Sherlock and John were put on separate wards.

This was, of course, an outrage.

Sherlock was the first to awaken; concussion and a smoke riddled throat the optimum of his injuries. Bruises ran along his stomach and arms in a purple scatter pattern; two of his ribs taped tight with rough bandage. The bridge of his nose was cracked, the plaster securing it dirty against the pale expanse of his skin.

The dishevelled, off-white walls themselves were enough induce nightmares of unparalleled boredom. The sheets of his bed were clean and well pressed, slightly crumpled where his long legs had been duly spasmodic during the night. A single card stood, like a testimony of loneliness, on his bedside.

The nurses worked quickly; he was repositioned until his back was raised, and the room was at a more appealing prospective; food was prepared and his IV was removed. It was inevitable, but as soon as Sherlock's deprived mind began to demist, and a fold in the skirt of the Head Nurse hinted at a one night stand with the new surgeon on the Burns Ward – the room cleared, and once again, Sherlock lay alone.

It is always unfortunate to be able to recognise a hospital room, but Sherlock's memory was as clear as fresh water, and the circumstances of his last visit were, at best, memorable.

Sherlock's pale, unfastidious eyes roamed the room. A chair, plastic and generic, was positioned to the left of his bed.

Tilted towards me, someone who favours their right hand… that eliminates John. Scuff marks on the floor from where the chair was dragged. Their stride indicates someone with size 9 shoe; the marks on the bedside cabinet left by the placement of a phone.

Mycroft. Of course.

Sherlock rose deftly and leaned upwards, keening at the pain sparking across his ribs like a raging fire. With swift hands, he snatched the card and the iPhone that lay corresponding to it.

Try not to have this one burnt up in an exploding building. Even I have my limits.

-M

The phone was an almost exact replica of his old one, to his relief. The black case enclosing it was thick black leather – almost identical to the skin of his riding crop. He ran his thumb over the material thoughtfully, settling back against the thick, uneven pillows, before opening his phone with well practiced movements and in a blur of thumbs sent a text to his brother. The reply came quickly enough; his brother was obviously not caught up in a food related incident.

[Mr Watson is three doors down from you to your right. He is stable, and I've been informed he is recovering well. A piece of shrapnel abraded his leg, but the wound is not deep, nor infected. He is also suffering from small areas of second degree burns across the aforementioned leg as well as smoke poisoning. It would seem that as you called the crowd to attention, Mr Watson had you positioned so as you were protected by a partitioning wall; therefore most of the damage was absorbed by him. Is that enough detail for you? M.]

Sherlock tapped a finger to his mouth in thought, ingesting this information, and stoically ignoring the flaring pain across his heart at every mention of John's suffering. Mycroft, in the giving of John's position, had obviously premeditated Sherlock's motives.

John was so continuously surprising; it was beyond intriguing. It made a frisson of anticipation run down his spine as he anticipated their next meeting. John was so very ordinary; and yet he was so extraordinary in Sherlock's eyes. He found he continuously wanted to know more about this funny, becoming man. Not just about his behaviour; but his looks. Sherlock wanted to peal away his layers one by one and relish each new area of exposed, tanned flesh- and now he was getting flustered…

And of course it was not enough detail; Sherlock preferred visual facts over the literary kind. The statement of a crying woman mourning the death of her husband (whom she may have brutally murdered), over a written statement, if you will.

There was only one thing for it; his rebellious mind concluded. To visit John.

Forgoing the button for assistance, he threw the haggard blankets from his legs and swung them over the side of his bed, hissing as the icy floor made contact with the soles of his feet. Without his previous attachment to the IV, he was more or less free to move; slowly – lest the revealing hospital gown he wore flashed more than he was willing to show. Sneakily, he pulled the door open, and entered the corridor; his ribs protesting furiously.

The corridor was empty; those on the night shift busied away in private wards, or conversing quietly over steaming cups of watery coffee. Sherlock turned to his right, and much to his delight – there stood the door to John's room. Taking a deep breath for courage, he slid inside.

John sat upright in bed, one leg bent at the knee – a large book propped up against it. His face, cheeks flushed red from first degree burns, was puckered slightly as his concentration in the book was all absorbing. Sherlock followed the strong length of his arms, down to the raised area of his leg under the blanket; which he was sure to be smothered in cling-film and bandages. The side of his face was highlighted by the soft yellow light of the lamp on the bedside table; the rest of the room was in a blanket of smooth darkness.

At the sound of the door shutting, John's eyes flickered upwards in surprise, then widened in shock. The side of his face rose in an endearing half-smile.

"I suppose it's a bit of a stretch to ask if you bought me coffee?"

Sherlock unconsciously mirrored the half-smile, and took a step into the light, his voice equally rough from disuse and smoke inhalation. "Coffee? At three a.m.? Really, John, do try and be sensible."

Chuckling, John shut his book and leant tentatively to rest it on the cabinet. Sherlock's eyes skimmed the cover; George Orwell's 1984. Hm.

"You look well." John stated, his medical eye taking in Sherlock's reddened face and nose.

"You don't." Sherlock replied, taking seat next to John on the hard plastic of the hospital chair.

John struggled to suppress the grin threatening to break out across his face. "And here I was thinking I looked like Brad Pitt; thanks for pointing that out."

"Yes, well; we can't expect you to have stayed completely sane, now can we?" Sherlock deadpanned, the corner of his mouths twitching. "Brad Pitt? Honestly?"

"Hey, I'll have you know I've had plenty of people tell me-"

"No, no-" Sherlock waved a hand out in front of him, effectively shushing John. "I meant to say how you look nothing like him, because you look better than him. I had no intent of insulting you."

The two of them sat in silence for a second; John's heart beating furiously in his chest.

"Even with the burns?" He murmured, wanting to return to the previous light heartedness of their conversation. The room seemed to have shrunk slightly.

"Especially with the burns." Sherlock breathed.

His hand, distractedly, found the edge of John's blanket to tug it between his fingers, giving his eyes something to look at other than the piercing blue of John's. His hand was caught by John's smaller one, and their fingers twined together effortlessly. Both pairs of eyes were on their interlaced fingers; hearts firmly in their throats. John's tawny, slightly freckled digits were a shocking contrast to the ivory of Sherlock's; but they fit. Their hands sat comfortably together against the bed as if they were made for each other.

"Mycroft said you positioned me so I was protected," Sherlock spoke under his breath, suddenly unwilling to break the comfortable quietness they had fallen into. "Why did you do that?"

It was true that Sherlock had already deduced John's answer, but he wanted to hear John say it – wanted to watch those thin pink lips form the words.

"I- I suppose it was just instinct." John had adopted Sherlock's hushed tone. "I knew I had to protect you; that's all that was running through my mind from the moment you starting shouting about that damned bomb. I knew from military training if I could get you behind a large plane of material, that would absorb most of the blast and-"

"-and yet you did nothing to protect yourself…" Sherlock finished, suddenly perplexed. The answer he had been expecting was nowhere near this complex, and now his mind was reeling. John had surprised him again.

Suddenly, John laughed. Hoarsely and rough, but he laughed. "Sherlock, I'm a doctor and a soldier; do you really expect me to be thinking about myself in a life threatening situation?"

Sherlock pulled at his lip with his upper teeth, worrying it gently. John's laughter faded, catching the solemn look on Sherlock's face, and gave a squeeze of his hand.

"Hey, what's up?"

"I…" Sherlock blew out a breath. "I don't quite know. I feel happy and sad and elated all at the same time, but it's not logical. Part of me wants to feel bad for how I was put before your own safety, but another part of me… It's… ugh!"

He threw his hand – the one John wasn't clutching - in the air angrily; not used to being unable to form the correct words.

"No, go on-" John persisted, his thumb rubbing soothing circles across Sherlock's metacarpals. "Another part of you…?"

"Another part of me is content with the fact you willingly-" He sucked in air sharply, and his full lips pursed outwards, brain assessing with wrapt attention these thoughts and feeling and coming up negative. "You know what I mean. I can't- I can't process this all, it's too much."

John's tongue darted out to wet his lips, and he nodded, just slightly. Although he had no clue what it was that was particularly worrying about what Sherlock had told him – he understood him to be a very detached man, and was half sure that Sherlock was simply overwhelmed with feelings he had simply suppressed for a very long time.

After a moments thought; he shuffled stiffly along the bed, inching himself away from Sherlock until a sliver of bed appeared. Sherlock, sensing abandonment, looked up earnestly and was met with John's kind gaze. He looked down at the space next to him suggestively.

"Your brother… he's pretty important isn't he?"

Sherlock scoffed. "He'll happily inform you he occupies a minor position in the British Government, which is completely idiotic seeming as he practically runs its entirety."

A nod. "So…" John wet his lips again. "He'll probably be able to stop our nurses getting angry if you stay the night, right?"

Sherlock's smile returned to his face, much to John's glee. Sherlock looked so lovely when he smiled; John made a small note to make him do as such as often as possible.

Hauling himself up from the uncomfortable plastic, he sat, cautiously on the edge of the bed. It dipped under his weight. Turning, and lifting his legs so they aligned with John's, he shifted closer, his cold exposed skin twitching as it came into contact with the smooth warmness of John's. John lifted his arm and pulled Sherlock closer, until the taller man lay with his head tucked under John's chin, an arm draped across his chest. They both shifted, trying to find positions that left them in as little pain as possible, then John tugged the cover over them both, and they fell still.

For a moment, they stayed like that – Sherlock experiencing the strong, safe sensation of being in another man's arms for the first time; John nuzzling softly into the mass of black curls that tickled his nose.

"John…" Came a hesitant voice, "I suppose I should thank you for saving my life. Again. I must confess I'm quite glad you did so."

Sherlock was jostled as John shook with silent laughter.

"Oh God. You're not planning on keeping me around as some sort of body guard are you?"

"Mm, depends on how much you charge."

"Ooh, now let me see." Sherlock felt the change in John's heart beat. "How does a kiss sound?"

Slinking his neck upwards, Sherlock kissed John lightly on the lips. He hovered there for a second, before dropping back down; the protesting of his ribs too much for him, but the warm sensation of John's lips never left him.

"I may need-" John's reply was broken by a loud yawn. "-daily instalments. Of kisses, that is."

Sherlock settled against John's pleasant frame, glowing with happiness.

"If you insist." A pause. "Good night, John."

Another yawn. "'Night, Sherlock."

The two of them curled around each other until as much skin as possible was touching. John continued to press small, lazy kisses into Sherlock's curls until they both drifted off; content in each other's arms.

A/N: Does this make up for the cliff hanger? Or do you want date scene smut as well? Review, prompt, give me cookies, whatever. I love you all.

A/N #2: It's currently really late – so please excuse any grammar/ spelling/ dialogue mistakes. I'll probably read this in the morning extremely red faced. Oh well. Hope you enjoy it anyway, aha.