Royal Suite

They had moved Sherlock to a room at the corner of the building. It was clearly the hospital's equivalent to the Ritz' Royal Suite: large, with warm wooden colours, and one side consisting entirely of a glass front, offering a magnificent view across the Thames and London's skyline. Not that Sherlock appreciated it.

He lay as unmoving as before, almost lost between pillows and blankets, tied down by a web of wires, tubes and infusion lines. John went over to him, automatically checking the readings on the screens even before looking at the patient himself. His vitals were back to – well, not normal, but acceptable.

He stopped at the foot of the bed. Sherlock looked much the same, his chest rising and falling with the hiss of the ventilator. Looking closer, John noticed his cheeks were slightly flushed, a fine sheen of sweat covering his mask-like face, like a wax figure left out in the rain.

So, the pneumonia was finally giving him a fever. John sighed heavily at the prospect.

At least they had managed to bring home a little closer to Sherlock: the pervasive hospital smell was much less prominent, masked by the familiar scent of the same washing powder John had used at 221B. The nurses had also replaced the standard bedclothes with Sherlock's expensive linen, covering him up with the striped woolen blanket.

He folded it down a bit; no need to keep him all tucked up with a rising fever. Underneath, Sherlock was naked: they had spared him the hospital gown, but it made the wound dressing and the tube snaking out from it all the more visible, so John pulled the linen up to his shoulders.

He felt a strong urge to touch Sherlock, to stroke his face and melt away the mask, make those features alive again - but he was still apprehensive of Sherlock's aversion to being touched. He had not seemed to mind it when half-conscious, but John could not be sure how a comatose Sherlock perceived the invasion of his personal space. It was possible that he did not recognize John at all and interpreted it as an act of aggression: there were stories of people who had experienced their comatose state as a long agonizing nightmare.

He remembered one patient who believed to be a wounded soldier on a medieval battlefield, hiding among the dead, keeping absolutely still to avoid attracting attention. The man had been convinced that all voices and touches were the enemy looking for survivors, killing them, or worse, mutilating them while still alive. When the nurse had squeezed his hand reassuringly, he had mistaken her for a plunderer intent on cutting off his finger in order to steal his marriage ring.

John prayed that Sherlock retained a fraction of logic and reason, but it was more likely his mind was plagued by memories of torture.

So, instead of touching, John just sighed and softly said, "Hey, Sherlock, you idiot, welcome back among the living. It's John speaking, in case you didn't deduce that. Well, I'm sure you recognised me, and you're probably rolling your eyes at me, scoffing obviously – at least I hope you do." He hesitated a moment. "Listen, you clot. Don't you do that ever again, do you hear me? That dying lark is not funny. You made me watch your suicide, you left me three years wondering how I had failed you or how I could have saved you. You have caused me so much grief and agony, I can't even think about it. And now you've saved my life on top of all that. So, you bloody arrogant stubborn brilliant amazing idiot, you can't just leave me now. And don't try to turn yourself into a hero, it doesn't suit you, you said so yourself. I won't have it, you hear me? I want you back. That's all I want. Right. Okay, so that's that. Now get some rest and heal." He huffed and looked around.

He spotted a large armchair in the corner that looked more like a crossing between a throne and a sofa; he hauled the beige monstrosity over to the bed and positioned it so that he was close to Sherlock's face. With growing worry, John noted the fine beads of sweat trickling down his temples. John groaned. Sherlock certainly did not dither – the fever was rising quickly, as one look at his body temperature indicated on the screen confirmed.

Sighing, he heaved himself out of the chair again, wincing at the pain in his chest. He took a cloth and started dabbing at Sherlock's face, talking quietly to him. "You're sweating quite a bit, Sherlock, and you don't want the sweat to trickle into your eyes, do you? That would sting quite awfully. You've got a fever, you know, and they're trying to keep it down but it'll be a while until it breaks. Wait a second, I'll get a cold compress for you." He rummaged through the trolleys, found a suitable towel, went to the sink and soaked it in cold water.

"There," he muttered as he gently placed the cloth on Sherlock's forehead. "That should help a bit. Your heart stopped, you know what that means? Normally, they would treat you with hypothermia, cooling your body down to protect that precious brain of yours, but you idiot managed to conceal the pneumonia from me and now that you've got a massive infection along with a bullet hole in your chest and a totally messed up heart rate, they don't dare to do that. Well, they're doing all they can but it's really up to you, Sherlock." He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, biting back the sobs lurking in his throat. He was still shaken, but somehow he felt that scolding an unconscious man who could not defend himself was not fair. 'Watson, where's your bedside manner?' he silently chided himself.

"Sherlock," he cleared his throat and began again. "Don't give up. We all want you – no, need you back. Don't leave us again. You're not alone, you know, and I'll be there for you, no matter what. Mary won't stand between us, I think she told you so and you must have seen that she means it. You have so much to come back to – I'm sure Lestrade's sitting on a pile of unsolved cases and Mrs Hudson can't wait to be your housekeeper again – she's kept all your stuff, and I have your violin, so 221B is waiting for you. And Mycroft … well, you can't waste the chance to gloat over the fact that you rescued your brother by giving him a piggy-back ride down the Shard." John giggled, just a little bit hysterical. "Seriously, Sherlock, I'm so looking forward to sitting by the fire in the living room of 221B, listening to your adventures over a cup of tea. Or, if you don't want to talk about it, then that's fine too. Play the violin. Or just retreat to your Mind Palace. It's all fine, you know. As long as you're there." John smiled, just a little bit.

Then he sat back and took up his vigil again, silently praying for yet another miracle.