When Sherlock reached the hospital room once again he found it bustling with doctors and nurses, all hovering around the bed. Dr. Swales saw him and met him at the door.

"Mr. Holmes, was it? He woke up just a few minutes ago, and we couldn't get a bit of sense out of him at first. Probably better you weren't here."

Sherlock stiffened slightly - he would have much preferred to have been the first face John saw when he'd come to, even if he didn't remember it later.

"We've done preliminary tests, and he's definitely going to survive. He's made it through, Sherlock."

Tension flowed out of the detective, and he let go of a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. Then he stopped, eyeing her suspiciously. "There's something you're not telling me."

To her credit, the doctor didn't try to deny it. "I'll let him tell you himself." She stepped aside to admit him to the room.

John saw him almost instantly, despite the crowd. His smile was better than any drug. "Sherlock."

"John."

The patient began to say something more, but then turned to one of the nurses. "Could you just… leave us alone for a bit?"

"We do still need to go over the test results-"

"I know. Just-" John forced a smile. "Later, okay?"

The nurses traded glances, then nodded, collecting their clipboards and filing out. Slowly, almost hesitantly, Sherlock eased himself into the same plastic chair at his best friend's side. "You're awake."

"I know." John started to laugh, but stopped almost immediately - it clearly hurt. "Surprising, isn't it?"

"Don't say that." Though he didn't know it, the detective looked almost exactly as John had when his rib pained him. "I wouldn't let you go."

John shifted in the bed, trying to get more comfortable. Instantly Sherlock was there, adjusting the pillows to support him. "Thanks."

"Only returning the favor. Instant support," he added at John's puzzled glance. John looked down, smiling into his lap.

"Course." They sat in silence for a moment, Sherlock drinking in the sight of John, his John Watson, alive and well. "I suppose they told you everything. Medical, I mean."

"No, actually."

John blinked in surprise. "No?"

Now it was Sherlock's turn to look away. "No. I, uh, wouldn't let them," he admitted.

"What, not anything?" Sherlock shook his head. "God, Sherlock, why not?"

"Well, it's like you said." Shifting uncomfortably, he tried to explain. "Back when we were - Back before all of this," he said awkwardly, "you talked about magic. How when you learn everything about something you lose the magic and you can't rely on it."

"You said I had a romantic's heart," John reflected, smiling slightly. Then he realized. "That's why? You were relying on magic?"

Sherlock couldn't quite meet his gaze. "They said to hope for a miracle."

"One more miracle." Closing his eyes, John forced his thoughts back to the worst days of his life, standing in front of the grave of the best man he'd ever met.

"And I got it," Sherlock said, finally looking at him. "You're here."

"Well…" John hesitated, grimacing. "Not quite."

"What do you mean?" This must be what Dr. Swales had alluded to. Whatever it was, it was bad - or, at least, John thought it was. Sherlock could read it clearly on his face.

"Well… See, Sherlock, the bullet hit my ribs, and pushed them around," John said carefully. "Spinal damage is… messy, and-"

"What is it, John?" Sherlock's voice was soft and warm.

"It's this." With a tug, John pulled the blankets away from his legs, clad in hospital pajamas. Sherlock stared uncomprehendingly, ignoring the voice in the back of his mind. "They're paralyzed, Sherlock," he said, voice thick and breaking. "Waist down. I can't move them."

And with that, the army doctor finally broke. His shoulders shook, and even though he was trying not to move, Sherlock could see he was sobbing. For a moment, the detective was at a loss - people called him a machine, but John had always been strong, had never really needed his support. Now he did, and Sherlock wasn't sure what to do.

Carefully, working his way around the tubes and machines, Sherlock crawled into the large hospital bed and wrapped his arms around his friend.

"John, they told me you were dying," he murmured, voice hardly louder than a whisper. John quieted, listening closely with an occasional hiccoughing sob. "That your chances were slim to none and I should say goodbye. But I couldn't."

He pulled back slightly, resting one long hand on the side of John's face. John stiffened, then relaxed, leaning into him.

"I let you believe I was dead for two years," Sherlock said levelly, holding nothing back. "Somehow you survived and are still incredible and wonderful." His breath caught in his throat at the truth of it. "But I'm not that strong."

"Sherlock-" John reached for him, cautiously pushing his wet hair out of his eyes, but Sherlock wasn't finished.

"I believed you were going to die for two minutes, and they were the worst two minutes of my life."

"Two minutes?" John chuckled weakly, his eyes never leaving Sherlock's incredible green-blue ones, wishing he would look back at him. "Sherlock, I was unconscious for at least a few hours, and that's after the surgery." He touched his side gingerly with one hand, the other still on Sherlock's face. "Where d'you get two minutes?"

Sherlock met his eyes briefly, then looked away, to John's disappointment. "Two minutes was as long as I believed it."

"Sherlock, I don't-"

"Dead, John." Sherlock shook his head, curls tumbling. "The world without John Watson? Impossible. You're the thing that keeps me alive."

"Good thing I'm still around then, yeah?" John smiled, eyes scouring Sherlock's face. "You'll have to come around now and then."

"What?" Sherlock pulled back, brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"

John looked at him for a moment, smile still lingering, not sure if he was serious. "Well, I can't run around London solving crimes like this, can I?" he said at last, patting his immobile legs. "What're you going to do, haul me around in a wheelchair?"

"If I have to," Sherlock said seriously.

With an almost scornful laugh, John shook his head. "Right. You can't be Sherlock Holmes like that. No running around, no flapping coat-"

"I can't be Sherlock Holmes without John Watson. Impossible."

John's hands were shaking - not the tremor he'd once had, but well and truly trembling. He was somewhat relieved to see Sherlock's were too.

"John, you were going to die, but now you're alive. Better to have lost part of you than all of you." His voice broke, just the smallest bit. "I'd take any part of you."

"I suppose you want my brain the most?" John suggested, half-joking. "That's the important bit, isn't it? Lucky that made it through alright-"

He broke off as Sherlock finally, finally looked at him, his expression more open, more vulnerable, more warm than John had ever seen it.

"Given the choice, John, I'd much rather have your heart."

"God."

John shook his head, glancing down, and in that moment, Sherlock felt ever doubt and fear he'd ever had rise up together, threatening to choke him. He'd gone too far, read things wrong. Idiot - who are you to try to understand human nature? Of course he doesn't- Of course not. Caring is not an advantage. It just destroys you.

"God, Sherlock." John looked up at him, and, despite everything, Sherlock's heart lept into his throat. "It's always been yours."

Sherlock froze, staring at the man he loved. "What?"

"All those things you said, when I was- when you thought I was dying…" John smiled, taking the detective's hand in his own. "I heard you."

"I love you, John." The words were said simply, but the emotion in Sherlock's stunning eyes was anything but.

"Oh, careful, Sherlock," John cautioned, grinning slightly, his heart beating fast. "Big words to throw around."

"I know." He let out a ragged breath. "God, John, I know."

"Good. Because I love you too."

And then, at long last, John kissed him.

It wasn't, Sherlock would later reflect, the magical experience that songs and movies built it up to be. No fireworks, no sparks, but he felt his mind palace, formerly so full of worry, panic, and hope, empty out completely, to be filled with subtle waves of contentment. Of rightness. Never in his life had anything felt better. Dimly, he recognized that his past experiment had been a complete failure - kissing John was nothing compared to being kissed by John.

John winced, pulling away briefly at a pain in his ribs, but only momentarily. He ignored it. With so much else coursing through his mind, pain had no place. Shock, love, and thrill, yes, but mostly the simple thought: Finally.

Suddenly they heard a beeping. They pulled apart with a start, staring around for the sound of the noise. John cursed quietly - it was the heart monitor. His heart rate had gotten higher than was healthy for a patient recovering from surgery.

Reluctantly Sherlock detangled himself from John, careful not to disturb any of the wires, and managed to be sitting in the plastic chair by the time a nurse appeared.

"What's going on in here?" she demanded, silencing the monitor and turning an accusing eye on the two men. "Well over 100 beats per minute, and you can't have left your bed."

John winced. "Sherlock was just, er…" He was blushing slightly, though he fought to keep it down.

"Out," she told Sherlock firmly. "We've test results to go over, and if his heart rate gets too high he'll break his stitches. Out." She pointed to the door, then softened as Sherlock got to his feet with a last look back at John. "You can tell him goodbye, at least," she told him, relenting.

Sherlock nodded, smiling sweetly at John. "I'll see you soon," he promised. "And-" Words hung in the air, but somehow, none of them really needed to be said. "And thank you."

"My pleasure," John replied politely, but his eyes spoke volumes. "Come back soon."

Visiting hours ended at 8:00pm, and still Sherlock didn't come. John was restless, unable to sleep flat on his back, but incapable of moving himself. He was on the point of pouring in the morphine just to get away when the door creaked open.

"Sherlock," John whispered, and was not disappointed. "How the hell did you get in here, they closed hours ago!"

"I never left," Sherlock admitted softly. "I hid in a closet."

"Of course you did," John said, amused. "And no one found you?"

"Obviously not." Sherlock grinned, shrugging off his trench coat and laying it over the chair. "People in a hurry rarely look closely."

As quietly as possible, Sherlock began to climb back into the bed, resuming his earlier position. John started to protest, but quickly thought better of it. Sherlock caught it, however, and held back.

"What's the matter? I can go if you'd rather-"

"No, don't. It's just…" He glanced down at his immobile legs. "I'm not sure I'll be such a good companion."

"Nonsense. Are you comfortable?"

"Not exactly," John admitted. Gently, Sherlock helped him shift them until he was lying on his side. "I'm not going to stay like this, you know," John pointed out.

"That's why I'm here." Moving aside the tubes and wires, Sherlock got back onto the bed, fitting himself in behind John, supporting him. One arm gently rested on his shoulder. "Goodnight, John."

John smiled, certain that somehow, now he'd sleep just fine. "Goodnight, Sherlock."

A.N: I wish I could say I was sorry. Oops. Also, I recognize that bi would probably be a better label for John, but I've got a theme going here. Work with me.

One request: if you do choose to leave a review (and I truly hope you do - I revel in your pain), please do not give away what happened here! Let anyone reading the reviews keep the surprise, okay? Thank you all so much.

-Forever the Optimist