back to reality.

"It's John. The doctor is here to give us an update."

Sherlock wanted to shove Lestrade aside and start demanding answers. Just a year ago he probably would've…maybe even a few seconds ago. But he remembered how he wanted to make his doctor-soldier proud. He cleared his throat again and turned, crossing the room in a couple swift strides until he was looming over the doctor that waited for him.

"Hi, my name is Dr. Dembowski. Are you Dr. Watson's emergency contact?… a Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" He had paused only to look down at the paperwork on the clipboard he was holding.

"Yes, yes, how is he? How's John?" Sherlock was trying as hard as he could to keep the impatience and damn near panic out of his voice.

"Why don't we go to a more private room and talk?" suggested the doctor.

Sherlock scowled but nodded his head. Greg and Molly followed Sherlock into a smaller room with a desk and a few chairs. They all sat down and the doctor wasted no time in getting to the point.

"John was suffering from acute hypoxemic respiratory failure which led to cardiac arrest when the paramedics arrived on scene as a result of a cocktail of drugs that we have found in his system. He was practically dead when they found him as he had choked on his own vomit. They were thankfully able to clear his airway and insert a breathing tube to get oxygen in his blood and brain again. He's resting right now. Obviously, the concern is how long his brain was without oxygen before we were able to get the breathing tube in and start CPR. Considering what he's been through, I expect him to be unconscious for a day or so at least. We'll be able to assess his cognitive function after he wakes up, but it's likely that he'll have some weakness, dizziness, difficulty speaking, memory loss, focal motor and sensory deficits. He will likely be very confused when he wakes up. For now, he's stable. I can't really say much more about his condition at this point, as we don't know much ourselves." The doctor spoke quickly with determination. He wanted to get this over with as quickly as he could. It was his least favorite part of his job to give bad news to anxious family and friends.

Sherlock's eyes went from the doctor's face, to a spot on the wall behind him. He stared for a few seconds, taking all the information in. Drugs. Of course, it was the drug dealers who had sent out the hit… He looked back at the doctor,

"Can I see him?"

"Yes. For a few minutes, yes… Before you do though, I have to ask you… was John depressed? Has he been known to take drugs before? Was there something that happened that would've triggered him to take such a high dose?" asked the doctor looking from Molly, to Greg, to Sherlock.

Sherlock looked back at Molly and Greg for a moment. They were looking at him with shock and fear at all of the news they had just heard. Lestrade was at least making an effort to try to keep it together, but Molly wasn't as much.

Greg took a moment to step in at the doctor's comment, "No, no. A hit man hired by a drug cartel drugged him. We have the suspect in custody and are working to dismantle the cartel."

"Oh. That's unfortunate. But good news for John, at least he won't be put on suicide watch. Would you like to go see him now?" finished the doctor.

For a moment, he thought about asking Lestrade to join him, but then thought against it. He needed time with his blogger, alone. He had so much to say.

Greg nodded knowingly and went back to sit with Molly. He turned and said to Sherlock,

"Take care of yourself, mate. If you need something, ask, ok? We don't need the two of you being sick…" Sherlock only nodded and turned back to the doctor to follow him into the ICU.

My god, Sherlock just wanted to RUN to John. Everything was happening too slowly for him. They rounded a corner and at the end of a long hallway the doctor turned into room 426. Before he let Sherlock in completely, he lowered his voice and said,

"He might look different… there's a lot of tubes and wire-"

"Just let me in, please." Sherlock now pleadingly looked at the doctor. He stepped aside and let Sherlock in.

The door closed behind him and Sherlock suddenly became acutely aware of the silence that surrounded him. He had failed to notice the bustle of the hospital around him. There had been the faint murmuring from the TV's in the waiting room. There was a lot of talking as they walked through the ICU. Papers rustling, machines beeping… there was a machine beeping now in John's room. It cut through the deafening silence every few seconds, grounding Sherlock in the present.

Without that beep, he probably would've just stood and stared forever.

John looked weak. Sherlock's doctor soldier had been minimized from the brave and strong man Sherlock knew him to be, to a small looking, helpless form on a bed. The doctor had been right. There were many tubes and wires sticking out of him. He stared for what felt like an eternity.

A nurse coming in to check on John broke his gaze.

"Excuse me, love," she said, sliding past Sherlock. Sherlock only then took a couple steps closer to the bed. He felt protective and wanted to supervise… Sharon… he read on her nametag… as she wrote down numbers and checked IV's and tubes. Truth be told, he felt powerless. He was not the doctor. John was. And without him here to explain everything, Sherlock felt lost and quite honestly, stupid.

"He's a fighter." Sharon said when she seemed finished with checking out John.

"Mmm." Sherlock hummed in response. What was he supposed to say? The general platitude was annoying, and Sherlock just wanted the nurse to leave now so he could be alone with John, so he'd agreed.

Sharon could clearly feel Sherlock's trepidation.

"Take a seat, love." She pulled a chair over from the corner of the room – Sherlock now realized it was a private room, noting that he'd have to thank Mycroft later – and placed it next to John's bed. Sherlock gave no indication that he was going to sit, he just stood gazing at Sharon, eyes scanning for anything hinting that she was going to betray his trust or lie to him about John. He was looking for incompetence, a reason to prove that she was not worthy of working on his John. God, he hated being so STUPID about medical issues.

He had deduced that Sharon lived alone. About 28 years old, she had only a cat to care for. Probably alone because she's been focused on her work… thought Sherlock. By her accent, Sherlock realizes she's American and tries to deduce how she got into a London hospital. Before he can finish deducing, she says,

"You should talk to him."

"Wha-?" Sherlock began, again being suddenly brought back to reality by a beep from a machine.

"Sit. Talk. He can hear you. Might make him heal a little quicker knowing he's got someone familiar by his side to be there when he wakes up."

Sherlock was about to protest and debate, but her hands were on his shoulders, ushering him into the seat next to John's bed.

He sat and glared at the brunette.

"Listen, I know you're thinking he can't hear you. There are studies out there though that say he can."

Hmm. I'll have to find those studies and do some experimenting myself… he thought. He quickly brushed the thought away – this was no time for work or experiments.

Sharon was about to walk out of the room. Sherlock cleared his throat and she stopped for a moment, meeting his eyes from across the room.

"Erm… thank you, Sharon."

She smiled and left quietly.

The beeps from the machine continued on for what felt like an eternity. Sherlock thought if he stared long enough that he might bore a hole through John's eyelids and he might wake up.

Suddenly, John took a deep breath and exhaled.

Sherlock had sat up in his chair.

He didn't realize he'd taken John's hand into his own.