And, once again, I feel the need to apologize for leaving this story for so long :l

But honestly, school has just been really stressful and I haven't been able to write as often as I want. That, combined with difficult life shit that makes writing a chore, and I just haven't been able to find the time to concentrate fully on this.

But, I hope I can be back around sooner next time around! Hope you enjoy and don't forget to review and tell me what you think!

It's been three weeks, so far, that I've spent waiting, constantly waiting for things to get better.

It's been three weeks since they found him, Sherlock, alone and sick and so close to dying.

A few days after that first hospital visit, I found out that it was a couple of young cops that found him while doing their routine rounds in the more unsavory parts of the city. It had scared them half to death, finding a skeletal near-corpse out cold in the gutters. But they'd acted fast, one of them calling an ambulance and another trying to help the poor man they didn't know.

I'm thankful that they were be able to react so quickly, that they were strong enough to deal with it properly.

I was thankful they found him, right then and there. After waiting for days at home, I got a call from Mycroft, calling me to the hospital for an update. It was there I learned just how close we'd come to losing him. He was sick still, very, very sick and there was no denying. Sepsis, caused by a bad case of pneumonia and all the untreated wounds. Still life-threatening without a doubt, it was verging on severe classification. But a few more days? A few more hours even exposed to the elements, without shelter or care? It could have progressed, getting worse and worse until...

God, he could've gone into shock, died a painful death on the dingy streets, delirious and fevered. Or he could've died in a hospital, heavily sedated and already gone, the doctors powerless to stop as his body shut itself down.

I might have never gotten my chance to say goodbye.

It hurts to imagine either situation. It hurts so much.

But I'm trying to move past it. I'm trying to think about now, right now. There's no point in dwelling on what could have happened, because I already know what's going to happen.

Sherlock's going to be okay...well, probably.

He has a fighting chance, at least. He was found fast enough, before the situation got too dire, before he was too far gone.

And Mycroft has employed the some best doctors he could get his hands on. They're treating him aggressively, with everything they've got.

He's getting better with each day, his condition improving. He'll probably be off the ventilator soon. They'll probably take him off sedation too.

He's actually getting better, physically at least.

There's still the ever looming question of his mental state, which would be...fragile at best upon his recovery.

But I can't think about that right now. I can't think about how he still might not be okay. All I can think about is the immediate future, Sherlock being pulled off the ventilator and the drugs. All I can think about is talking to him and having him understand, maybe even getting a few words back.

I can only think about the good things because I know I'll lose myself if I keep thinking about everything that can go wrong.

I don't want to be sick anymore. I want to be okay again, for his sake. I want him to have something to come back to when he wakes. I want him to have something solid.

So each morning is generally the same. I wake up and force myself to eat breakfast, usually something small, before heading to the hospital for visiting hours. I go there, and sit with him until the hours end. Sometimes I talk and sometimes I just...sit there, silent, holding his hand in mine and hoping that the skin-to-skin contact would help somehow. Hoping my words would be able to break through the drug-induced fog.

And I stay there as the doctors and nurses made their rounds, checking charts and changing bags of fluids, rewrapping wounds. I've become something of a fixture at the hospital, but I don't think they mind. I'm respectful. I leave when they ask and help if they need it.

I even stay when he receives visitors.

Lestrade comes by as often as he can manage, just to pop in and see how Sherlock was doing, or to see how I was doing. I think he's pleased by the progress the two of us had made. He can see that I'm trying to be better.

Mrs. Hudson has stopped by too. She usually doesn't stay long, unable to bear seeing her boy in such a state. But when she does show, she fusses over him just like before, fluffing his pillows and smoothing the blankets down.

Molly shows up on occasion too, again just to see how he's doing. I know she still cares about him deeply, despite how much he's hurt her in the past, how much he's rejected her. But she knew she meant a lot to him. She was his confidant, after all, during all those years, one of the only people that had know about his Fall.

And I've called Mary, talked to her a little. We haven't met again, not yet, and I'm not sure when and if I'll ever get her back. But at least now...we're civil, I suppose. I call her every so often with information on Sherlock's condition, and she may have come to visit once or twice when I wasn't around. But it's something, some form of communication with her. At least now I know she'll probably call me when she's had the baby. At least I'll get to know...

Out of everyone though, I think Mycroft stops by the least. He's significantly busier, so it's understandable and I don't think any less of him for it. But he still comes by nonetheless, squuezing the visits in. Sometimes he'll ask to be alone, and I respectfully leave the room. I don't know for sure what happens during those secret meetings, but I suspect Mycroft cares for his little brother a lot more than he lets on. I think he talks to him too, sometimes. I think he tries to convince him to keep fighting, just like I do. It makes me feel a little less insane, knowing that he does it too.

I've even met Sherlock's parents. They showed up maybe a week after he was found, once he'd been moved to a private room away from the ICU. They're staying with Mycroft, so I don't see them too often, only when we're visiting Sherlock at the same time. They seem...surprisingly nice, not what I was expecting at all. I'm not sure what I expected. Perhaps I thought they would be cold, with the sort detached genius the two children held. But no. They're kind, honest to God kind and unobjectionable people. His mother reminds me of Mrs. Hudson, constantly fussing over her little boy, and his father is much the same. They seem so ordinary, almost mundane. Meeting them leaves a lot of unanswered questions, but there's still time to get those answers...

There's still time. There really is.

Sherlock's going to be okay. He's going to recover, he's getting better already. Soon there won't be an ugly tube shoved down his throat. Soon he'll be taken off all the sedatives and strong medications.

He'll be conscious, living and breathing on his own. He'll be talking and thinking within no time, maybe not entirely himself, but still there. He's not dead, he's still alive. He has a chance to turn things around, he has a chance to go back to the way things were before all this. And I want to be there for him when he wakes up. I want to be alright, I want to be able to help him get better.

It's all up to him now.

:) see, things aren't so bad after all! Well, hope you enjoyed and drop me a review with anything you can think of, from thoughts to ideas to anything you want to see out of this story. I hope to be back around soon!