Dear faithful reviewers, after posting 46 chapters I finally found out that there is actually a reply button for reviews … ahem … I apologise profusely. As Sherlock would say: you see, but you don't observe … first fanfic, still learning. Still stuck with exams, too.

And again: thank you a million times for your feedback. I'm overwhelmed!

Lucid

"I – I – I –" John broke off, realising that his brain was stuck. He blinked, suddenly afraid that Sherlock alert and conscious was just a dream, and in a moment he would wake up and find him unresponsive as before.

"John." The voice was rough and dark, but Lord, did it sound good.

"You – you – um," John clamped his mouth shut, closing his eyes, desperate to regain control. "Are you lucid?" he burst out, overwhelmed by embarrassment the next moment.

"Are you?" Sherlock asked, raising one brow.

"Apparently not," John breathed, humming under his breath, desperately trying to keep himself from hyperventilating. There was a procedure for coma patients waking up, for God's sake, questions to be asked, tests to be performed.

If only he could remember them.

"Not much point if I ask you what date it is, huh?" John chuckled.

"Would you know the answer?" Sherlock rasped, blinking slowly.

"No," John coughed. "Been here too long." He looked away, trying to stifle the growing panic. What was wrong with him? When had he ever reacted so completely unprofessional, and why, for God's sake? He should be exhilarated – instead, panic bloomed in his chest, completely irrational and useless panic!

"John," Sherlock asked, "are you all right?" He sounded deeply concerned.

That was the final straw. It started with a giggle, which turned into hysterical laughter, and then John broke down sobbing, sinking onto the bed, burying his face in the blanket, somewhere between Sherlock's knees. He couldn't stop, even as the absurdity of the situation hit him and embarrassment made his ears burn, but his body was still wrecked by great stupid sobs, the tears flowing as if someone had turned on a tap.

It took a while until the sensation sank in, but at some point, he realised Sherlock was patting his back awkwardly; in doing so, he dislocated the oximeter on his finger, setting off the alarm. With a great gasp, John wrenched himself out of his breakdown and hurriedly turned to silence the machine. The last thing he now wanted was everyone trampling in, whisking Sherlock away from him.

Still sniffling, he turned to face his friend. He met a calm, almost cool gaze if it had not been for the warmth in Sherlock's eyes, now thrillingly awake and scrutinising him intensely. John fought a persistent hiccup, and in between gasps squeezed out, "So you know where you are and what happened?"

"Of course." Sherlock nodded at the window, showing London's night skyline. "If I didn't, I would deduce it."

"Right." John giggled again, feeling stupid. "How much do you remember of what I've read to you?"

"All of it." Sherlock's eyes never left him, taking in every movement.

"So, you've been awake how long?" John couldn't help but feel like an idiot, and one that had worried in vain.

"Seven minutes."

John gaped. "Only seven – ? And before, before, you were – ?"

"Mind Palace, John. Rebuilding, thanks to the information you supplied."

"Could you have woken up earlier?" John croaked, still feeling like a fool.

"No. I was trapped. I made my way up here, following your voice."

"Seriously?" John shook his head in disbelief. "What do you mean, you made your way up here?"

Sherlock suddenly looked away. "John, I'd prefer to talk about this later."

John mentally kicked himself, shaking off his trance-like state. "Sorry, I'm an idiot. Great bedside manner. Believe me, I don't normally interrogate my coma patients like that." He rubbed his face. "You must be exhausted. How are you feeling?"

Sherlock took his time, drawing breath before he answered: "Rather weak. Tolerable amount of pain in my chest, but spikes as soon as I move, left shoulder stiff, left arm numb, joints aching, skin itching. Nausea, headache, dizziness; short of breath, sore throat, strong urge to cough, badly in need of coffee and a bathroom. I hate the smell."

"We bathed you yesterday," John replied, overwhelmed by it all.

"High time for a shower and a shave, then. Plus, I would be exceedingly grateful if you could remove the Foley catheter, it is a constant irritation and no longer necessary, as is the feeding tube. I can take care of the latter myself, my hands should be steady enough for that."

"You will do no such thing," John barked, suddenly finding his military voice again. "You'll get some rest and have the doctors look you over in the morning."

Sherlock raised his brows. "John, I'm fed up with hospital. I want to leave as soon as possible. I bet Mycroft has not found Moriarty yet –"

John shook his head. "Sherlock, shut it." He started to giggle again, hysteria welling up once more. "This is so mad … Jesus … you're finally awake and it takes less than five minutes for me to want to tape your mouth shut." He felt tears prickle in his eyes and quickly turned away, pressing his hands against his burning cheeks.

"John." A tentative finger poked him in the side. "Sorry."

"It's okay," John wheezed. "I'm sorry. I'm the idiot here. I'm reacting so unprofessionally. It's just been a bit too much stress and no proper sleep. Gets to me. I still can't believe it that you're back. I mean – that you're back and that you're you. Um – okay, I don't make much sense here. Sorry for babbling. Doesn't mean I'm not completely, utterly, overwhelmingly happy with every fibre of my being." He looked at Sherlock, and met wide, questioning eyes, eyes that knew how to plead and make John's heart melt … he shook his head vigorously. "No way, Sherlock, you're not going anywhere. Absolutely not. Do not try the puppy look on me." He drew a deep breath. "This is the Intensive Care Unit, and you are here for a bloody good reason."

Sherlock frowned and gave him one of his calculating stares. "All right," he conceded. "I'm rather exhausted anyway. But, please John, get those awful tubes out of me." He started fiddling with the tape that held the feeding tube in place, and John placed a warning hand over his fingers. "Wait. I'll do it properly, okay? No rush. You're only going to hurt yourself."

Sherlock huffed and gave one more tug.

"Sherlock, you've been in a coma, for God's sake!" John hissed. "I've waited at your bedside for days on end – you'll manage to wait until I get the stuff I need to remove the tube!"

Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes, struggling with his impatience. John rolled his eyes at him, secretly rejoicing that Sherlock was so completely his obstinate self.

"There," he placed a towel around Sherlock's shoulders and brought the bed up. "Lean back and relax, I need to examine you first."

"What for?" Sherlock complained.

"Before I can remove the tube, I need to be sure you're ready for it, otherwise it stays where it is. Which means, I will take this stethoscope," John held up the instrument he had acquired at the very beginning of his vigil, waving it in front of Sherlock. "And I will check your abdomen, listening for bowel sounds. And you will hold still and let me do it."

He was greeted with a long sigh, but Sherlock complied. John was satisfied after a while and put the stethoscope away.

There was another issue, however, and John hated to tackle it. "Do you think you can eat and keep something down?" he asked quietly, moving Sherlock into a sitting position. They both knew what he was referring to.

"I don't know," Sherlock replied in a low voice. "I have to try at some point."

John gave him a concerned look. "True, but you don't have to do everything at once. Give yourself a break."

Sherlock chuckled. "Hm."

John looked up as he turned off the valve of the tube. "What?"

"I have missed this." Sherlock smiled languidly. "You being concerned about me."

"Oh, you'll get plenty more of that, believe me," John muttered and started peeling the tape off Sherlock's face. "It's gonna be a while until you leave here, and even longer until you're up on your feet and running around London."

Sherlock remained silent.

"Okay, take a deep breath and hold it," John instructed, then pulled out the tube onto the towel in one smooth movement. Sherlock started coughing, but instantly winced in pain and tried to suppress the urge to cough. He failed and had to fight tears on top of it.

"That's the pneumonia speaking," John grumbled and gave Sherlock some tissues. "Which you failed to mention to me."

Sherlock just gasped between coughs, but once the coughing subsided, he gave John a tired look from half-closed eyes. "Sorry."

"We'll talk about that later. You need rest. Here, rinse out your mouth." John held a cup to his lips and watched as Sherlock drank, sloshing the water around in his mouth and then spitting it into the offered basin. He noticed that Sherlock didn't try to hold the cup himself – too weak, then.

John checked him over again. "How are you feeling now? Anything out of order?"

"Just tired," Sherlock said. "Still need the other tubes out, though."

John sighed in exasperation. "Don't you think it would be easier to just fall asleep and let the Foley do its job?"

"I can't sleep when I'm constantly thinking I need to rush to the toilet," Sherlock complained.

"Oh, Jesus," John muttered, "didn't know you were so squeamish."

"It hurts, John!" Sherlock burst out with surprising vehemence. "Every time I move, there's a dragging pain, and I find it more annoying than the bullet wound!"

"Okay, all right, calm down," John backtracked. "You had an infection of the urinary tract only a couple of days ago, it's probably irritated. I'll get what I need, and I'll bring a urinal as well."

"Unnecessary. I'll use the bathroom."

"No, you won't."

"Moriarty didn't shoot me in the leg, John."

"No, just the chest, Sherlock, and you're not going to use the bathroom because you are a) too weak, b) we need to measure your urine output, and c) I don't have the nerve to drag you to the toilet and back. It's a urinal or diapers."

Sherlock stared at him, his face an unreadable mask. Then he burst out laughing. "You wouldn't dare."

"Yes, I would," John insisted, but started laughing himself.

They both giggled like schoolgirls, Sherlock occasionally flinching in pain, and John fighting hysterical tears. Suddenly, Sherlock's face fell. "John, if you're not helping me to the toilet, what if I need to – hell! The bloody feeding tube! I could have done without food!"

"No, you couldn't," John was serious again. "Anyway, you received parenteral nutrition first, the feeding tube hasn't been in long and they have a three-day policy here. You've just about met the deadline." He started to hiccup again and couldn't help but giggle. "Oh, God, my professionalism's gone down the drain …"

"You mean they would have given me laxatives and slapped on nappies," Sherlock drawled with a raised brow.

"Would've been due today," John grinned. "It's a bedpan instead. And the laxatives might still be on the agenda."

"John," Sherlock sat up, swaying slightly, sweat trickling down his temples. "I am going to use the toilet when it becomes necessary, even if I have to crawl there."

"They don't have one in here, it's the ICU, remember." John tried to stare him down.

Sherlock's eyes glittered. "I did not survive torture at the hands of Moriarty's men only to be subjected to another round of indignities by British nursing staff. I will use the toilet." He enunciated the letters with precision, almost spitting them out.

John suddenly noticed how pale Sherlock had gone, and realised that he was genuinely upset by the idea. Suddenly, he understood: it had to do with the torture. Sherlock was not squeamish, neither when slicing up corpses nor when it came to the more intimate aspects of patient care: prudery was an alien concept to him. But if you wanted to humiliate a captive, the easiest way to do so was by stripping away privacy, and depriving the person of the means to attend to the most basic needs. John had no doubt that Sherlock had endured these humiliations far too long and was unwilling to let it happen again; he was determined to act on his threat to use the toilet, and chances were he would collapse and injure himself.

"Okay," John gave in. "We'll find a solution when the need arises, right? I'll help you, just don't attempt anything on your own, Sherlock. Promise me, OK?"

Sherlock glared at him, then nodded. "Fine."

John sighed with relief. "Right. Let's get the Foley out, then. Uh," he looked around, rummaged through several drawers, but could not find the necessary equipment. "Looks like we've run out of gloves and drapes. I'll call the nurse." He reached for the button, but Sherlock stopped his hand. "Don't. No nurse."

John raised his brows. "Jesus, Sherlock, they won't bite, they're actually nice here, with the exception of the dragon from the other room. But your primary Nurse is a saint, and she's been looking after you all this time."

"John," Sherlock panted, sinking back into the pillows. "Once they know I'm awake they won't leave me alone. Please, allow me some privacy. The morning will come soon enough."

"Actually," John suddenly frowned, "I'm really surprised they haven't been in here already. Your vitals have changed considerably," he nodded at the screens. "They can read them at the nurses' station. Normally they come in every hour anyway – this is really strange." He looked around, but the ward was quiet. Too quiet.

John felt the hair rise at the nape of his neck. "Sherlock, I'll go and fetch the stuff. Lie back and rest, okay?"

"John, if you think I haven't noticed that you are suddenly extremely alarmed, then you're an idiot."

"I'm not –"

"Yes you are. Do you want me to list the signs?" Sherlock sat ramrod straight.

"No," John hissed. "Okay, I'm worried. That's my new default mode, thanks to you. Now relax, for God's sake. Please!"

Sherlock just rolled his eyes, but leaned back into the pillows. As soon as John had left, he strained his ears to listen. There were the usual sounds from the machines in the room, the air conditioning, the faint trampling and clanging from the floors above and below, boats on the Thames, street noise and traffic – too much traffic.

He sat up again.

This was the dead of the night, yet reflected on the Thames surface, he could see blue lights flashing. Tilting his head and closing his eyes, he picked out the engine sounds of transport vehicles – police, probably, possibly fire brigade as well. Sherlock suddenly had a fairly clear idea of what was going on; and he knew John wasn't spooked for nothing.

He instantly felt the adrenaline coursing through his body, speeding up the cardiac monitor's signals two notches. He tried to control the pain in his chest, focusing on his breathing; when he felt able to move, he reached across the bed and pulled over the monitors and the stand with the infusion system. Systematically, he began shutting them all down. As soon as he was done, he peeled off the electrodes and removed the remaining monitoring equipment. It was more difficult and physically demanding than he had anticipated: it left him panting and trembling, cold sweat trickling down his spine.

Hissing through clenched teeth, he gave up on the central venous line. He couldn't distort his body enough to reach for it, and his fingers were stiff and clumsy. He considered pulling out the chest tube instead, but hesitated – the area needed to be sterilized and taped, otherwise he was risking an infection. He closed his eyes again, summoning all his strength. It was no use. He had to get ready: there was not the slightest doubt in his mind that Moriarty was coming for him; his only advantage was that the criminal mastermind believed him defenseless, holed up with John, clueless like sitting ducks.

Sherlock folded the blankets away, gritted his teeth at the chill and the nagging pain in his chest, and began plucking at the tape surrounding the area where the tube was stuck in the side of his ribcage. Grumbling at his stiff fingers, he finally managed to peel it off – and frowned in annoyance: the tube was held in place by a suture. He definitely couldn't remove this on his own – he needed scissors to cut the threads, and gauze to tape the wound. Huffing in anger, he returned to the central venous catheter, and this time he succeeded in disconnecting the infusion lines. He even managed to grab some tape, and, tearing it off with his teeth, he secured the catheter in place.

Toying with the tape for a moment, he looked around. Gauze was right next to it, as were empty syringes and other supplies. If he managed to grab some of it, he could get rid of both the chest tube and the Foley catheter – all he needed to do was swing his legs out of bed, lean forward and pull the medication cart over.

Sherlock pressed his lips together. Surely, he had met greater challenges in the last three years.

John was at a loss: emptiness greeted him in the white corridors of the ICU. Normally, even at night, nurses were either at their stations or checking on patients, and the cleaners usually appeared around midnight as well. However, he heard a faint murmur from the far end of the ward where the staff room was.

He quickly moved to one of the windows, looking down. His eyes widened in surprise: a whole fleet of police cars and fire engines surrounded the hospital, and people were streaming out of the building in a hurry – the nursing staff was easily recognizable, clad in blue, green and purple, most of them pushing wheel chairs and trolleys or leading patients away towards the waiting ambulances and buses.

Bomb threat, he immediately thought. But why this unearthly silence in the ICU? Why was no one here, carting out the patients? Something was wrong. John's heart pounded painfully in his chest, and he felt fear spreading through his veins like ice water. "Jesus," he muttered and jogged towards the staff room. Normally, the place was buzzing with the chatting of the nurses and the huffing noise of the coffee machine. This time, it was filled with quiet murmuring, an almost palpable tension in the air. He stuck his head in.

Apparently, a briefing was going on. The entire staff was assembled; most of the nurses and doctors had their arms folded, looking concerned, a few outright scared. Nurse June saw him and hurried over. "Oh, Dr Watson, we have a bomb threat. We're organising the evacuation right now – we've been informed that the police will be here any moment, directing us out of the building. We'll start getting the patients ready in a minute, you can be of help –"

"Sure," he patted her arm absentmindedly, "I'm right back." He left her standing and ran from the room as fast as his feet could carry him. "Bomb threat, you gotta be kidding," he spat, storming down the corridor. Just as he rounded the corner, he saw the elevator doors open. He stopped to see who was coming – and ducked behind the corner in a flash, his heart clenching in fear. "Police, my arse," he hissed to himself. "Bursting into the ICU with guns, huh?"

The next second, he heard shocked exclamations, chairs being overturned, and supplies crashing to the floor.

The hunt had begun.