Hello, everyone!
This is one of my most favorite chapter so far, and it took me alot of effort to get it as I wanted it to be.
Either way, I hope you'd love it as much as I do :)
Old Ping Hai is responsible for the perfect beta, she deserves your applauses!
Don't forget to review!

John P.O.V.

I wake up to the sensation of firm, hot lips against my forehead. I keep my eyes closed, just trying to take in and lean into the comfort in this light touch.

I don't recognize whose lips are resting on my temple, but based on latest events, it isn't too hard to guess.

But now the firm lips are gone, and I start feeling a bit stressed, worried that the sensation was nothing but an illusion.

I open my eyes to see Mycroft Holmes staring at me with wide eyes, paler than ever.

"John? John, can you hear me?"

Why is Mycroft here, in my room? Did he just kiss me? Does it mean that Sherlock...? No it can't be. I feel the panic spread from the pit of my stomach to every cell in my body. I ignore the flowers and presents that surround me, and just hear increasing beeping from the heart monitor.

Mycroft walks out of the room and yells something, probably calling a doctor. I try to move, but as I expect, everything hurts. I feel the cold sweat of panic on my forehead and the blood pumping very fast in my veins.

But then, Sherlock runs into the room with bandaged shoulder, and immediately I feel my body relax, just a bit. He grabs my hand and squeezes it tight, and he smiles a genuine smile that makes me feel even better.

Once the doctor comes in the room, Sherlock even starts to stroke my hair, as if to calm me down. What can I say? The man knows me pretty well.

The doctor checks my pupils and my reflexes and smiles broadly: "John Watson, you're a very lucky man. Everything looks very good, but you have to rest. All right? Rest, and I'll come back in a few hours; we'll run some additional tests. Fine?" I nod briefly and lean farther into Sherlock's touch, "Thank you, doctor," I say with a husky voice.

The doctor leaves the room and Mycroft follows him, leaving Sherlock and me alone in the room.

It isn't a regular hospital room, it is a private room, pretty large, with huge television and leather armchairs.

Sherlock stops stroking my hair and takes a seat next to me in one of those expensive armchairs.

I try to smile at Sherlock, but even this slight movement leaves me gasping with pain.

"What the hell happened?"

Sherlock remains silent for a minute and then asks: "Don't you remember what happened with Moriarty?"

"Of course I do. Don't look so miserable, Sherlock. I'm fine. But what happened since? How long have I been out?"

"A week. How are you feeling?" Sherlock squeezes my hand even tighter, and his gaze reflects deep concern. I smile at him, even though it hurts, feeling surprisingly touched by his concern.

"Fine, a bit sore, but I'll be all right. You've been shot," it wasn't a question, but he nods anyway.

"Yes, I have. Right shoulder, nothing important," he shrugs.

"Of course it's important, Sherlock," he rolls his eyes and I know there's no point to argue about this now, we'll have plenty of time for this later. "Pass me my chart, will you?"

Sherlock hesitates for a moment but then releases my hand and passes me my chart. He sits back and bites his lower lip. It is clear that he doesn't want me to read it, but it's better to face things now rather than later.

Let's see: shock, 2 surgeries, spleen removal, severe damage to the pancreas... Could have been worse. Since the second surgery vitals seem good. Looks like there is nothing to worry about, at least for the long run.

"Why are you smiling?"

"Could have been much worse, Sherlock. I've felt worse. You have nothing to worry about." I hand him back the chart and close my eyes. Even though I slept for a week, I still feel extremely weak.

"Go to sleep, John, you have to rest. I'll be right here when you wake up," I can hear Sherlock smile. All of a sudden he sounds so calm.

"Promise?"

"Promise."

Just a few hours later I am awakened by the sound of the doctors fussing around me.

I open my eyes, still exhausted and fuzzy-headed from all the drugs they were giving me.

There are two doctors in my room, both of them seem very young, probably interns. They are fussing around, checking my blood pressure, the stitches from the surgery, the other too-many-to-count bruises.

"Well, Doctor Watson, everything seems good," says the tall blond doctor. "But I want to keep an eye on your for another day, if that's OK with you. Just to make sure that you remain stable," the doctor smiles and leaves the room without even waiting for my answer.

"Wait, doctor!" Sherlock yells after him. The doctor comes back to the room and looks annoyed by Sherlock's interference.

"He just woke up after five days of unconsciousness. He went through two major surgeries, how is it possible that he can come home tomorrow?"

"Well, sir, he's healing perfectly, and we'll give him meds that will help the pain and healing process. Nevertheless, sir, he has to rest at home for couple of weeks. In two weeks he should come back for follow ups and blood infusion."

"Blood infusion? Why?" Sherlock looks so adorable when he doesn't understand something.

"Sherlock," I sigh. "Thank you, doctor, I'll explain it to him." The doctor gave me a slight nod and left the room.

Sherlock takes his regular seat next to me and seems like he's listening carefully.

"Look, Sherlock, the most important thing about our spleen is that it removes old red blood cells and holds a reserve of blood, which can be valuable in case of hemorrhagic shock, like I had. Now, because I don't have a spleen anymore, that means that I don't have anything to remove my old red blood cells, and so, I at least need new ones to keep me healthy. Do you understand?"

Sherlock gets up from his chair, looks at me for a brief second, nods, and leaves the room.

I try to call for him, but it doesn't seem like he's coming back.

Instead, I see him going toward Greg's room, which is just across the hall.

I can't see what is happening there, and my curiosity isn't easy to control. I think maybe I should go there myself, but so soon after the surgery, it might not be such a good idea.

Fortunately, Mycroft just left Greg's room and I'm sure he will be able to explain me what the hell happened.

Mycroft walks in and closes the door behind him. His smile is too restrained. Funny, most of the time his fake smile doesn't look that fake. He must be exhausted.

Mycroft clears his throat and sits where Sherlock sat five minutes ago.

"What have you told him?" he asks as he crosses his legs and tries to sit straighter.

"I told him about the spleen removal, what the implications of the surgery are. That they will have to give me a blood dose once a month. Seriously, I don't get what's the big deal," I shrug, suddenly understanding that maybe I've been too blunt with Sherlock, he never takes well to those kind of things. Maybe I should have explained more gently.

"Doctor Watson, as you're well aware, my brother fancies you a great deal. The last thing he wants is to hear how what happened with Moriarty will effect you for life, even physically. He feels guilty, I'm sure you can understand."

"What happened isn't his fault. It's no one's fault except Moriarty's. And your brother doesn't fancy me. That's absurd." Mycroft raises his eyebrow and chuckles.

"Doctor Watson, how thick do you think I am? Sherlock told me about the letter, you don't have to cover for him. Nevertheless, I've known for a few years," Mycroft shrugs, but his smile now seems genuine. I can't help but blush at the memory of Sherlock's letter. I've refusing to think about it since I wake up, but maybe the sooner I deal with it, the better.

Mycroft rises from his chair, pats my shoulder and walks out of the room. I can see both brothers talking in the hall. Sherlock looks extremely pissed with Mycroft. Not really surprising. Mycroft turns and enters Greg's room, while Sherlock remains standing in the hall, looking petrified. He stares at me through the window and smiles an unconvincing smile. I signal him to come into the room and with tentative steps he walks in and closes the door behind him.
He keeps standing in the doorway, refusing to meet my eyes, and looking bored as hell.
Typical Sherlock; never lets you see what is really going on, but behaves strangely enough to declare that there's something wrong.

"Do you mind sitting with me for a bit?" I ask as he keeps on standing at the other edge of the room. He nods, but before he comes to sit with me, he approaches the window and closes the curtains, which just makes the whole situation even weirder.
He takes his seat next to my bed and remains silent. I sigh with disbelief; this man next to me is probably the most brilliant man that I've ever known, and yet sometimes he behaves like a complete brat.
Now it is certainly one of those times.

"What?" he asks, and he just sounds so tired that I think maybe this conversation can wait, but I know that if we don't talk about it now, we'll probably never talk about it.
"Sherlock, do you mind telling me why you went storming out of the room after what I just told you? I need you here, it's not easy for me, either."
"I didn't think you'd like me here."
"Why? Do you think I want to deal with it by myself? Sherlock, for god sakes, look at me." Sherlock finally lifts his gaze and looks me in the eyes. His eyes are red, and I'm not sure if it's because of the tiredness or because something else entirely.
"Look, John, there's clearly nothing I can do to help. Not anymore. I tried to save you from James, but instead, I just sent you to him. Since I couldn't save you from him, you're injured. So maybe it's best if I just keep my distance, don't you think?" I look at him, completely shocked. How can he think that way? How can he take the blame so badly? I decide to try a different approach.

"Sherlock, do you remember what I told you while Jim was hitting me?" Sherlock frowns and arches his eyebrow. He shakes his head after a few moments, and I'm relieved.
"I told you that I love you, too." Sherlock's eyes get wide and his mouth open slightly in shock.
"No, you didn't," he says after a long silence. "You didn't say anything. I thought I saw you saying something but… no, absolutely no. I don't need your pity, John. I can fall out of love with you. It shouldn't affect our relationship."
"Are you fucking kidding me, Sherlock? Do you think I would tell you something like that only to make you feel good? Get out. Seriously, Sherlock, get the fuck out of my fucking hospital room." I close my eyes and feel the huge lump in my throat. How dare he; after all I've been through in the last week? He thinks I would just say a thing like that? Doesn't he know me at all?
"No." Sherlock cuts my train of thoughts and his voice makes me open my eyes. I look at him, completely furious with his behavior and the fact that he thinks I lied when I said I loved him. Fuck him.

"John, I'm not going anywhere. But seriously, why would you love me? I can't see the logic here."
"I can fucking ask you the same fucking question." I roll my eyes, still completely mad and as stubborn as I can be.

"What do you mean?"
"I'm the ordinary, boring, dull John Watson. Oh, and don't forget stupid. I'm just like everyone else, so why me?"
Sherlock leans forward and grabs my hand. I flinch a bit at the touch, but I let him. "John, you're anything but ordinary. You're the only exception to all of my rules, I thought you knew that. You're nothing like them, I assure you. And that's why I… care about you so much. You're different, unbelievably different. But, how am I supposed to think that you care about me this way, too? Your wife just died, you've been locked up in a dungeon with Moriarty for three days, and even got really badly injured while you were there. How am I supposed to know that what you feel is genuine and not just because everything else is falling apart?"
Sherlock left me speechless. He was right, of course, if I were him I'd possibly think the same thing, but I know that I have loved him for more than a week; far more than a week. Are four years enough to make it genuine? I guess so.

"I never said I wouldn't need more time to adjust and deal with everything that's happened, it still doesn't change the fact that what I feel for you is genuine. I do love you, Sherlock, and sure, it will take a while for me to do something about it given the circumstances, but I love you." I squeeze his hand tightly, and a sudden calmness spreads in my body.
Sherlock rises from his chair, stands above me, and kisses my forehead very gently, just like he did when I first woke up in the hospital. I can't believe how soothing and right it feels.

Sherlock sits back down and looks at me for a couple of seconds in comfortable, easy silence. Finally, all he manages to say is: "Thank you."
I'm about to say "with pleasure," when we hear knocking on the door. Mycroft comes into the room and clears his throat. Sherlock and I release each other's hands and look at Mycroft with narrowed eyes and annoyance. We were having such a wonderful moment, thank you very much, you big git.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, but I've brought you a little surprise." Mycroft looks at me for a minute, turns to the hall, and drags an incubator crib into the room. When my mind finally catches up with what I see, I feel my heart pounding fast with excitement and unexpected joy, as I remember something that Mary told me when we found out she was pregnant: "Making the decision to have a child is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body." And right now, I completely understand what she meant. I've never seen this little creature before, and I already feel like she owns my heart.

I feel the steaming tears of joy running down my face as I look at my beautiful little baby girl. Sherlock grabs my hand again and gives me a reassuring smile. I smile back at him and feel happier than ever.
"It was quite an effort bringing her in here, but Dr. Watson, I would like you to meet your daughter, Rachel."