{This chapter- and all of the chapters with the hospital / Sherlock's condition - was a thousand times easier to write, thanks to the incredibly useful comments and messages that Eyebrows2 sent me, giving me the background, context and insight that I desperately needed. Thank you so much!

And, of course, a huge thank you to everybody who has been commenting and keeping up with this. I appreciate it. :D }

John woke up with his trigger finger twisted firmly into his sheets, acutely aware that he lacked the familiar weight of a SA80 resting on his shoulder.

There were no doors to kick down, no dusty expanses to throw himself across, no walls to drag himself behind. The dust and the heat had faded away into a bare bedroom with the curtains drawn shut.

His cheeks were damp and his breath was fast and his shoulder ached.

He didn't go to his appointment. Ella would ask about his blog and he would lie and then she would ask if he had gone to Mr. Howell's funeral. He wasn't an idiot- he knew that Dr. Stein had told her. She was probably personally responsible for giving Mr. Howell's daughter his address. She would write something about 'attachment issues' on her clipboard.

There was nothing to talk about. His trip to Hampshire with Harry was none of her business. He didn't want to describe his dreams anymore. Nothing ever happened to him.

John sat at his desk past eleven o'clock, drinking cup after cup of tea as he skimmed through the news. He didn't get a single text off of Harry. Ella tried to call twice, but he let his phone ring through to the answering machine. She left a message. He didn't listen to it.

He couldn't stop thinking about clouds of dust.

John arrived at the hospital about two hours earlier than usual, paper under his arm and a drag in his step. Perhaps it was the sharp tang of cleaning solvent or the unusual bustle of the nurses and doctors, but simply being back in a familiar place and being surrounded by that essential movement and energy seemed to wake him up a little better than his three cups of tea.

He rounded the corner from the lift and found that the energy was not radiating from the children's ward as it usually did. It was from the neurology ward.

His immediate thought, upon nearly colliding with a foundation doctor that was rushing through the door with a clipboard, was that somebody was crashing. Ms. Monroe? A new patient? Should he leave? He could hear a muffled argument coming from somewhere, but he could barely catch a sentence. Had somebody died?

John hovered uncertainly by the doors and found himself in the way again. He shuffled to the side, apologised, and tried to pinpoint the activity.

Something cold and incomprehensible dropped in his chest.

Sherlock's room.

Maybe he had been optimistic, or perhaps he was simply daft, but that idea had not occurred to him at all. Sherlock was young, he was relatively stable, he was a detective. Something about him made him seem, at least to John, somewhat impervious to the laws of nature.

Should he go look? Did he have any business in looking? Would he get in the way? Was Sherlock still hanging on? Would this, too, end in Dr. Stein easing him down with a bad cup of tea and a hand on his shoulder? Could he help? No, of course not, he wasn't insured here, but…

A soft buzzing started up in the back of his mind as he headed into the fray. He'd just peek in through the window, then visit Ms. Monroe until it all cleared up…

The door was pulled open and John found himself face to face with a tall, well-kept stranger. His eyes were darker than his personally tailored suit. He was prim and pressed and, despite the quick movement of the nurses and doctors around him, he seemed entirely unruffled.

John did not have to wonder if his tie could pay for a fortnight's rent at the bed-sit. He knew. He stepped aside, as if to allow John past him, but the two of them hovered where they were. He gripped his cane and the stranger fingered the handle of his umbrella casually before turning to speak over his shoulder.

"I'll be sending it in the next few days with somebody to hook it up appropriately," he said. "Run every single test that you can, Dr. Stein, and keep me informed. I don't want any further oversights."

"Of course," she answered. "We're already looking into it. I'll let you know if anything changes."

Dr. Stein had moved his usual chair to the far corner of the room, presumably to keep it out of the way. She stood by Sherlock's bedside, taking down notes in shorthand, occasionally glancing back up at the monitors and tubes (and, occasionally, the stranger) before back down to her writing.

"If you'll excuse me, Dr. Watson. Dr. Stein."

John had been busy watching the pulse line and, consequently, had not realised that he was standing in the way. He apologised before he could even register that he had been addressed by his name- and the man with the umbrella disappeared entirely.

It didn't really matter, anyway.

He felt more out of place than ever as he stepped inside with his cane and his stained copy of the Metro. In fact, he had just moved to the foot of the bed in an attempt to glance over Dr. Stein's shoulder at what she was scrawling, but...

He sensed a pair of eyes on him. Dr. Stein's pen was still scratching away, chasing the very last threads of thought before they became too fine to catch with her fingers. Nobody stood expectantly at the door.

The machine trilled softly in the background.

He supposed that it said a lot about his expectations when he checked the window before looking to the bed where Sherlock was, as if it was somehow more feasible to find a maniac peering down at him than…

Than…

Sherlock's eyes were open- and they seemed to be fixed on him.

On him.

On John, who was grasping his cane until the edges bit into his palm and left firm imprints. On John, who was wearing one of his oldest, most comfortable sweaters. On John, who was clearly holding a once-discarded newspaper with a partially missing front page.

On the one hand, it was the source of surging, unabashed happiness- and it pushed forth with a soft, appreciative laugh. On the other, it was enough to make him self-conscious – and enough to unsettle him.

"How long has he-"

"Six hours," Dr. Stein answered. "We told his brother about two hours ago- and he came down here to try and throw us through some hoops. He has connections in high places, evidently- but it won't do him much good here, even if he can make the chief executive squirm in his seat. We'll follow procedure."

She secured her pen beneath the clip and thumbed idly through the pages.

"It's about the best we can do. Honestly, it's likely to just be nerves, same as anybody else. You know as well as I do, how family members can react," Dr. Stein said, shifting her weight onto one leg as she flipped through her papers, "Wouldn't you say?"

John murmured something quiet and non-committal until a hand reached his shoulder. He jolted, but he still found himself watching Sherlock closely.

"At least you didn't arrive as early as we expected you to. Mr. Holmes was certainly trying to throw his weight around before you arrived. Did Ella tell you this morning, then? I sent her a text."

Oh.

Damn.

"Erm, no. I… had to cancel my appointment today."

Dr. Stein gave a soft tut, but she smiled anyway and tucked the clipboard beneath her arm.

"Well, I'm sure that it's just as much of a pleasant surprise for you as it is for us. We expected more of a positive reaction from Mr. Holmes when we told him- but I suppose that he's pleased in his own way." She sighed and turned to check the IV. "Our own Mr. Holmes can only fix on objects directly in front of him, but he can also direct his gaze upwards if he makes an effort. We're about to change his bedding and then prop him up, so perhaps you could go visit Ms. Monroe in the meantime?"

John took her up on her suggestion, but he still found it harder than he would have ever guessed to pull himself away from that searching gaze.