When John opened his eyes once more, it was in the van- he lay on the floor in between the middle and back rows of seats, jittering along as the vehicle hurtled down the autoroute.
"He's up."
someone said, from far away. It seemed a voice from a dream.
"Well, put him out, then. This is going to hurt like a mother."
White hot pain, searing from his thigh.
He closed, his eyes, squeezed them shut.
He drifted in and out of unpleasant sleep, kept under by some terrible feeling. Reds and greys filled his visions- gunshots and dust.
But slowly, the pain was pushed out by something more mellow, comfortable. Even the gunshots were kept from him. Even the dust.
The next time he woke up, it was in a hospital bed.
It was day time- the light entered through the window to his right, showing a bright blue day. It was freezing in the room, which must mean heat on the outside.
He was not alone.
Sherlock Holmes was at his bedside, sitting uncomfortably on a plastic chair. His hands clasped around the arms of the chair, and his face was pulled into something taut, like a grimace.
He was watching John, but said nothing.
John tried, instead.
"Good Morning."
His voice was hoarse with sleep and disuse- just those three syllables sent a wave of exhaustion over him.
Sherlock made no motion to reply.
He was thinner than before- if that was possible. Thinner, and paler, and a little more wise, maybe. Sadder. Angry? John wasn't sure. This wasn't how Sherlock usually acted when he was angry, but this was a much different anger.
"Sherlock..."
He took a breath. Both to think, and to conserve energy.
Sherlock inhaled, sharply.
"Everyone in your acquaintance survived the encounter. Angela and Craig left to contact the police shortly after Mary left them to take down Moran. The woman you know as Laurence is alive, injured, and will be most likely serving quite a bit of jail time."
"That's not what I was going to ask."
"Really? Well. It might interest you to know that Moriarty has been dead for at least two years, that Moran tried to kill me and then was hired by my brother, who was using you and your compatriots to infiltrate Moriarty's crime ring, to-"
"Replace the authorities with his own men. I know. I was there. But what I mean to say is-"
"How?"
"Sorry?"
"Oh, don't be thick. How did you do it? How did you fake your own death?"
"Oh. Mycroft. I wasn't even told what was going to happen."
"You just found yourself on top of a roof and-"
"And then at your house for a couple months. I should have known you had a damn manor, by the way."
Sherlock said nothing, for a long time. John took this opportunity to speak.
"I would have told you. I tried, so many times. But I was being watched either way, and-"
"And if you would have told me you were alive, there was nothing on this earth that would have stopped me from finding you. And that would have jeopardised the entire operation. I understand."
He did not make eye contact.
"I'm sorry. Sherlock, I am."
Sherlock waved him off.
"It makes perfect sense- I would have done the same. I- I was going to do the same. I'd thought that Moriarty had finished with me, and I would have to be the one to jump. I... Miscalculated. Gravely, I'd thought."
Something in Sherlock's face tightened at the thought- John decided not to bring it up. They sat in near silence for minutes, listening to the humming of the machines John was still connected to.
Then, Sherlock laughed:
"And then, you just- you show up from the grave three years later after I've just killed Moran, bleeding to death. You almost died, did you know that? Fifteen minutes after I'd learned that you were alive and you'd almost died."
"How selfish of me."
Sherlock smiled- there were wrinkles near his eyes and mouth where before there had been none.
"Yes. How very selfish of you."
"Well, I hope I can make it up to you by being absolutely not dead for many years to come. What's the plan after this? Baker Street?"
Sherlock shrugged.
"You and your team left quite a mess, working for Mycroft. There's some cleaning up to do, I think."
John laughed.
"You and I can't take down an entire crime ring on our own, Sherlock."
"Who says we can't? Besides, we won't be alone. You have your... Your friends. Mary. Angela. Mary was the one who killed Moriarty, wasn't she? She was a double agent, working both for him, and Mycroft, and neither-"
"Nope."
"No? So you do know. Was it Tony? That... oafish fellow?"
"Nope."
"It can't have been that mousy fellow. Could it have?"
"Not at all, Sherlock..."