A/N: Dear fellow Sherlockians, fiction readers and writers. Much love to you all. Hope wherever you are in the world you are doing okay in this current global crisis! I'm still working as i have to despite my country (UK) being in lockdown, so can't have loads of extra time to write fiction. However i'm determined to get some done.

Enjoy.

Chapter 6

The ICU doctor stood in the corner of the room with his arms folded across his chest. He was not best pleased with his patient's current condition, but with his hands tied he did as he was told, standing by in the corner of the darkened room.

All lights had been either turned off or dimmed, so much so that the figures in the room could barely see one another faces. The three men sad quietly around the prone figure in the hospital bed.

"Are you sure this is going to work?" the detective inspector spoke in hushed tones.

"It's the best attempt we have at waking my brother as calmly as possible." Mycroft gently pulled the afghan blanket up the bed almost reaching his brothers chin. "surrounding him with familiar people and things is the best way to ensure he remains calm."

"Ready?" John asked as he fiddled with the syringe driver. He had already turned the infusion down as low as he dare but now was time to turn it off once again. He had turned every alarm system off the monitors to avoid any excess noise.

He looked to the doctor in the corner. "Not a sound okay, and please don't aid us unless I ask you." John had his soldier tone on, and the consultant seemed to almost straighten up to his command and bowed his head in reply.

The doctor sat quietly next to his best friend. "Please Sherlock, try to be calm this time." He wasn't sure if he was wishing to himself or trying to speak to his friends subconscious.

To a passer by anyone would have thought the room was full of mourning relatives at the deathbed of a loved one. Lestrade had done well, he had retrieved exactly what John needed. Sherlocks favourite skull was proudly placed on the bedside table as to be in view of him as he woke. Mrs Hudson's afghan throw was pulled up onto him and the detective's friends had draped him in his much loved dressing gown. His pillow had been changed for his own linen and a collection of case files and books had been added to the decoration amongst other things. The lights were dim, and the door to the ICU corridor and busy nurse's station was closed to reduce any unwanted noise.

All they could do now, was wait.

However, what the three men thought was going be a long wait turned out to be less than half an hour. John suspected this was down to the detectives earlier outburst clearing much of the drugs from his system from the adrenalin rush.

The first signs of awaking were Sherlocks hands began to tremor. John chose to ignore this for now and concentrated on the monitors and readings. The detective was oxygenating well and he tentatively turned the respirator down and finally off after a good 15 minutes of constant monitoring. He was happy his friend was breathing ok for himself now, albeit a little laboured but no more than to be expected right now.

"Right, all you need to do is wake up and I can get that tube out. John whispered and very gently leant over his friend, carefully peeling an eyelid back.

Sherlocks unbandaged hand shot up, clasping onto Johns in an iron grasp. His eyes shot open suddenly.

"Easy." The doctors heart fluttered wildly in his chest in momentary panic, but he swallowed it back. No point in losing it now, not what his best friend needed.

"John?" Lestrade stood in worry, the doctor flagged him back down to his seat.

"Sherlock." John stared deeply into his friend's eyes, trying hard to work out his level of consciousness. "You're ok, you've been unwell but you're waking up now. You can't speak yet alright, but if you understand me blink twice for me?"

"Doctor Watson you need to extubate him." The ICU doctor spoke.

"Not yet."

John looked to the monitors, still oxygenating well, pulse up slightly but okay, blood pressures holding.

"Sherlock you've got to wake up. We've got some case files to run past you. Lestrade's stumped." The blogger smirked in a playfully. "You know him, can't find his police car let alone the suspect for a case."

Lestrade held his tongue at a retort.

Nothing.

The detectives face did not change, his eyes stayed staring into the doctors and he didn't blink.

John very gently prized his best friends hand from his own, lowering it down to the bed. He bit his lip.

"Mycroft?" he turned back to the bureaucrat.

The man tilted his head in question.

"I need to know how awake he is?" John motioned to the prone detective and Mycroft joined him momentarily.

"Brother dear." He asked. "Sherlock, Mummy isn't very happy with you being like this. It might be wise you give us an indication you can hear us."

Still nothing.

Mycroft thinned his lips and sat back down. "Your guess is a good as mine John." He sighed loudly.

The bloggers nerves were wavering, he slowly sat back down too, not taking his eyes off his friend. On one hand if he extubated early it would reduce the risk of the man panicking, but take out too early and he would be less able to assist with his friends breathing should be struggle again. A catch 22 scenario.

"We wait." John sat awkwardly on the edge of his seat, he rested two fingers on his friends wrist, keeping the steady thrum of blood flow feeling beneath them, grounding him to the fact his friend was actually alive.

The silence ensued for a further 15 minutes. Until Johns frayed anxiety could take it no more. The thought of his friend fully conscious and still tubed made his own throat swell in response. Very gently he massaged around the detective's throat in an attempt at eliciting a reflex. When finally, Sherlock began to cough and gag.

"It's alright." The blogger didn't hear his own voice shake slightly as he hastily undid the ties and swiftly but gently removed the breathing tube in one motion.

After a couple of wet hacking coughs, Sherlocks wheezing breath was all that could be heard, and John rapidly fixed a oxygen mask over his friends mouth and nose just as the detectives eyes slid closed again.

The doctor only frowned in concern. He sat back into his seat a little too heavily.

"I was expecting a bit more of a reaction than that." He ran a hand over his face in exasperation and concern. "Considering how frantic he was last time?"

"Perhaps your room redecoration has helped more than you realise it Doctor Watson." Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

"Perhaps." I bloody hope so, thought John, his worry making his head pound all that bit more. Rubbing his temples he attempted to ease their pain, but it wasn't working.

"Well I need to attend a couple of meetings." The older Holmes stood, taking a look at his brother again. "You will keep me informed won't you?"

The blogger nodded, but said no more as the man left. The consultant doctor let soon after too, happy that the situation was under control.

Once alone Lestrade turned to John near straight away. "Don't you think you should go home for a sleep and a shower?" he asked kindly.

"You don't waste time do you?" John replied, running a hand through his unruly hair. He admitted his face was course with unshaven stubble and he was exhausted. A shower would have been lovely, a cup of tea with Mrs Hudson and a nap on the sofa a 221B sounded like bliss.

"No." was all he said, finally.

"Come on mate?" the inspector pleaded. "You can't keep this up, you're going to need all your strength to look after him. Because lets face it, he won't allow himself to stay in here a moment longer once he's up and talking."

"I can't leave him yet Greg, I don't even know if he's fully awake yet. I'm not sure he even knows who he is yet, let alone us, or what's happening. Another outburst like earlier and I don't know how he'll recover. If he'll recover."

"Don't be so morbid John, he's made it this far hasn't he" the inspector smiled sadly. "They say the poison should be almost out his system by now right?"

"If he wakes I need to be here to help him, if he is lucid he's going to need a familiar face, no strangers looking after him. You must understand that by now."

"I do." Greg bowed his head.

"Good." John ended the discussion, turning once again to look at the screens.

"Listen mate, I'll be back in half an hour." The inspector stood quickly. He squeezed the doctor's shoulder and left before John had a chance to even ask him where he was heading.

He never got a chance after either, because by the time Lestrade had returned, his hands full of a large takeaway pizza, John was fast asleep. The bloggers chin was resting peacefully on his chest and he was out for the count. Sherlock seemed to be the same still, also seemingly asleep. Lestrade looked at the monitors, although he knew not what he was looking at they seemed happy, no flashing or silent alarms and all numbers looked to be in pleasant colours. The inspector left the pizza on the chair beside the doctor. He would return later. Right now a man with the charge of attempted murder was sitting in a cell back at the station, and Lestrade was about read to give him more than a piece of his mind.

When John finally woke hours later, it was getting towards evening. His mind had little idea of the time, the dull lighting of the room made it feel like the middle of the night.

The doctor blinked several times and rubbed his tired eyes before spotting the pizza. His groaning stomach responding to its presence immediately.

"Sherl…" he stretched but stopped midway when he was met by piercing blue eyes staring at him.

"You're awake!" he exclaimed. "Shit, how long have you been awake?" he stood, checking the monitors and seeing no deterioration in vitals, except oxygenation levels which seemed to be reduced slightly. He noted Sherlocks labouring breaths, he was wheezing audibly even through the mask, which was surprisingly still on his face. By now the detective had usually ripped the thing from his mouth and in most cases it would be hissing to itself halfway across the room.

"You should have woken me." John quickly increased the oxygen flow.

"How are you feeling?" The doctor frowned, slowly raising the bed to aid his friends breathing. "Think you can cough for me, you probably need to get some of that fluid off your chest." John pulled out his stethoscope and gently pulled back the covers, taking a listen to the detective's lungs. His friend didn't reply or react, his eyes only tracked the doctor's movements.

"You okay?" a tight icy grip began to squeeze the doctor's stomach with worry. Why was he not talking. By now an acid reply was inevitable.

Silence.

"Do you remember what happened?" he asked again.

"Sherlock?"

John bent over him this time, his pulse rushing in his ears as the worry heightened even further, the ice turning his stomach to stone. He knew his friend hated being bent over but his current lack of retorts of even an exasperated sigh was more than a concern. "Sherlock, can you hear me? Can you talk? Your breathing isn't so bad you can't speak?"

Nothing. The detectives face didn't even change in any sort of emotional or cognitive response.

"Nope." He said, "you're scaring me now." He felt his friend's pulse on his neck. Steady. He even checked the detective's pupillary light reflex by shining a pen torch into his eyes, something his friend always hated when he had suffered head injuries, but John would insist upon. Normal response but not a word.

"Can you blink if you can hear me?" He asked again, "or raise a hand?"

Sherlock looked blankly back at him.

John collapsed back in his chair. "Shit!" He placed his head in his hands and inhaled a long deep breath in an attempt to calm himself.

"Just say something would you." He looked up. Sherlock was now gazing listlessly at the ceiling. "Anything?" He tried. "You can tell me to bugger off, just a word. Please Sherlock?" His voice now sounded somewhat desperate.

He stood angrily. "Stop playing fucking mind games you twat. Just fucking talk!"

John grabbed his friend's shoulders to shake him and finally a noise escaped the detectives throat. But it wasn't any comprehensible word, it was a deep and stifled cry of agony. A noise which pierced straight through Johns chest, pushing every last shred of air from it.

"Jesus Christ." The doctor let go. "Fuck. I'm so sorry!" he turned, and stifled his own sob with a hand over his mouth before rushing from the room, near colliding with Greg as he rounded on the corridor.

"John!" Lestrade was nearly bowled over by the shorter man as he rushed into him and then down the corridor. "John, what is it?"

The inspector peered around the door momentarily, the monitors on Sherlock still running with signs of life. And felt a small wash of relief before racing after the doctor.

By the time he caught up with him John was in the stairwell, he was leaning over the railing and peering through the long endless windows and out to the London streets below. His breath was heavy and slow but deliberately so.

"John?" the inspector asked again. "What is it?"

The blogger turned, running a hand over his face and revealing his reddened, both exhausted and emotional eyes.

"We have a problem."