His eyes opened to a room. It was quiet.

When he swallowed it felt like an axe had been imbedded at one time.

He could feel the cool line of an intravenous tube, the slight weight of the peripheral canulae; size 18. PICC line as well... so he'd been out for awhile. He'd have to ask what use it had been intended for.

His throat then most likely raw from quick insertion or prolonged usage of ventilator.

It was dark and very cool.

He could smell old tea, forgotten patisserie... lunette au abricot, notes of bergamot and rosin... vetiver... citron... cologne. John's cologne.

John had been here.

Breathing. Slow and restive. Beside him.

God, but he ached and wanted to touch... confirm. He was so weak.

"J-Je- an..." He tried to swallow down the pain, but the tears sprung immediately as did the gasp.

"Sherlock?" Came the soft answer. "Shh... I'm here. It's night time. You've been badly injured. I'll get you ice chips... here."

A plastic spoon was placed at his lips and he took the succor with praises he could not yet articulate.

"We've been here a few weeks. You've been recovering from a trauma. You are four days out from an induced coma."

Another serving of ice was at his lips.

"You've been awake off and on for the last two and a half, but not spoken as yet."

Warm, callused left hand over his right. Indicative of firearm use, mostly pistol. Using his military physician summary intonation to keep me appraised as I have forgotten or not heard this information as yet.

"Je-an, Es-tu avec moi?" He had to swallow carefully and speak slowly. "Est-ce vrai? Actuel?"

"Ok, seems like you are understanding English fine, but speaking in French." John sighed, but it did not sound worried. "To answer your questions first. Yes, this is real and I am physically beside you." John paused. "Do you think you could respond in English?"

"Oui...Il devrait être possible que vous me comprenez?"

"I speak French, Sherlock. You've most likely deleted that fact, but for now let's take it as it alright?"

The door opened to the room, but no lights came on.

"Dr. Watson?" The female asked... nurse... possibly. "Is Mr. Holmes cognizant?" She came further into the room leaving the door open. "Hello, I'm Dr. Jones. Martha. Your brother brought me on to see to your care."

He coughed, his whole body ached from it. Oh... ""Je-an..."

"Sherlock, it's alright. Don't get agitated... it will hurt you even if you only feel the edges of it." John looked to Dr. Jones. "He's only started speaking French, but he understands everything we say."

"First language possibly? One he feels most comfortable with speaking. This does happen. We'll need a CT scan... a few other tests if he stays alert this time. I'll put the orders in. Would you like the lowlights on?"

"Yes. Thank you, Martha."

The doctor left the room, closing the door behind her. He looked back to John and grasped his hand so many words that wanted to spill from him it was almost dizzying. His mind raced, wanting to note everything, the changes in him, the exhaustion that was clear on John's face even though there was happiness as well... his mind raced ahead and backwards as it accessed a particular memory...

"Bourdon?" His eyes met John's as threads of memory came to him. "Bumble?"

"Hamish?" John's eyes glistened in the low light as he heaved a deep calming breath. "My son?"

"Notre fils, Jean... John." He looked into John's eyes and watched intently. "Yes?"

"Oh, God. Yes, Sherlock... our son." John broke then and cried. "God, I've missed you so... so much. I know there is so much for you to recover... but we will take it slow alright? Fast is not always the best in these circumstances."

John kissed his hand and smiled weakly. He was just content to be present finally, although some of what he remembered would have to be re-organised. The pull of what was and what was dream still blurred together.

"It's Christmas Eve. You'll not be able to go home yet, but we'll have you there soon. I'll see if Mycroft can get support staff to the house and maybe get you home a little early only if it's allowed. Want some more ice?"

He nodded as speaking, while wonderful to do, was exhausting. Instead he made motion with his right hand as if he were writing. John nodded and handed him a biro and his moleskin. Sherlock saw that John had been taking notes the entire time. He would have to go through them at a later date if John allowed.

Missed you, but haven't.

We were in

une petite masion... cottage.

Want to document everything.

Vous avez aimé le jardin, surtout faire de la confiture de framboise.

It was de tous côtés!

"Me? Raspberry jam... I was making raspberry jam?" John laughed.

Et la lavande and sage!

I want to

I had sketched while I was away esperant for us.

"One thing at a time." John fed him ice chips. "Rest now. Not too busy yet, shall I read to you awhile?"

It was the second day, on Boxing Day, that the staff moved to have Sherlock up and walking. He'd need to have full assistance to begin with, but with a walker he shouldn't have had issue. If it weren't for the fast moving nurse and therapist, he would have fallen. That is when the discussions began. Simple possibilities that were trivial really. Then they weren't. More tests were done.

They began the discussion of possible ischemic stroke or nerve damage somewhere in the lower lumbar region from initial trauma. If he'd need to learn how to walk again, if he'd spontaneously become ambulatory then rebuild with assistance, or if he'd lost the ability for the time being. There was always a note of positive that rang true to both John and he, so they dug in and researched. Took it academically. Some would say coping mechanism, but anyone that knew the couple knew better.

By the fourth day he was determined and up on his feet.

By the fifth he was demanding to go home.

Mycroft had seen to there being a minimum on-call staff and necessary items waiting at the house that Dr. Jones had approved of, as well as a few comforting items as well. They both were realistic and knew their family would be in residence for at least another week. John had explained that Mycroft had taken over the large study and turned it into his home-away-from-office, and had been taking everything in stride from there, so he would be staying with them for the time being.

"It's New Year's Eve tonight." John kissed him sweetly. "New beginnings and all that."

"I'm just glad to be going, well, home for now, I suppose." Sherlock smiled up at him. "To see Hamish."

"Don't forget Greg and Molly are still with us for the next couple of days!" John chastised.

John, with the help of a nurse got Sherlock settled into the back of the sedan that had been waiting for them.

"Yes, yes." He kissed John after they were on their way. "But all I need is us."

"You are an idiot." John laughed.