{I'm sorry that this took a bit longer- have had a bit of a rough weekend!

Again, thank you all for the lovely reviews and comments! And, of course, a huge thank you to Eyebrows2 for the background knowledge that basically helps this story keep moving. :D}


He couldn't focus on the newspaper for more than a few moments at a time. It felt like the words were sliding away from him, like his attention was being repeatedly drawn back to the room that he had just left.

Ms. Monroe, if she was anywhere near conscious, was probably getting irritated at how long it was taking him to read out the 'guilty pleasure' article about Strictly Come Dancing. She seemed to be somebody who would have cared, once upon a time.

He lasted for about twelve minutes, said goodbye for the day, stood up, took his cane and his newspaper- and lingered by the closed door for another three. It felt as though it took a supreme amount of effort just to step out into the hallway, and he felt an odd wave of relief when he realised that Ms. Monroe definitely couldn't see him hesitate.


When he made it back to Mr. Holmes' room, it was clear of physicians and nurses. The bedding was fresh. His chair was still directly in Sherlock's line of sight.

It was as though he had moved into the direct glare of a spotlight. A pair of clear, blue-grey eyes locked onto him before he even settled into his seat.

Was it wrong of him to feel slightly disconcerted at how intensethat stare had become?

Perhaps it was all in his mind. Perhaps he was going mad. Perhaps Sherlock was staring through him, rather than at him.

He doubted it. Locked-in patients gained their consciousness before they could open their eyes. That was a basic fact. Sherlock must have listened to him for a little while, at the very least... It was natural to want a face to put to the voice. He could oblige him with that, couldn't he?

"It's nice to see that you're definitely awake," he finally said. "They really ought to have caught that earlier, but I suppose that Dr. Stein is working on it by now."

Sherlock blinked.

"I'm not sure how long you've been conscious, but I've been visiting you for nearly a month. I'm, erm, volunteering here. For a while. I've been reading articles to you."

Those eyes were boring through him. Would somebody, even a detective, have enough strength to inspect and investigate and study as soon as his eyes opened? Surely it was exhausting? Surely there were better things to inspect than a tired volunteer in a shabby jumper?

It was all in his head. He was being stupid. He was being histrionic. It was only awkward because he was making it awkward.

The back of his neck was getting warm.

He opened the Metro with a quick rustle, forced a smile and began to read. He could barely resist the urge to hide his face with the paper, but it seemed cruel. Twenty-three hours out of twenty-four, there couldn't be much to look at.

John Watson wasn't much to look at either, but he was something to take up space between the bed and the wall- and that would have to be enough for now. He could present himself for inspection if Sherlock needed him to. He was plain and dull and everything in his world seemed to be alternating between shades of brown and grey, but he could deal with this slight change in his schedule.

He could cope with being seen and heard, even if he had found some level of comfort in being just as invisible and disembodied to Sherlock as he felt every hour of the day.

It was a small price to pay to help with someone's recovery.

John made it halfway through an article about a narcoleptic thief before his phone began to vibrate in his pocket.

"Oh, I'm sorry- just… One second. It's Harry."

He didn't know why he even expected that to mean anything to somebody like Sherlock, but he fumbled with his paper and nearly missed the call.

"Hello?"

"John, it's me. Look, can you do me a quick favour, please?"

He checked his watch, noticed that those eyes were still focused on him, and twisted slightly to the side of his seat- as if it might grant him a bit more privacy.

"I can't go tonight, Harry. I missed my appointment this morning and I'm absolutely exhausted, and-"

"That's not what I want. Have you got the paper for today? I need to know if they've printed Alice as a missing person yet."

"I'm volunteering. I'm in the middle of visiting-"

"For the love of God, you always have the flippin' newspaper. Just open it and bloody check, that's all I want."

"You aren't going to go on their property, are you?"

"John."

"Because I'm not about to trigger some ridiculous wild-goose chase."

"Honestly-"

"If that bloody creature gets you and it doesn't completely tear your throat out in an instant, I could put money on her family refusing to call an ambulance for you."

"John."

"Fine, fine…"

His eyes slid back to the bed for a brief moment and he found that Sherlock's attention was still fixed on him. Even though he couldn't think of much else that the detective would be looking at, he could feel his ears going slightly red.

He shuffled through the newspaper twice and didn't find a thing.

"Sorry, Harry. Nothing in here. Now, if you don't mind…"

"I'll call you tomorrow to check again, but I know that it isn't her. She would never… She just wouldn't… I have to go. Come back as soon as you can."

"I can't just-"

"Bye."

With that, John pulled his phone away from his ear and stared at it for a moment, as if he expected her to call him back. When she didn't, he set it down on the bed and sat properly again, smothering his sigh with his fist.

"I'm sorry about that," he said. "I didn't mean to be rude, but I had to take it. Harry's convinced that…"

Sherlock continued to stare at him- and John wished (for what felt like the tenth time that day) that the other man could at least show some form of expression for him to read. A quirk of a smile or a downturn of those pale lips. Something. A twitch of his brow or a shift of his jaw. Anything. He didn't care what it was.

"… Okay," he sighed, rubbing his temples with his forefingers. "Just to give it context… Alice is Harry's girlfriend- and she's been gone for over a week. There hasn't been any word from her or from anyone at her work. Harry suspects that her family is keeping her hostage, except the woman that looks like Alice that Harry saw in the window isn't her. Or something. I went to Hampshire last night, but I barely came close to helping. They live on this stupidly large estate in the middle of nowhere and it's falling to pieces, so it wouldn't be hard to keep somebody there against their will. I figure that it's about money, somehow. It's always about money. … Not that I really know much. I'm not a detective."

John paused.

"But that's why I had to take the call. I probably won't get another one, so it should be fine."

He read two more stories, but his skin felt just as warm and flushed as it had earlier. How long had he been here? Lord, why was he so self-conscious when he knew that Sherlock could see him? On average, hundreds of people saw him every day, so why was this any different? Why was it affecting him so much? Why was he itching to move out of Sherlock's line of vision?

Somebody knocked on the door to signal the ten minute warning before visiting hours were up.

Maybe tomorrow would be easier.

John finished the third article, folded up his copy of the Metro and fussed with the collar of his coat. His phone went back into his pocket. His lips pursed and parted as if he wanted to say something, but he settled for patting the edge of the bed.

"I guess we'll see each other tomorrow, then," he said. "I hope that you continue to improve- it's nice to see your eyes open."

His hand found Sherlock's knee quite by accident, and he drew it back quickly with an apologetic smile.

"I tend to come around every day, so I guess you'll have to put up with me for a while. At least until you can personally tell me to piss off."

John, his cane, his coat and his Metro disappeared on time, leaving Sherlock- and his twitching fingers- behind.