"Someone's hand is touching my wrist," Sherlock thinks. "Who is it? I can't open my eyes, so I will deduce. The grip is firm, but not painful. The fingers soft but not too soft. I know who it is, it's John…John Watson. I want to say something that will cut him to the quick, but I must be in a semi-consciousness state." I will let mind wander until I fade into nothingness.

"There is someone in my face. I can hear his heart beating, so I must be in his arms. The smell is a familiar one-it's John. I feel him lowering me to the floor, he tilts my head back, he puts his lips on mine. It's not a kiss. He's attempting to resuscitate me. I taste his breath. It's flavor is coffee, mint toothpaste, and milk-it's John. There's something I want to do. There is something I want to say. I can't. My mind and motor skills have been cut short. This is what abuse does. It cuts things short-kills them. I am fading again. Good-bye, John. You sound so scared. The thought of my death scares you. Poor John, for it is the thought of life that scares me. A life devoid of lust, love, consummation, a life full of loneliness, and boredom-my life. I see nothing, no bright light, no angels, no Redbeard-nothing."

"That noise, what is it? Jesus, it's deafening. I should know it. I do know it, don't I? Ah, yes it is a siren, an ambulance. Good show, John, your resuscitation attempts must have been successful. I'm cold. John, I'm so cold. But you can't hear me can you?"

"I hear the panic in your voice, John as you order the medical personal to put another blanket on me. Dearest John, maybe you can hear me."

"I must have lost my way again, for I am being wheeled into the emergency room. Shouts, panic, life or death? John is fighting hard to save me. He won't give up. Though Mycroft has not said a word, I know he is there for I can smell his retched tobacco. It clings to his clothes like a leach. The room must be full of people, highly skilled personal trying to save me. Though it is crowded I know exactly where John stands- a 45 degree angle to my right. I must try for him. My body shudders. Woops, I have definitely overdosed. John, I will try for you I will. With supreme effort that would have killed a man of lesser intellect, I open my eyes. There you are, John. I can see you now. Your face is pale; your eyes are dark with anger and grief. If I survive this you are going to give me hell. I want to surprise you. I want to show off my mental prowess for you, but the method escapes me. Your hand is next to mine. The blonde hairs are slick and smooth as they lay flat on the skin of your arm.

I shake and grimace, but I still manage to hook my index finger around yours. My fingers are limber from my violin practice. Sweat runs down my face as I pull your hand towards my face. As far as I am concerned, we are the only two in the room. Closer, closer, I take your finger and place it in my mouth. I can taste the liniment you put on your nail beds to keep from biting them. I can taste the antibacterial soap you washed with. I taste something else, something the soap missed. It stinks. It's sour. It's vomit. Sorry John I must have thrown up on you.

You are looking at me now, staring. John your thoughts elude me. I run my tongue around the tip of your finger. Am I teasing you? If I were a man of passion, instead of a man of letters my stomach would churn as my useless appendage stood at attention. My heart drops like a stone in my chest. You think I've lost my senses. I run my tongue along your nail beds, treasuring each hang nail. If this is my last contact with you I must make it count. I must make it last. A tear runs down my face, willing you to go Doctor Kevorkian on my ass. The inside of your finger traces the ridges on the roof of my mouth. I watch your face. Your bottom lip trembles. Your eyes dilate, then flutter, then they roll back in your head as you faint. John? I hear you mumbling as a nurse helps you up.

Why did you faint? If I knew the human heart as well as I know the human mind I would know. Not knowing is almost as hard as being bored. I'm tired. The mysteries of John Watson's heart will have to be deduced at another time."