Title: Strength In Numbers (Численное преимущество)

Author: kate1521

Translator: lasuen

Beta: Pinlie (20\30 pages), bitchinblackframedglasses (30\30 pages)

Genre: hurt/comfort, hard-core bromance

Characters: Sherlock, John

Disclaimer: We do not own anything.

Summary: In the aftermath of a firing incident Sherlock is gravely injured. John takes care of him and does his best to make their new life work.

T/N: Heartful thanks to my lovely author kate1521.

Reviews are greatly appreciated! Enjoy your reading!

P.S. There was an addiction of three missing pages to the plot so I'm re-putting it up again.

Strength In Numbers

"Lestrade, it should be fairly obvious even to you!" Sherlock leapt from his chair and ranted at the Inspector, "He's killed two people within the interval of four hours and fifteen minutes. The next victim followed twenty-one hours later in broad daylight, which was witnessed by at least two or possibly three bystanders. A shot was fired from a good distance; the forty-five calibre bullet gouged a hole straight through the victim's heart, and that amount of skill with handling a firearm with no silencer on it clearly indicates the truth! Now, does that look like a contract murder to you!?"

"Look, Sherlock," Lestrade cut in, "We've used up all of our resources trying to establish a connection between these victims, but right now—"

In a moment of fervent zeal, Sherlock suddenly lunged toward the Inspector, unapologetically getting up in his face.

"Were you even conscious today when we examined the third victim's flat?! Contract murders are practically always well-arranged. Michael Simmons worked night shifts in a pub, returning home only after six in the morning when it's less dark but still deserted. Wouldn't it have been more convenient to kill him then? If the killer had done that, the corpse would've been discovered much later!"

"But the shot still would have been heard—"

"Lestrade, using a silencer in a crowded venue in full view would in fact make very little sense, but if its application was generally effective, don't you reckon a professional would find a way to include it in his arsenal?"

"Errrr… Where are you going with this?"

"Where am I going with this?"

"Yes! You heard me!"

Sherlock took a step backwards, an expression of annoyed condescension clearly readable on his face.

"Honestly, Inspector!"

"Sherlock!"

"It's a maniac, a commonplace maniac, so you'd better use your resources on the search of the place where the shot was fired from rather than looking for a possibly-non-existent pattern in his murders. Most likely, we're talking about a flat in one of the nearby housing district, a rental. As soon as we pinpoint the whereabouts of the flat we'll be able to glean at least some data on the murderer, even if a landlord never got to meet his tenant in person. Even if the murderer was cautious – and going by the behaviour we observed cautiousness wasn't his forte – there will still be traces of him left in there. And don't forget to stay alert, Inspector, we have no reason to believe that this was his last murder."

Lestrade's mobile chose the moment to give a shrill and startled both the DI and John, who were hovering nearby.

"Hello," he answered, pausing to listen for a second before a glum expression clouded his face. Then, "Be right there."

- 0 -

"He's here, Lestrade."

A smug smile quirking at his mouth, Sherlock swept his gaze across the grounds in front of the building. His voice was barely a murmur as he stood from his squat to bring his palms, prayer-like, to his lips.

"He must be staying nearby; he's in no particular hurry to leave and he enjoys the drama he's causing. What with all the fuss the police have created - the sirens, the press, the yellow tape – why else would he murder his victims in plain view? Right, so where exactly did you hide?" Frantically spinning on the spot and scanning the surrounding area, Sherlock drummed his fingertips together. "Not higher than the fourth floor then. No shattered windows, which means… Yes!"

Sherlock whirled on his heels toward Lestrade and then froze. The words he'd been about to speak caught in his throat as they both noticed the red dot of a sniper's gun appear on Doctor Watson's back, where he stood some ten steps away from them, still trying to calm down the shivering, near-hysteric witness. The DI drew breath to shout a warning but it was too late- at that moment a shot thundered through the air. A split second before the bullet was fired, Lestrade saw Sherlock's black shadow rush to the side. He bolted sideways for some reason, not towards John.

At the sound of the shot, John instinctively lunged forward to push the witness out of what he thought was the harm's way, covering her and at the same time fully realising that if he or she was meant to be the killer's target, the man most likely would not miss, and John's reaction would not be fast enough to move out of the bullet's trajectory. The moment he landed on the ground with a hollow thump, he immediately started to lever himself up on his elbows, intent on crawling away and dragging the witness with him under the cover of the police car, simultaneously noting that neither he nor the dreadfully scared woman appeared to be the gunman's point of interest.

Then John heard the second shot. And the third. Whipping his head around, he saw Lestrade, a gun clasped in the outstretched hand, but his gaze didn't stop there – although, it probably should have, for the Inspector was obviously firing at the sniper – and proceeded hastily around in search of Sherlock, who had been standing just a minute ago next to Lestrade, talking to him. A heartbeat passed, and then John felt as though the atmosphere had suddenly run out of oxygen. It was a frighteningly familiar feeling, bringing him back to Bart's again, to three years ago. Sherlock's still body was lying on the asphalt, face-down.

Four victims. All were shot straight through the heart. Sherlock. No. John darted towards him, falling painfully onto his knees next to the detective. Without uttering a single word – all of his words were lodged deeper, even, than his throat; he thought maybe they were cowering behind his heart or hiding in his lungs – John took him carefully by the shoulders and turned him over. Sherlock was alive. He was alive. He was even conscious. And thank god, these sparkling, these dear, light-grey eyes – alive – were looking at John, and Sherlock's lips, drained of all colour, slightly curved into a faint smile.

"In time—" Sherlock struggled, a voice hardly above a whisper as he coughed immediately after, smearing his lips with blood. Quickly, John wrapped an arm around his friend's shoulders, brought him into a sitting position, propped against himself, one hand embracing Sherlock while the other one unbuttoned his coat and suit jacket. Bad. It was very bad. His lung had been shot. Forty-five calibre. His concentration, focused on Sherlock and his injury, was abruptly disrupted by Lestrade, who lowered himself into John's field of vision on his knees next to the two men.

"The ambulance is on its way, John. Tell me if I can help with anything." There was a swish as something broad and dark flapped in the periphery of John's sight. "Here, take my coat. I think we need to apply pressure to the wound…"

Forget the ruddy pressure. Sherlock's chest was practically ravaged by a bullet. A massive blood loss, and a fast one at that. He needed a substitutive hemotransfusion and an operating table. The ambulance was on its way, John reminded himself. Don't panic. Do. Not. Panic. It's Sherlock. Right now. John took a few ragged breaths and tried for control. Carefully holding Sherlock's limp body in his arms, John settled him more comfortably, placing the detective's head on his shoulder. He took him gingerly by his chin with his right hand and lifted it a bit, locking his eyes with Sherlock's and giving him a small smile as he did his best to force his lips from trembling.

"Hang in there, Sherlock," John told him in a quiet voice, fingers lightly stroking his pale cheek. "Just hang in there, okay? You need to stay conscious, no matter what. I know it hurts, and it hurts a lot and it's painfully hard to breathe. But breathe anyway, all right? Breathe for me. Follow my rhythm. Breathing in and out. In and out. Not deep, measured intakes. Yeah, like that."

John tried to breathe in the rhythm he'd described for Sherlock; his eyes, unwavering, were looking at the detective.

"John, I—" Sherlock began in a hardly audible voice, making a feeble, futile attempt to raise his hand.

"No," John cut him off, shaking his head. "No, don't waste your breath on talking. You'll tell me later. We'll have plenty of time for talking afterwards when you'll be recovering and feeling bored," he forced an encouraging smile, tucking away curls of hair from Sherlock's forehead, clammy with cold sweat. John knew he was lying to his face. He watched as Sherlock became paler with each passing second, he saw the efforts Sherlock was making to fight for every intake of breath, he heard the congested coughs shuddering up his throat from all the blood gathered in his thorax. Only his eyes remained clear, still unencumbered by the haze of approaching death.

"Hang in there, Sherlock. Breathe, in and out. In and out. Just like this, that's good. In and out. In and out," John kept counting, his eyes not leaving Sherlock's, not even for a half a second.

In the distance, an ambulance siren was growing louder. Still too far away. And then there was still all the way back to the hospital ahead of them. Stay with me, Sherlock. Come on, just breathe. Don't give up. An instant later, Sherlock's body tensed in his hands, his muscles straining, and then he let out a raucous wheeze and was still. The grey eyes, just like in John's nightmares, just like from a nightmare of three years ago, were looking into nothing, unseeing and glazed.

With ruthless determination, John tamped down the engulfing tsunami of horror which was washing over him and quickly lowered Sherlock – not the body, no, still Sherlock – onto the ground and started to perform CPR. In little over a minute, after twelve mouth-to-mouth breaths and seventy eight rhythmic chest compressions, an ambulance skidded to a halt in close proximity. Not ceasing his measured movements, John looked up and shouted to the running paramedics:

"Defibrillator, resuscitation kit, surgical instruments and everything you have for transfusion!"

While the defibrillator was being charged, John intubated Sherlock, his experience as an army doctor allowing him to execute the procedure with a record speed despite the detective's blood-coated larynx. He was just attaching the Ambu bag to the tracheal tube when the call of, "Clear! Charge!" rang out and Sherlock's body arched off the ground. John's hand shot forward to check for a pulse on his carotid artery. There was none. He passed the Ambu bag to one of the paramedics, leaving it for the other one to perform the closed cardiac massage. In one rough motion John opened the surgical kit pouch and prepared to insert a CVC in the field, but was stopped by a paramedic in charge of assisted pulmonary ventilation who snatched him by the hand.

"Are you insane? It's—"

Unceremoniously, John wrenched his hand back and interrupted the man, hating to waste time and energy on useless emotions.

"We can't access the peripheral vein, not with such hypovolemia. And without the substitutive transfusion he won't make it to the hospital," John snarled, cold and succinct, making an incision in his friend's already blood-covered skin and forcing himself not to think how slim the chances were of them managing to jumpstart Sherlock's heart. He quickly inserted the catheter and hooked him up to IV fluids when there was a second, "Clear! Charge!"

Come on, Sherlock, come on, John all but shouted in his mind, (or perhaps even out loud, he couldn't be sure anymore), his hand reaching for the detective's throat again. Oh God, there was a pulse. An irregular one, and too shallow, and too rapid, but there. Together with the paramedics, John carefully took hold of Sherlock and, after counting off, they put him on a stretcher and whisked him away in the ambulance. This time, no one objected to John occupying a place in the van.

A siren wailed through the air, and they started off down the road. While helping to apply the dressing to the detective's wounded chest, John looked at Sherlock's bone-pale face, a thin rivulet of blood marring the corners of his lips; looked at his blood-drenched clothes, at the tracheal tube sticking out of his mouth, and at the paramedic who was rhythmically squeezing the Ambu bag. He tried to swallow the lump constricting his throat. What else could he do to help Sherlock hold on to this world, what else could he think of? And then it dawned on him as he remembered – his heart fluttering at the memory – the conversation he had had with Sherlock in the cosy sanctuary of their living room when the detective had been scoffing over an article on blood types. It was then that they'd discovered that they had the same blood type and Rh-factor.

"Put a Venflon into my arm, we're doing an immediate blood transfusion," John announced in a harsh, peremptory tone which brooked no argument, addressing the other, relatively less-busy paramedic, while rolling up his sleeve. The man stared at him with a questioning, arched eyebrow, and John met his gaze head-on.

"He is my best friend, can you understand that?! Mere compensation for circulating blood volume won't be enough if he has no red blood cells left! And I'm a match."

"But we won't be able to control how much blood you give. Anyways, first we need to have the blood work done—"

John thrust his arm out, impatiently.

"Forget the sodding tests! He's losing too much blood. The next five to ten minutes of the ride won't kill me. Get down to it, now!"

- 0 -

His face hidden in his hands, John sat in the hospital waiting room and… waited. He had been trying not to think for two hours now. Trying not to think how small the chances of Sherlock's living through the surgery were. Not to think of how high was the risk of every possible complication even if Sherlock makes it out of it alive. Not to think of his friend's pale face as he lay on the ambulance stretcher. Not to remember the way Sherlock looked at him while John carefully held his bleeding body in his arms. Not to remember the pool of blood which had gathered on the asphalt beneath him, nor the subsequent stillness of their flat at Baker Street, barren of life without the detective. In one rough move, John straightened in his chair and looked at Mycroft, who sat across from him. John hated analyzing and wasn't really that interested to know what sentiment the government official might be suppressing at the moment. He still hadn't quite forgiven him for the betrayal of his little brother. It wasn't the time nor was it the place to dredge up old grudges. It was yet another thing John tried not to think of.

Then the door of the OR swung open, and John leapt to his feet, hands balling into fists of their own accord, a muscle tightening in his jaw. One look at John's clothes, profusely smudged with blood, seemed to suffice for the surgeon as he skimmed the room in search of family members.

"Hello, my name is Doctor Stevens; I led the operating team for Mr. Holmes," the man in blue scrubs said, cutting straight to the chase. "Mr. Holmes' surgery went well; he's in the Intensive Care now." At that, John permitted himself a small sigh of relief.

"At the present moment," continued the surgeon, "Mr. Holmes' condition is estimated as very grave, hemodynamics are unstable because of significant blood loss and severe lung injury. The next few hours are going to be critical. If he lives through them—" John swallowed hard at the if-word, "— then we're going to deal with a likelihood of multiple complications developing. starting with respiratory distress syndrome and thromboembolism and ending with trivial pneumonia. Unfortunately, any of the possible complications are going to be most likely lethal, for in order to struggle out of the current crisis the patient will need the maximum strain of all his body strength, and most probably he won't have any of it left when it comes to fighting the complications."

The doctor kept talking. He went on and on about the extent of his injuries, about the direction of the wound canal and some other unquestionably important issues, yet John couldn't bring himself to concentrate on the words; they simply wouldn't reach his mind. A background humming lingered next to his eardrums and prevented all conscious thought. The wording was painfully familiar and basically signified that the patient was beyond hope A miracle – that was all that could save Sherlock now. There was a ringing in John's ears and the suffocating lump rose in his throat once more.

"May I see him?" John stopped the surgeon mid-sentence, pulling himself together. He couldn't care less about formalities. He couldn't care less about anything right now other than seeing Sherlock.

"I'm sorry, sir, but that's out of the question."

John tilted his head to one side, understanding how much he was asking, but he had to try. More than anything, he wished to be by his friend's side right now. It's Sherlock, my stubborn git. He will live through it simply to spite his doctor just to be, unique against all odds. John only needed to help him regain consciousness to let the recalcitrant genius take full command of the sinking ship that is his body and drag it up to the surface. And for that, John needed to be close.

It was then that Mycroft spoke.

"You said so yourself that my brother has nothing to lose."

John heard an unfamiliar shaking ring to Mycroft's voice. "And if there's a chance, however meagre, that the presence of a loving person might somehow help, is it really worth denying him that?"

John could be mistaken, but there seemed to be a thinly veiled threat hidden in Mycroft's superficially tranquil tone. The doctor seemed to pick up on the dangerous undercurrent as well, or perhaps saw the sense in his statement, as he turned to face John.

"You're his partner then?" he asked.

At that moment, John couldn't give a damn about what someone might make of his relationship with Sherlock. And he would be ready to go as far as to declare on the National Television "I'm gay, and me and Sherlock are together" if it helped him get to his friend's side. With that said, John looked the surgeon squarely in the eyes and answered without a moment's hesitation,

"Yes, I'm his partner and we're going to get married."

"Well, in that case you may follow me and we'll find you a change of clothes. The next closest relative will be allowed to visit tomorrow morning if the patient—" he faltered for a second, "—if the patient recovers consciousness."

John was falling into step with the surgeon when, with a moment of ingrained courtesy, he remembered to glance back over his shoulder and send Mycroft a look of gratitude.

Against the starched white of the hospital bed, Sherlock appeared even more pallid than in the ambulance, if such a thing was even possible. He had an oxygen catheter inserted up his nose, and was surrounded by all kinds of machines which monitored his vital signs. Withstanding the CVC in his subclavian vein, Sherlock was also on a drip; an IV line went into his left hand, delivering blood through a cannula. It was the fourth dose since John had come to sit by his side. Sherlock's chest was swathed with gauze, and from underneath it he could see drains connected to an aspirator.

Sherlock hadn't yet recovered consciousness. John was seated to his right on a plastic hospital chair, holding him by the hand. To look at him now – at Sherlock, who was always so energetic, so full of life, and who now was reduced to such a helpless condition – was heart-breaking. John gently stroked Sherlock's long fingers, grazing the tips of his own along the back of the detective's wrist. From time to time, he would turn over Sherlock's hand to caress his palm, tracing his fingers along the net of lines on it in a desperate attempt to give Sherlock at least some sensory input.

At first, John tried talking to him, but every time he opened his mouth to speak, the words caught in his throat, and even when finally squeezed out, they still sounded clumsy on his tongue. Warm, heartfelt conversations were never John's strong suit, especially when they had to last for a few hours on end. Besides, what the surgeon had said about Sherlock's slim chances for recovery kept running a loop in John's memory, making his voice tremble and shake.

Against all odds, Sherlock lived through the night. Over the course of it, John had slightly readjusted, scooting his chair closer to the bed and putting Sherlock's hand on his lap, continuing to run his fingers over the smooth skin with a tender touch. All of a sudden, the cardiac monitor began to beep rapidly, causing John tense and straighten at once. He was about to push the call button when Sherlock gave a quiet groan, his eyelids fluttering open.

With a shrill screech of chair legs against the floor, John leaned above his friend's face and called out his name, his voice low but insistent.

"Sherlock. Sherlock, can you hear me?"

Carefully, John placed a hand in Sherlock's hair, his thumb rubbing soft circles across his temple; his other hand gripped the detective's wrist more tightly. With a visible effort, Sherlock focused his gaze on John's face, and a feeling of relief washed over the doctor when he saw recognition in those grey eyes. He gave an encouraging smile, continuing to comb his fingers through the pile of black curls.

"It's all right, Sherlock. You're all right. The surgery went well and now the worst is over. Now you just have to keep fighting to avoid complications. You'll get better; I'll see to that," John willed his voice to stop quivering and his lips to stop trembling, hoping that maybe at least in his condition Sherlock wouldn't be able to read him like an open book. The corners of Sherlock's mouth tipped up in a weak smile. John pulled away for a moment to quickly pour some water into a plastic cup and, gingerly lifting Sherlock's head a little, brought a straw to his lips, letting him moisten his mouth.

"Thanks," Sherlock said in a low voice after taking a few sips. John set the cup on the bedside table and inched closer, taking Sherlock's hand in his own again.

"How are you feeling? Does anything hurt too badly? I can get some more pain medication if it does," John assured, full of sympathy, as he watched Sherlock heave ragged breaths as though he was holding back a groan of pain. "I could call for the doctor and discuss the analgesic dosage."

Before Sherlock could respond, the door to the room opened. John turned around, expecting to see a nurse since the doctor had been here only some half an hour ago, but instead his gaze landed on the elder Holmes, who confidently stepped inside Sherlock's room.

"Good morning," he greeted them both.

"Morning," John replied. "Sherlock is conscious."

"So I've noticed."

Mycroft moved closer to the bed and stood next to John. They were both trying to come up with what they could tell Sherlock, but the detective took the initiative. Closing his eyes for a brief moment, he gathered his thoughts and turned to John.

"You've been sitting here since yesterday evening, John. Go and have something to eat and move around a bit." Sherlock gave John's hand a light shake before the doctor could offer up any kind of protest. Then he hurried to continue, fearing he would be short of strength and air any moment now. "I want to talk to Mycroft. Alone."

John felt his throat closing. Sherlock must have realised. Maybe he had figured it out solely from the way he felt, or maybe John's appearance had given him away. Touching a hand to Sherlock's shoulder to let him know he wasn't wounded by the exile while studiously averting his gaze in order not to betray his emotions even more, John got up, his legs utterly numb, and left the room, softly shutting the door behind him. He didn't go in search of a coffee machine and he didn't think he could stomach anything at the moment so food was right out. For the second time, he was about to lose the most important, the dearest person in all of his life. John leaned his forehead against the glass window, trying to cool his burning face.

Sherlock. Christ. Sherlock. Why on earth did they have to take that bloody case? Why? Why did the sniper choose Sherlock of all people? The man was a psychopath; he didn't care about the target! Everyone else's life would've been less precious. John knew that it was wrong of him to think that way. 'Bit not good?' sounded a low, sarcastic voice in his head, but John couldn't help it. Something pricked at the back of his throat and his eyes welled up. Angry with himself, John wiped a hand across his face almost furiously; he couldn't appear like this in front of his friend it'd only worry him. John had to get a grip on himself. He clenched his hands into tight fists, nails digging painfully into his skin.

- 0 -

"Sherlock, what did you want to talk about?" Mycroft lowered himself into the free chair and propped his umbrella against it. Sherlock half-closed his eyes again, evening out his breathing.

"You know exactly what happened," Sherlock met his brother's gaze. "I want you to promise me John will never know."

Mycroft arched a brow.

"The place was teeming with police. Anyone could tell him."

"Only Lestrade saw what I did, while everyone else rushed to detain the sniper he had shot. It's within your power to persuade Lestrade not to tell John anything either. I want you to promise me," Sherlock enunciated in a clear voice, not breaking eye contact with his older brother.

"What made you think you—"

"Don't waste my time," Sherlock scrunched up his face and squared Mycroft with a disdainful glare. "Just promise me."

"Why are you so loath to be a hero in his eyes?" Mycroft narrowed his eyes.

Sherlock gave a theatrical sigh, but the effect was marred by an uncontrolled groan when a sharp twinge of pain tore through his chest. Mycroft's face twisted in a grimace, but he quickly regained his composure, only reaching out to take a napkin off the bedside table and dab at his younger brother's sweat-beaded forehead.

"I'm starting to wonder who the real sociopath out of the two of us is. John will suffer greatly if I die. You've already seen the hurt it causes him happen once. What makes you think the second time is going to be any less hard? If he finds out that I saved his life at the expense of my own, he'll take it even worse. Look after him, Mycroft. Don't make me ask you again. Promise me."

"I promise, Sherlock," said Mycroft, slightly squeezing his brother's hand on the blanket. The unflappable British government's bottom lip trembled for a second before he bit at it hard.

Sherlock's tense face relaxed somewhat and he fluttered his eyes shut again, swallowing audibly.

"Mycroft, I— I don't like goodbyes—" he trailed off. "Just—"

"I know, Sherlock." Now the elder brother bit both of his lips, knuckles of his free hand growing white with strain on the top of the umbrella, but he managed to continue in a calmer tone, "Don't say anything. Save your strength. I'll get John."

Without another word, Mycroft started to rise to his feet but stopped when Sherlock clutched at his hand, albeit weakly, and opened his eyes.

"I'm sorry— for all that. I couldn't have done anything else. I knew I had no chance. Forty-five calibre, that one. I just hoped that given the difference in height and build I'd have time to say goodbye to him. Not like the last time."

Nodding, Mycroft gave his hand a small shake before hastily turning away and leaving.

- 0 -

John stood next to the window, a short distance away from the room. The sound of the opening door made him look back and exhale a shuddering breath when his eyes met Mycroft's.

"John, you don't need to put up an act in front of him. He's well aware of what's going on. And he knows what you're going through, too."

John snorted a mirthless laugh and ran a hand over his face.

"It was ridiculous of me to think I could hide anything from him, wasn't it? Can I see him?" Not really expecting any response, John stepped towards the door when Mycroft hurried to intercept him, clasping him by the arm. The doctor eyed him with a surprised expression and carefully extricated himself from the grasp.

"John, tell him."

"Tell him what? I'm not in the mood for any of your guessing games."

"Tell him you love him."

"For heaven's sake, you just couldn't do without—"

"Why do you have to be so stubborn?" In a voice barely above a whisper yet said with such intensity and sharpness it could've easily echoed through the entire clinic, making John glance up in shock at the official. It had almost startled him out of his sorrowful reverie. "Do you honestly believe that the only kind of love can be is the sexual kind? All of these labels of yours – straight, gay, asexual – do they really matter so much? There's love for your parents or for children - and you never have to classify those. And you love Sherlock; your attitude towards him speaks volumes. Tell him before it's too late. What if it's—"Mycroft's voice dropped, and John felt a pull at his heart, "What if it could be the thing that saves him? You're a doctor; you should know that hope and love can help a patient self-motivate."

John, swallowing hard, nodded and stepped up to the door.

At the sound of the approaching footsteps, Sherlock slowly flicked his eyes open, his lips curving in a small smile, and when John took his hand again, the long fingers twitched a bit trying to hold onto John's wrist in response.

"John—"

How did Sherlock manage to convey so much meaning with just his name? Such richness of cadences; one word was enough for him to express a whole gamut of emotions, questions, requests; one word was enough to render it transparent for whoever it was intended for. In that moment, an unusual mixture of soft tenderness and regret seeped through his voice. A flutter clutched at John's heart when he glanced up from their interlaced fingers and met Sherlock's gaze.

"John, you were the best thing that has ever happened to me. I want you to know that I've always valued you and your help— our friendship and everything you did for me—"

John's heart was beating at the back of his throat; he went stock still and numb. Sherlock, his Sherlock was talking about feelings. God. This meant the end. Surrender. He wishes, thought John at once, bitterly. He wasn't going to let Sherlock give up just like that. John now had to put aside his belief that actions spoke louder than words. Right now he had to find the words to convey what he wanted to say, the right words. Right now only the right words could save him. He had nothing else to offer.

All of it flashed through John's mind in a matter of seconds, and he increased the grip on Sherlock's cold hand, enveloping it in his warm one before he leaned closer and interrupted, starting to speak.

"No. No, Sherlock. No. Don't you even think. Don't you dare say goodbye to me. Just— don't. We'll have all the time in the world. Don't you dare think that you can simply give up on it and leave me. You're saying I'm the best thing ever happened to you? But what about me? You know, I once said it all to your gravestone, but now I get to say it to you."

John took a fortifying breath, faltering for a moment before he continued with more vehemence and fervour.

"You've broken into my life without my permission and pulled me into your orbit, making me feel as if it was always meant to be. You know, Sherlock, you— you're the most insufferable, the most complacent, obstinate, arrogant and self-assured bastard I've known, who comes and takes without asking, uncaring of all the normal societal standards and norms. And despite all that, I've never met anyone who would make a better friend than you. I've always known that I could wake up to find myself a participant, or worse still, a subject of one of your experiments, but I also knew I could rely on you to be there for me no matter what. Of all the people on this planet, you are the one I trust. You know that I would readily give my life for you, but I'm sure you would do the same, don't even argue with that—"

Trailing off, John gently stroked the knuckles of Sherlock's hand, and then looked into his eyes before reaching out his other hand to thread his fingers through black curls.

"I love you so much, Sherlock. Not in a sexual way, but because you're the most special person in my life." Sherlock's chapped lips slightly parted to say something, but John only shook his head. "No, no, mate, I'm not finished yet. Of course, you're a genius and the most observant man in the world, and it's admirable, but that's not why I love you."

Carefully untangling his right hand from Sherlock's fingers, he then gingerly, barely touching, placed it on his chest, "I love your heart, and all its warmth and kindness, its sympathy and understanding. And don't start telling me I'm wrong about you. I know better. Because I know you and when I look at you I see a man who was ready to help a poor girl whose sister died and whom no one believed, even though you puzzled it out sitting in your chair in the living room. Because I see a man who dragged Henry Knight to look at the dog's corpse to let him know he wasn't delirious. Because I see the way you're helping people again even after—"

John swallowed hard, his eyes lowering, "After— you know what. I could go on for hours— the way you play your violin when I have nightmares, and when you helped Mrs. Hudson find her earrings, and when you arranged the breakfast ingredients in a perfect order when my arm hurt, and… Well, enough to going on with, don't you think? And also, Sherlock, I'm madly in love with our life."

A smile lifted up the corners of John's mouth as he retrieved his hand from Sherlock's chest and settled more comfortably, propping an elbow on the mattress, while his other hand thoughtfully stroking his friend's hair.

"Because it's long ago become ours. Two paths which intertwined to become one. They can't be separated again, you understand? Because one couldn't survive without the other."

He huffed out an embarrassed laugh and tilted his head, "I know it sounds overly dramatic, but it's the truth. I love our quiet evenings by the fire while I surf the internet and you play the violin; I love our investigations, the thrill of the chase and your deductive reasoning. You should know, it always feels like I'm witnessing some sort of a mystery unfolding right before me; I love sitting in front of telly when you're lying on the couch commenting on anything and everything that happens. You should know, a lot of the movies which we've seen were worth watching only for your accompanying remarks. And we will have all of it, by all means, do you hear me, Sherlock? We will have all of it. And those stinking experiments you perform in the kitchen, and the artistic mess in the sitting room, and body parts in the fridge, and chemicals in the kitchenware, and us. I was so alone before I met you. You gave me— Mycroft thinks you gave me war back, but you gave me yourself. The best friend... and the most human human being… I could've ever asked for."

John lingered for a moment, getting his breath back, while Sherlock licked his lips, blinking slowly as he tried to remove his right hand from the blanket with what looked like an enormous effort. John intercepted the gesture, reaching out to grab a hold of the detective's wrist again.

"Exactly, Sherlock. Last time I couldn't hold your hand, but now I can. You see, just like this. And I won't let you go, I will hold you and make you stay. I don't give a damn about what the doctors say. You know they're all idiots, and they don't know you. You've never done as was expected of you, so don't start now."

John brought Sherlock's hand to his lips and pressed the back of it to his cheek. Sherlock, feeling his eyes began to water, swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat and gave him a weak smile, his index finger caressing John's cheek.

"I'll try my best, John," he whispered, in a voice barely audible, and shut his eyes, too exhausted to keep them open. Even when the detective fell asleep again – or rather, lost his consciousness – John still continued to sit by his bed, not changing position while he threaded his fingers through soft curls, feeling the coldness of his friend's pale, thin hand next to his face.

By afternoon Sherlock had spiked a full-fledged fever. First, the unconscious detective had fallen into the clutches of a ghastly shiver, and John had desperately tried to warm him up, covering him with another blanket and breathing warm breaths on his icy-cold fingers, even though realising all too well the uselessness of his actions. After the temperature reached its plateau, Sherlock, at length, stopped quivering with every single muscle of his body, but it was hardly a respite. The dissonance between his pallid skin and the radiating heat it was giving off was frankly frightening. The doctor came every half an hour to check up on his vitals, a frown creasing his brow each time he did a round. John tried to look everywhere but at him.

Naturally, the antibiotic therapy, strong as it already was, had to be augmented even further. From time to time, Sherlock surfaced back to consciousness, his gaze barely focusing and immediately hurrying to search for John's, eyes crinkling with a smile. John gave him one in response, and then brought a plastic cupful of water to Sherlock's lips, while wiping a cold, moist towel cloth over his face, neck and shoulders. He brushed strands of hair, wet with sweat and water, away from his forehead. Then he went to take his hand back in his own, gripping it tightly.

John was afraid of leaving him alone. What if Sherlock wakes up during his absence and doesn't find him by his side? John went out only once to run to the toilet. And it was, in the true sense of the word, a run. He resolutely refused some sympathetic nurse's suggestion that he should go and eat something. Because, if you're holding your friend's hand when he's hanging at the precipice of death, you're not going to let go of him so that you could freshen up and grab a bite, are you? In the end, the nurse took pity on him and brought food directly into the room. He thanked her and, placing the tray on his lap, started to eat with one hand, his other one still firmly wrapped around Sherlock's.

As the night shadowed out the day, John's eyelids began feeling heavy, and a few times he dozed off right in the chair, being woken by his body careening dangerously to one side. Finally, somewhere in the wee hours of morning, he shifted his chair a bit and tried to lean against the head off the bed so that if Sherlock woke up, he would be right in his range of vision. John sandwiched Sherlock's hand between his palms and allowed himself a couple of hours' sleep.

John woke up to the sound of the nearing footfalls, Seconds later, the doctor burst into Sherlock's room, a nurse following in his wake. Jerking immediately awake, he sat up straight in his chair. Sherlock was unconscious, yet the surface of his skin didn't seem as incandescent as hours before. While the nurse was bustling about the IV drip and drains, taking blood, urine and respiratory secretion cultures, and the doctor was thumbing through the patient's medical history, eyes scrolling down the long lines of yesterday and today's data and hands scribbling notes in the prescription paper, John sat on tenterhooks, waiting for the verdict. At length, the doctor unglued himself from the documentation, glanced at the cardiac monitor readings and then looked down at John, a broad smile on his face.

"My congratulations, you've worked a miracle on him after all. The early postsurgical period is over, and now he's stabilised. If he doesn't develop pneumonia, he has very good chances of a full recovery."

A strong surge of relief coursed through him, but John couldn't find it in himself to even smile back at the doctor and thank him. His fingers clutching Sherlock's wrist, John lowered his head and dug his other hand into his own hair. The doctor didn't seem to expect any verbal response and soon left, patting John on the shoulder on his way.

"Oh god," John muttered under his breath, dragging his palm across his face and finally looking up. The nurse, who was finishing her business there, smiled at him softly.

"Time to finally give yourself a break, don't you think? They say you haven't left him since the day before yesterday. You shouldn't neglect your own health, you know."

"Body is just transport," John answered, surprising himself with his own reply and then let out a slightly hysterical laugh.

- 0 -

John dismissed any thoughts concerning food until two hours later when Sherlock regained consciousness. At that point, John was finally able to cheer him up with the good news about him being on his way to recovery. Sherlock looked at his friend and his unshaven face and dark-ringed eyes and thought that despite all of that he had the most radiant smile he'd ever seen John give on his face, and suddenly wanted to hug him more than anything in the world. Limited in his movements, he could only entwine his fingers around John's wrist a bit more tightly. John, for his part, decided not to deny himself the pleasure, and after declaiming Sherlock's prospects for recovery, he leaned towards him in an impetuous surge of affection, slid his arm under the detective's neck and embraced him by the shoulders, burying his face in the curls above his ear.

"You were great, you were amazing, Sherlock," John whispered into his ear. "Thank you. Thank you."

As luck would have it, at that moment a radiologist wheeled in a portable X-ray machine and John had to leave the room while Sherlock was getting a film of his chest. When he returned, Sherlock's eyes were already half-closed, his gaze out of focus. With a smile on his face, John gently stroked Sherlock's shoulder.

"Get some shut-eye, you need to rest more," he said, looking warmly into Sherlock's bleary eyes, eyes that were still attempting to concentrate despite the obvious exhaustion blurring them. "Go to sleep, all right? I'll sit with you for a bit, and then I'll go and get myself sorted out."

When Sherlock finally drifted off into oblivion, John waited for a while just to be on the safe side and then, with a well-missed and gladly-returned lightness in his heart, left the room.

- 0 -

On his way back John noticed Dr. Stevens talking to Mycroft right next to Sherlock's room. Their frowned expressions promised nothing good. Worried, John strode towards them and was further concerned by the way the doctor, upon catching sight of him, seemed immediately in a hurry to excuse himself and walked away. Gazing out the window, Mycroft waited for John to approach and then, not sparing him even a backward glance, spoke.

"Taking into consideration Sherlock's history of drug use it was decided to cancel the morphine."

John felt dumbstruck, his mouth agape, speechless and unable to voice the feelings that had engulfed him there and then, but Mycroft had already turned to face him and continued, anticipating any possible retorts, "In order to deal with the pain syndrome he'll receive epidural anaesthesia."

John shook his head, indignantly.

"This is— this is insane! He's going to require a larger dose of drug, and it may most likely lead to complications! We'll deal with the addiction; there are dozens of ways to get around it! It won't be too much of a problem; we'll wait out the depression, and I'll help him through it, don't you understand? I won't leave him for a second! For heaven's sake, why go to such lengths?"

"You forget yourself, Doctor Watson. You're not really his relative, not even a potential one, so do save your righteous anger. I don't need your input in regards to my brother's well-being."

Immediately, John squared his shoulders, eyes narrowing, and looked at the completely unperturbed man in front of him.

"And what about Sherlock, when did he suddenly become incapable of making medical decisions for himself? Don't you need his signature on the consent form? You know, I highly doubt he could sign anything without reading it first."

Mycroft heaved a worn-out sigh.

"Sherlock has been given a light anaesthetic and the procedure has been already performed. Just go to him, John, and be there for him. He'll be better off being told everything when he wakes up, although of course given the severity of his condition he most likely won't notice the absence of sensation in his legs, but when he finally does he might be intensely scared of the fact. Stress won't do him any good, and it's preferable to let him know that as soon as possible."

With a curt nod thrown in John's general direction as a token of goodbye, Mycroft steered himself away and down the hospital corridor. John took a few deep breaths, trying to let the repetitive in-and-then-out calm him down, and willed himself to unclench his balled fists. He could hardly restrain himself from chasing after that pompous peacock of a man, who obviously suffered from a MAJOR Big Brother complex, and punch the living daylights out of him, smashing his smug teeth to smithereens. John needed to get a handle on himself. If he let his rage cloud his reasoning, it would only harm Sherlock, for most likely his outburst would get him kicked out of the hospital when Sherlock needed him most. Painstakingly, he attempted another calming breath, lolling his head back as he did so, and uncurling his tight fists, eyes shut in concentration while he slowly exhaled through his nose, masterfully ignoring the hammer-on-anvil-beat of the blood at his temples. What had he been thinking, leaving Sherlock like that! As if he couldn't have gotten by without a shower! He could've eaten in Sherlock's room as well. Switching the target of his anger from Mycroft and projecting it onto himself instead, John felt a tiny bit calmer. Mentally apologising to Sherlock for having failed him by leaving his side, John shook his head, and entered.

The next time Sherlock woke up it was only for a short while and with twilight already surrounding them. John gave him some water, and then simply stayed next to him, a hand softly caressing his hair until Sherlock fell back to sleep. John spent the night listening to the sound of his measured breathing, while slumped against the back of the bed, drifting in and out of his own agitated slumber.

As the morning dawned, John conjured up his brightest smile for a busy nurse, who was tending to the deeply-sleeping detective. Using his best pleading voice and a John-Watson-patented-charming smile, he asked her to bring him something edible. As expected, she returned his a smile and promised to do just that as soon as she finished her morning rounds.

Sherlock woke up only two hours later. Immediately, John brought the straw of a cupful of water to his lips and noticed, not without relief, that his friend looked considerably better – he was already endeavouring to lift his head towards the cup on his own, and he was twitching the corner of his mouth a bit discontentedly when John carefully tucked in the blanket, previously disturbed by the nurse.

"John, go and eat." The detective's voice was still lacking in strength, but the familiar self-confident ring to it went a long way to cheering the doctor up. "Your hunger strike is of no good to anyone. And also, ask Mycroft to arrange a cot for you in here, or else another night of sleeping in that half-sitting condition with your head on the edge of the bed will earn you a radiculitis."

The mere thought of accosting Mycroft with a favour after what happened yesterday made John cringe, and he answered in a tone much sharper than he intended.

"I've slept in worse conditions. As for the food, I've already asked the nurse to fetch me something."

"The one who's sleeping with my doctor desperately hoping to catch him off guard and impregnate herself, or the one with a husband, a daughter, two dogs and no adulterous inclinations?"

Unable to stop the amazement from spreading across his face at Sherlock, who now tried to conceal his smile, John threw his head on his arms and burst out laughing.

- 0 -

Days dragged by very slowly. A cot had appeared in Sherlock's room without any requests from John, yet he didn't experience any particular gratitude toward Mycroft, even though the news about epidural puncture had got a surprisingly calm reaction from Sherlock.

"By the way, I wouldn't say that it hurts less. Besides, it's just as sleep-inducing as drugs," was all he said in the end.

"Just general weakness, that's all," John sighed sympathetically.

As the time passed, Sherlock slept less and less during the day. Of course, wakefulness rendered him only more bored. He had already told John the particulars of biography and personal life of all the medical staff that had the misfortune of entering Holmes' room in their line of duty. John was glad he at least had the decency to wait for them to leave, which seemed like a small improvement all right. Much to his chagrin, there could hardly appear any new people, so he needed to find a refreshing activity for the recovering detective, and urgently. Sherlock had blatantly refused any kinds of crossword puzzles, fiction reading and other innocent joys at the disposal of a hospital-bound recluse.

It was taking John all his will power not to phone Lestrade and beg him to come with a handful of case files on some of his old, unsolved crimes. The saddest of all was the fact that John couldn't even be angry with Sherlock. He perfectly understood how tedious the detective felt right now and how vainly were rolling the cogs in the brain of that genius, with nothing to occupy itself with. He knew that Sherlock was exhausted from pain, from the hospital, from his own helplessness, and from never-ending medical ministrations around his body. John was doing his best to distract Sherlock and steer his mind away from all the ennui.

They played Truth or Dare, even though in the beginning Sherlock treated the idea as a most ridiculous one. However, without neither of them noticing the game turned into John remembering funny stories from his childhood and youth and about his silly arguments with Harry. Much to John's astonishment, Sherlock listened to him with keen interest, uncharacteristically deterring from deeply ingrained venomous observations and overall behaving not quite like his usual self. On the second day, after the morning procedures and breakfast – Sherlock had started to engage in some scant eating while indignantly nipping in the bud all John's endeavours to help him through it with a snappish "I'm not a child, John, to be fed with a spoon!" – John was ruminating over the entertainment plan for the distraction of the bored detective, when Sherlock went right ahead and asked him about his university years. The time flew by with John painting the outline of his student life and with Sherlock deducing its particulars.

Naturally, considering the severity of the injury, Sherlock's progress was quite remarkable and even slightly bewildering for his doctor.

"That's a promising improvement, Mr. Holmes," he said later on during his round on the eight day of Sherlock's hospitalisation. "From now on you may broaden your activity regime. Doctor Watson, you can start by helping him sit upright. I reckon you already know the drill."

John nodded, and the surgeon continued, "We're getting a roentgenogram today, then we'll see how his lungs are doing, perhaps it's time to remove the drains, too. I suppose my next warning will be unnecessary, but it's my duty to voice it: no passionate kisses and other sexual stimulations, hopefully you both understand it."

Feeling the blush work its heat up his neck and cheeks, John wished he could just sink right through the floor and all the way down to the basement. Hesitant, he hazarded a glance at Sherlock. The detective was obviously waiting for John's reaction, one eyebrow sarcastically arched as though expecting John's standard comment in response to all the speculations about the nature of their relationship while his lips quirked in an impossible half-ironical, half-amused grin. Only this time John could not offer a proper, negating comeback.

Doctor Stevens interpreted the outstretched silence and their exchanged glances otherwise. He gave a loud sigh.

"Well, I should've known. I'm sure, Doctor Watson, it didn't overstep the reasonable limits or threaten to harm his not fully recovered body. But, please do refrain from it for the time being. Not until the discharge, at the very least!"

If it had been feasible, John wouldn't have limited the sinking through the floor part to just the basement. He'd have preferred a deserted island somewhere in the Pacific to live out his days in utter shame. The surgeon threw a stern look at John's downcast eyes and at his crimson-coloured face, then flicked his gaze back to Sherlock, who was openly smirking. He shook his head with disapproval and left the room.

"I wonder how exactly he imagined it working, given the absence of sensation from waist down? But then again, medics must be very creative folk," Sherlock deadpanned, a serious expression on his face as he looked thoughtfully at the ceiling. "By the way, what's our status right now? Are you my boyfriend or my husband?"

"Neither," John gritted out. "Your fiancé."

"Well, there's always something…" Their eyes met and both men burst out in a gale of laughter.

"Sherlock," John managed in between the uncontrollable fits, "You mustn't laugh, stop it."

"John, have you become hard of hearing? He was talking about sexual activities, that is, unless laughter suddenly became one of them, and if so, then decent people as we are, time is long since due for us to get married, considering we've done it even in Buckingham Palace."

They were immediately consumed by another explosion of laughter, as John was wiping at his eyes and Sherlock put a hand on his chest to stop it from shaking.

- 0 -

The catastrophe reared its ugly head in the course of the following day. During the morning round, when the pleural drainage system was finally removed from Sherlock's chest, John felt rather enthusiastic about the positive progress his friend was having and asked Doctor Stevens about the epidural anaesthesia. For some unknown reason, that simple question embarrassed the surgeon, and he responded something vaguely elusive before rapidly wrapping up the topic and all but beating a hasty retreat. A stab of anxiety stirred in John's chest but he tried to put up a nonchalant front. Of course, it didn't escape Sherlock's notice.

"John, stop this spy buffoonery, would you? It doesn't suit you," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. "Obviously something went wrong. But if it were a serious complication caused by the anaesthesia, I would've already been dragged in and out of the examination rooms. You know how Mycroft is."

They relapsed into a short silence during which Sherlock blatantly stared at the ceiling and John went through the possible complications of the epidural anaesthesia in his mind, while pleating and unpleating the fabric of the blanket on Sherlock's bed.

"Stop it, John. Why don't you do something productive and go eat? There must be a cafe around here somewhere," urged the detective, his tone a bit annoyed. "And fetch me something too, while you're at it. I can't stand that stale hospital filth."

"It's still too soon to enrich your diet," John countered, a bit absent-mindedly.

"Oh, don't you get started. Bring me something to enrich it with, otherwise I'll have indigestion from all that so-called 'right' food. And get some newspapers, too, or all the tedium will drive me insane. Indigestion and insanity, what a wonderful package," Sherlock drawled sarcastically in a put-upon dreaming manner.

John was already rising to his feet, wishing to put an end to the pointless argument. He understood very well that Sherlock was as nervous as he was, only trying to mask his emotions by masterfully veiling them with petulance and general irksomeness, being a pain in the arse to everyone in the vicinity, and John in particular. Besides, it could also be that Sherlock wanted to spend some time alone without having to keep a stiff upper lip.

"All right, I'll be back soon. Don't be too bored."

Without looking at him, Sherlock laughed a cheerless laugh.

Later, opening the door to the already familiar corridor leading to Sherlock's room, John saw the medics wheel Sherlock along the hall, most likely, from another examination. A doctor, whom he had never met before, walked next to the stretcher. John hurried to catch up with the procession. It was just about to cross the threshold of the room and he felt utterly ridiculous with a stack of papers tucked under his arm and with a plateful of baked pudding with jam in his other hand. The doctor resolutely stopped him in his tracks.

"I'm going to conduct a neurological assessment of Mr. Holmes; it's not an appropriate time for a visit."

"But I'm adoctor, too, and—"

"All the more, then," came the rigorous reply. "I'll talk to the relatives afterwards, with Mr. Holmes' permission."

John stepped back into the corridor, agitated and not knowing what to do with himself. There was something really bad going on with Sherlock. By sheer force of will, John stopped himself from jumping to all the worst assumptions without having any data at hand and tried to get a firmer grip on himself. Without any luck there, he kept pacing up and down the corridor floor. After twenty eight minutes passed, the neurologist walked out of the room.

"For now I can't say anything definitive; I need to look further into the details of additional examinations," he said to John, who all but sprang towards him, hungry for news. "I'll find you sometime later today. You may see him now."

With that, the neurologist went away, leaving John even more overwhelmed – if that was even possible at this point – as he stood, completely lost and with his thoughts reeling, in the middle of the hallway. In a few second he snapped out of his stupor and hastened to get back to Sherlock.

The detective turned to the sound of the opening door, and for a blink of a moment John saw the restlessness on his face, saw the repressed fear in his grey eyes, not a trace of his characteristic confidence there anymore. John's heart skipped a beat as he strode inside. He negotiated his way towards the bed in a matter of a few steps, at the same time setting what he'd brought on the bedside table. John reached out to squeeze Sherlock's shoulder and looked into his eyes.

"Did he say anything specific?"

"N-no —" Sherlock's voice betrayed him, wavering, and John watched his friend trying to pull himself together. "—no, nothing specific. He only said that they will need to perform additional examinations and a more elaborate analysis of the MRI, which they'd taken during your absence. He said he'd return in an hour or so, and then we'd have a proper conversation." Sherlock swallowed hard and glanced away.

Gripping his shoulder more tightly, John leaned closer.

"Look, Sherlock, it's still too early to worry." Sherlock wasn't looking at him. "Sherlock, look at me." John stroked a hand through his curls.

With a much too obvious reluctance, Sherlock met his gaze. Hardly keeping reins on his own emotions, John tried for an encouraging smile.

"Whatever this is, we'll get through it. We'll be fine, you hear me? Other possibilities are out of question. You're not alone in it, all right; we're together, so we at least have strength in numbers." Sherlock closed his eyes and pressed into John's hand which caressed his hair.

Before John had time to add anything else, the door to the room swung open again. Turning, John's gaze met Mycroft Holmes', who lingered in the doorway.

Instinctively, John whirled towards him in an abrupt motion, shielding Sherlock with his body and blocking his way.

"Do you know what's happening? Have you talked to any of the doctors?"

"John, calm down," Mycroft said with solid emphasis, stepping inside.

"Calm down? Are you serious?" John set his shoulders straight and lifted his head, almost defiantly. "I told you, to hell with the epidural, but you just wouldn't listen. You didn't even inform me of it! I —"

"John," Mycroft cut into his tirade, while looking at Sherlock. John turned to face his friend. Sherlock, his eyes slightly narrowed and teeth chewing on his bottom lip, gazed intently at his brother.

"There wasn't any anaesthesia, was there, Mycroft? It was a fake, a masquerade, the needle isn't inserted into the spine, and it's been put only under the skin with no fluids, apparently, coursing through it." John's eyes widened at that, his mouth flapping. "The paralysis is the result of the injury."

Mycroft thinned his lips.

"I didn't want to tell you, not in the condition you were in. You required your strength of spirit and will to live in order to fight it off. If there had been reasons for a loss of motivation or for shock, it could have all been futile. I couldn't take that risk. And you, John, weren't supposed to know the truth either," Mycroft shot him a cursory glance. "If it had been me to tell Sherlock about anaesthesia, he could've seen right through it and could've come to the right conclusions on the real state of affairs. You, John, on the other hand, he has a complete trust in you, and if you knew the whole matter you wouldn't have been able to play your part as well as you did. But in view of what happened you presented the circumstances under the desirable light without mentioning my participation in the decision and attributing the entire initiative to the attending doctor, fully recognising his authority, am I right?" Mycroft's question hardly sounded like one, with all its arrogance and rhetoric. "It was the most reasonable solution."

Anger flared up in John like a struck match. Absently, he mused that from the logical point of view Mycroft was right, and given the critical state Sherlock was in, the news could've broken him completely. And John wouldn't have been able to manufacture a blithe and carefree act, playing a charade in front of his friend. Yet the burning desire to kill the conceited bastard right then and there blurred his logic.

"Why, of course, the rationality is the only principle that matters when it comes to Holmes' system of values. And me?! Well, like always, I'm merely a pawn in your brilliant game! Well, I guess I should've long since grown used to that by now!"

John let off steam, belatedly noticing with the corner of his eye as Sherlock went perfectly still at the accusation. John was ready to bite off his own tongue for the poorly delivered speech and for choosing the worst moment for it. This was his good friend right there. Selfish idiot, he scolded himself. With a heavy sigh and a feeling of anger giving way to fear, which was even more all-consuming than before and now flavoured with a twinge of guilt, John turned towards Sherlock. With an apologetic look on his face, he placed a hand on his shoulder again.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean it."

Sherlock reached out to cover John's hand with his, squeezing it as if he needed something, anything to hold onto. He tried to steady himself, shoving the crashing cold of dread from the realisation of what was coming to him as far as possible. He looked calmly into his brother's eyes.

"So, what's wrong with me? Did the bullet catch my spine?" The even, unflinching tone of his voice sent a chill through John's heart, his other hand coming to rest on Sherlock's too, as he turned towards Mycroft, expectant.

"No," the other man quickly responded, for a change thinking better of dragging out a dramatic pause and looking Sherlock straight in the eye. "The bone structure of your spine is fully functional and there's definitely no rupture in the spinal cord. Doctors say there are good chances for recovery."

John took a shuddering breath, wetting his suddenly dry mouth. Mycroft continued.

"A proper diagnosis hasn't been formulated yet. It could be the concussion of the spinal cord, or it could be spinal cord compression caused by haematoma, or a blood circulation problem or its subsequent ischaemia due to the injury to its supplying vessels or any combination of the above. You've already underwent the necessary therapy, that's why Doctor Watson wasn't allowed to look at your medical history. The doctors agreed that the more accurate diagnosis can be made with time – the faster the restoration of functions happens, the more minimal the spinal cord injuries are."

"If the restoration happens. As I understand it, with the flow of time my chances of ever walking again are going to become slimmer."

"Sherlock, you don't have to be so pessimistic—"

"I'd like to be discharged sooner rather than later," Sherlock cut him mid-sentence, "I've been switched off the cardiac monitor and other machines, and the drains have been removed, and they told me, my lung is all right. As for the injections, IV fluids and the complex set of corresponding exercises and PT I'm sure they'll give me, and not to mention a prospect of pointlessly lying in bed like a log – that much I can manage at home on my own."

"Sherlock—"

"Talk to the doctors, Mycroft. I'm positive they're going to be ecstatic about finally getting rid of me. If not, and if I inadvertently behaved too well, I'll rectify that unfortunate oversight in no time."

With a defeated expression on his face, Mycroft sighed and shook his head at him, but Sherlock wasn't planning on letting him speak in the foreseeable future.

"Off you go, dear brother. Entr'acte. Let's postpone the second act of the performance till better times. I want to be discharged today. I think you'd be better off if it was done the easy way."

Giving Sherlock a disapproving shake of his head again, Mycroft quickly glanced at John, who was diligently avoiding looking at anyone at the moment, and took his leave.

A silence, strung like taut thread between the two men, settled over the room. John was the first to disturb it. With a noisy intake of breath, John ventured a look down at the detective, who persevered in scrutinising. He spoke in a voice as soft as he could muster.

"Sherlock, it's not a death. There are chances, and we'll definitely—"

"John, would you be so kind as to not bore me with all these conventionally approved platitudes for the occasion," Sherlock interjected, eyes still boring into the wall. "I'd like to spend some time alone now, so will you please—"

His proud soliloquy was sharply brought to a startling halt as John leaned towards him in an abrupt gesture, grabbing Sherlock by the shoulders and pulling him close. Before Sherlock had time to react, John sat down on the edge of the bed, arms clasped in a tight hold around the detective as he pressed him closer, burying his face in the curly hair.

"John, I don't need—" John's hand came to rest against Sherlock's neck, bringing his face to the curve between John's throat and shoulder, stopping whatever he was going to say. A hand on Sherlock's back kept moving in soothing circles, not allowing him to break away, while John whispered in his hair, his voice eager and overwhelming.

"Don't, don't say anything, all right? Save it, because whatever you were aiming for, I already know that. Just… I've already told you that you aren't alone in this, and that we'll get through it, together. Both of us, you hear me? You're not on your own. You were strong enough to fight off death, even when the doctors could promise nothing, and now even they say it's nothing definitive. It's going to be all right. Everything's going to be all right."

It was clichéd, and sentimental, yet for some unfathomable reason Sherlock felt the iron grip which had clutched at his heart loosen somewhat, if only fractionally, and allow him to breathe. With a deep, rattling sigh, he hugged John back. The hand which pressed his face against John's shoulder slackened its hold, starting to gently comb through his hair instead.

They sat for some time like that, embracing and not uttering a word. Sherlock had regained his composure and calmed down a bit, driving off the train of pictures in his mind's eye featuring the life of a disabled person. It's nothing, he thought, his forehead leaning on John's shoulder as he enjoyed the unusual feeling of his friend's warm and solid back under his palms.

John's right, and what ever the case might be, I'll deal with it. It was my own choice, not some ridiculous and unfortunate accident. I'm not entitled to self-pity. If that's the price for John's life, then it's worth it. It's worth more than that. It could've been much worse, I could've failed to make it in time, only a matter of a split second, and then…

Gripping a fistful of John's sweater, Sherlock stubbonrly refused to finish that last thought. He'll make it through; but more importantly, John was alive. Hugging him tightly once more, Sherlock pulled away, an embarrassed smile tugging at his lips.

"Could you check the doctor's lounge and see if the discharge paperwork is already on its way?"

With a noticeable reluctance, John nodded.

"Yeah— Yeah, sure."

Rising to go, he hesitated for a moment, unwilling to leave Sherlock alone at a time like this. In the end, John patted the detective on the shoulder and then hurried to leave the room.

- 0 -

They wound up spending that night in the hospital. Despite Sherlock's seemingly endless row of indignant remarks, Doctor Stevens steadfastly refused to discharge him, not until he performed final tests and not until he made sure that the majority of vital signs had approached the normal rate.

In the afternoon, John ran his way back to Baker Street to prepare everything for Sherlock's arrival. A whole lot of his time was consumed by the conversation he had with Mrs. Hudson, who appeared all flustered at the notice. Mycroft had been keeping her posted about the changes in Sherlock's well-being, but admonished not to visit Sherlock in the hospital. And now, patiently and taking his time with her, mindful not to inadvertently offend the old lady, John explained that when Sherlock comes back, she shouldn't, at the very least verbally, express her pity and not to mention surround him with suffocating care and attention, because otherwise the best case scenario would include Sherlock being full-out disgruntled while the worst would picture the detective with his emotions deeply buried within himself, inwardly bothered by his infirmity. John bravely endured the infinite string of "Poor thing, he doesn't deserve this…" and other nauseating platitudes, hoping that once getting it off her chest, Mrs. Hudson would be less prone to pour them all over Sherlock later. After finally exhausting and closing up the delicate topic, John went to make a run for some groceries.

He was loading the fridge with new comestibles when he caught the glimpse of his wristwatch dial. A heartbeat passed and John heard the doorbell ring downstairs. In a minute, Mrs. Hudson made it up to the living room, escorted by two tall, sinewy-built men in black suits. John thought they looked as though they had been suddenly plucked out of some low-budget action movie. The landlady told John that Sherlock's brother phoned her to inform that he sent his men to help moving the furniture. John knew better than to feel angry at Mycroft's yet another interference, since they could really use some help at the moment. Under John's supervision these two James Bonds, not even stripping off their jackets, nimbly dealt with changing the sofa and Sherlock's bed's positions; John didn't want Sherlock to feel alone in his bedroom and decided that the living room would do a lot better. Thankfully, as for the locomotive activity, Sherlock's undamaged spine allowed him a relatively free regime. The doctor glanced at the wheelchair and at all the paralysis paraphernalia delivered by Mycroft's people. In all candour, he feared to think how much it would upset and embarrass the proud detective who was so eager to get back home sooner that apparently didn't entirely realise that accepting help from medical personnel in hospital would've been psychologically easier than from a friend at home.

John cast a critical glance across the living room which now acquired quite a bizarre flair, what with the bed in the midst of it. Wiping a tired hand over his face, John reckoned it more reasonable to tackle problems one step at a time. He threw another look at his wristwatch, realising he was running short of time, which meant no snack or shower for him right now. Hastily, John stepped into the kitchen to grab the sandwich he had made earlier and hurried back to the hospital, back to Sherlock.

- 0 -

Life had flown into its old groove in a matter of two weeks after Sherlock's discharge. The detective, as expected, had a hard time adjusting to the role of a person who needed a hand with practically every little thing. Despite the absence of bone damage, Sherlock found himself limited in what concerned general moving. That was why, for what seemed like the tenth time already, John resolutely stopped him in his tracks as Sherlock was halfway trying to scramble into the wheelchair on his own.

"No, no, no and no!" John said in a tone that brooked no argument. "I don't want you to lessen or downright dwindle to nothing your chances for recovery just because you're too stupid and too proud to accept someone else's help!"

Sherlock lay on his back, face turned away. According to the doctor's recommendations, he wasn't supposed to spend more than two hours a day in a chair, the rest of the time maintaining a horizontal position to relieve his spine. These days Sherlock usually became tired quite quickly and the limitation wasn't too troublesome yet.

"John, I'm not deaf and neither I am thick, one 'no' would've perfectly sufficed," he retaliated with an almost malicious edge to his voice.

Drawing a deep sigh, John suppressed the urge to counter that statement. After all, Sherlock could've understood perfectly well the first time they'd discussed it without making John repeat himself like a broken record.

John felt a little ashamed for his outburst, because as a matter of fact Sherlock was holding up surprisingly fine. Frankly speaking, John didn't count on him being so cooperative. He expected everything, from depression and annoyance to indifference and hysterical fits, and even went as far as to get prepared for the upcoming ordeal. But reality had in store nothing of what John had painted for them, and Sherlock's present behaviour contrasted so wildly with his past one that it boggled the mind.

First off, Sherlock compliantly followed all the prescribed injections and the whole complex of recommended physical exercises, which usually took them a great deal of time on a daily basis. Second off, if before the injury the detective could, without a twinge of conscience, drag John from whatever he might be doing at the moment and ask to bring him the phone, now that it became a constant reminder of his weakness he would go all out not to accost John with similar requests anymore. Keeping that in mind, John usually placed the laptop on the floor next to the head of the bed and put the violin on a chair nearby; he threw fresh newspapers on the free space on Sherlock's bed and made tea without asking if the detective even wanted some and put a mug on the bedside table, as closer to his bed as possible, allowing Sherlock to reach for it on his own when he felt like having it.

The courage with which Sherlock struggled against falling into depression amazed John and made him wonder how long it would last. John racked his brains over and over again, spending his sleepless nights thinking of how he could help his friend and trying to come up with an activity that could engage him. Their days dragged by in an unusually monotonous flow. When in the mornings John walked into the living room, Sherlock was almost always already up. Almost always he just lay quietly staring at the ceiling or researching something in the internet.

Now John slept on the couch in Sherlock's room. It had already started to take its toll; his neck gave him an awful time in the morning, and Sherlock kept advising him to go back to his room upstairs and stop treating him like a useless cripple. Yet John couldn't bring himself to do that, fearing that in his absence Sherlock might need anything in the heart of the night and John would simply be unable to hear him. That was why evening after evening John studiously went to sleep on the couch in the adjacent room, accompanied by Sherlock's discontented, dramatic sigh and acrimonious, biting commentary.

Their morning routine, for the most part, consisted of hygienic procedures and injections, followed by breakfast and a little repose, over the course of which they both sat at their laptops in companionable silence until it was time for gymnastics and massage. After the physiotherapy came the lunch hour; afterwards John would go grocery shopping or do other shores. In the evenings they repeated the daily bunch of the exercises and later John usually went to prepare dinner.

A few times John tried to take Sherlock out for a walk. He was immensely upset with his friend sitting immovable within the four walls of their flat when there was a park at a walking distance and even the sky cleared up a bit in recent days. The second time John brought that up again Sherlock rejected the idea so abruptly, nearly yelling at him, that John didn't have it in himself to suggest it once more.

It could've been an entirely different story if Sherlock had simply argued with him for the sake of arguing – then John could endure all the bickering and finally pressurise the obdurate hermit into going out, but John clearly saw that both times he dredged up the idea it left Sherlock moody and scornful, and even more impossible than usual. The bad mood wasn't solely about pouting in bed, but was a heart-breaking sight to behold. Periodically glancing at Sherlock over the rim of his laptop, John saw his lips twitch ever so slightly and his fingers worry the edge of the blanket nervously before he faced away from him, turning to the wall. It was then that the doctor realised that Sherlock wasn't reticent out of a grudge, but because he was afraid for his voice to break and betray the emotions which weighed him down.

Right now, by the looks of it, Sherlock wasn't really angry with John; he simply tried to get a grip on himself. John figured that a walk in a wheelchair for Sherlock would mean something of a public testament to his disability and an obvious evidence of the reality of what happened to him. He figured it would also be a sign of resignation, an acknowledgement of the possibility that it could be a long term circumstance, or even a forever circumstance. In any case, John promised to himself to drop that issue at least for the nearest few weeks.

Naturally, John had made a few attempts to suggest they could take up the investigations again. Well, simple ones to begin with which wouldn't require any active going out or chasing. John's idea was met with a decisive no and he for the life of him couldn't get out of Sherlock the reason for why he was so dead set against it; and just like that, the rest of the day passed in a cross silence.

After suffering a shattering fiasco in his endeavour to at least partially bring Sherlock back his favourite spouse, work, John started to ponder over how he could readjust the chemical lab in the kitchen to its owner's limited capacities. Alas, remembering Sherlock's smooth, gracious movements as he performed his experiments, from time to time freezing motionless over the microscope or over one of his phials, or when he, in sweeping whorls of his dressing gown, dashed to some component he suddenly required – John realised that any attempts at experimenting in his new condition would be another upsetting testament to Sherlock's weakness and would probably push him closer into the clutches of deep depression rather than pulling him out of it. John had to discard that idea as well.

Evenings became the only bright moment in their new life. They liked the after dinner time when all the procedures were done with, and John usually turned off the overhead lighting as they sat in front of the telly. During such minutes Sherlock managed to pretend as if nothing had changed; he was lying in bed – but could persuade himself into thinking it was the couch – while John sat next to him in a chair, mildly smiling to Sherlock's facetious remarks thrown at TV programmes or movies. Sherlock adored that smile and felt childishly happy when catching John's warm expression.

Sometime around the fifth day of their return home, John found himself thinking that Sherlock wasn't the only one who required gymnastics. The doctor needed to strengthen his spine and arms. Sherlock was higher than John, and despite the scrawny constitution, his weight was well comparable to that of John's. Lately, John had to lift Sherlock up quite a lot. Mindful of Sherlock's traumatised spine, he decisively refused to limit his help to just aiding the obstinate patient in his movements from place to place, even though it often led to unpleasant arguments. When Sherlock needed to move into a wheelchair or into an ordinary chair to have a little rest from the boring bed, John always took him gently in his arms and carried where Sherlock needed him to, including small trips to the bathroom and back. So now, John took a few minutes out of each morning to work out in his– in Sherlock's room, doing a set of quite serious exercises which could be a source of envy for a professional weightlifter. Naturally, all his best intentions to hide from Sherlock this new little enterprise were doomed to fail.

"If you're so keen on becoming an invalid yourself, maybe you'd better choose a more interesting object than an altar to throw your health on?" Sherlock announced once, squaring John from head to foot with an assessing glare when he caught him red-handed after John's first morning of training.

John chose not to respond, walking past him into the kitchen to make breakfast and deciding that no answer was the best tactics when it came to conversations like this.

During the first mouth and a half they drove to the clinic once a week for examinations. Sherlock's physician, Professor Linz, was appointed as one after examining the detective on the last day of his hospitalisation when John took him home. Just as John suspected, it was none other than Mycroft who had found the best specialist for the job. The professor had grizzled hair, average height and a great deal of years behind his shoulders.

When John brought Sherlock in for a check-up the first time around, Professor Linz looked at them over the rim of his glasses and greeted Sherlock with a cordial, "Oh, pleasure to meet you, young man".

To which Sherlock responded with a reserved nod and a terse, "Good morning, Professor."

Then, to John, "Professor Linz."

"Doctor Watson." John shook the other man's unexpectedly robust hand.

"Oh, a colleague. So it was you Mr. Holmes meant when he said that at home the patient would be under diligent medical observation. Well, would you please help him onto the bed and we'll get right down to it."

With a courteous and somewhat old-fashioned gesture of his hand, the professor pointed at the hospital bed, equipped with a variety of machines and apparatuses.

John gave a short nod and with practiced ease carefully lifted Sherlock in his arms, carrying him over to the hospital bed, and helped him lie down comfortably; the examination was going to be a lengthy one. Straightening up again, John stumbled upon the professor's smiling expression as he watched them. Rolling his eyes to himself, John decided not to offend the coryphaeus of neurology by negating what had long since become the standard assumption on the nature of his relationship with Sherlock, since his remark always came out sharper than intended.

"Should I wait in the hallway, Professor?"

"By no means, Doctor. I haven't the slightest objection to your presence during the examination. You may sit over there, please."

A sly glimmer flashed across the professor's eyes.

"You know, as an old man I find it rather nice to still see living examples of very intimate friendship among young men."

Professor Linz sent another smile John's way and set to work.

A few months afterwards, during their sixth appointment the professor finished the perusal of received data and informed them that the next check-up would be due only in a fortnight. John saw Sherlock's jaw tighten at the news. After another three sessions and one MRI scan they were told to come back in a month. John couldn't tear his worried gaze off Sherlock, who schooled his features into a stoic, marked indifference when the professor heaved himself up from his desk and approached the two men.

"Look, you can't give up now." At that, Sherlock huffed out a scoff, looking away. "Yes, young man, and don't throw daggers at me. That's right, there's no positive dynamics, and I won't lie to you, it's very bad. But the chances to at least partially restore motoric functions and sensitivity will hold out for a year. And even after the year is over, nothing will be definitive. There were cases of full recovery even after a couple of years, but only when patients and their family didn't lose heart. You should hope for the best and keep fighting."

On their route back home in a car, unerringly provided by Mycroft specifically for their clinic trips, they sat in dead silence. Sherlock gazed out the window, facing away from John, while John stared down at the clenched hands on his lap. He knew what his friend felt at the moment, but failed to come up with the words which wouldn't sound like hackneyed clichés, through and through. Besides, what could he possibly say at the moment?

Fortunately, Mrs. Hudson left yesterday evening and would return only tomorrow. They wouldn't have any strength to respond to the old lady's concerned questions about the results of their latest examination. In silence, they took off their jackets, and John helped Sherlock change into his house clothes and get onto the bed. John lingered awkwardly at the foot of it, a question on his lips as he already sensed a refusal of potentially incinerating quality.

"Well, I'm going to go and make us some tea, and we could eat, too. We haven't had anything since this morning."

"Yes, I wouldn't mind," Sherlock answered in a perfectly even voice, looking up at John with indifference and shaking his shoulders noncommittally.

John walked out in the kitchen and set to taking out the cooking utensils, deciding to make dinner as well while he was at it, keeping in mind that it had already darkened outside and they were hardly going to have another meal after that. Leaving freshly-infused tea to cool off a little in the kitchen, John scooped two plates of spaghetti and stepped into the sitting room. Sherlock glanced over at him and, bracing himself on his arms, brought himself up into a sitting position. John quirked a warm smile and handed him one of the plates, plopping himself down next to him, only not in a chair as was his habit, but on the edge of the bed. Sherlock slightly cocked his eyebrows at the maneuver, but didn't comment.

After the dinner was over, Sherlock turned to him, "John, let's skip the bathroom routine tonight. I want to go to bed earlier. Too tired of the whole day of moving and tests."

"Okay, no problem. Goodnight then."

"Goodnight."

John trudged up the stairs to his room – by that time he was spending his nights there again – and sat on his bed, fingers digging hard into his hair. He knew what the visit must have done to Sherlock. The worst of it all was his even and unperturbed attitude that evening, the way he held himself, as if nothing had happened. John was no stranger to that kind of behaviour in the line of his former duty as an army doctor. Sometimes young men dispassionately listened to the news about their amputated limbs, showing no tears or emotions whatsoever; instead they would bury their feelings as deep as possible lest there was any sign of it. John knew – he couldn't see, for the injured were usually invalided home, but he knew it could go one of several ways: it was either a ghastly nervous breakdown when pent-up emotions all but erupted onto the surface, slicing a person's sanity to shreds; or a severe case of depression. John didn't know which was worse.

In an abrupt movement, he got out of bed, grabbed his pajamas and padded downstairs to take a shower. Changing, he faltered for a moment at the doorway before striding quickly into the dimly-lit living room, his resolve hanging on a thread. Steadfastly ignoring Sherlock's surprised expression, John threw back the sheets, slid under them and settled on his side next to Sherlock, facing him and taking him gently by the shoulders, pressing closer. Sherlock found himself speechless for a minute.

"John, what—"

"Sssh," John stopped him right there. "We're both feeling like shit now. I don't think that sleepless tossing and turning in separate rooms and staring into darkness is the best way to spend that time. If you don't mind, I'd very much like to spend the night here, because we— I, I would feel better," John finished, his voice growing more confident as he got to the end of it.

He knew Sherlock would not be having any of the compassion John could offer. The detective, somewhere along the breaking point, took a couple of ragged breaths and, turning towards John, nestled his head on his friend's chest. Gingerly, John helped him roll on his side, setting him more comfortably in his arms and nuzzling into a tangle of black hair. Sherlock's breathing came hard and almost in shudders as though he was barely keeping reins on the oncoming sobs, and John squeezed him more tightly, soothing, trying to convey everything he thought and felt without words. I'm here. I'm here, Sherlock, and you're not alone. Just withstand this last blow. The most important thing is that you're alive. Everything else, we can survive. Everything else, we can handle.

The moment stretched out as they lay in silence, arms around each other in the dark. Gradually, Sherlock's breathing evened out and he seemed to have fallen asleep. John, however, remained awake for a while, ruminating over the thought that had taken root in his mind and rehearsing his tomorrow talk with Sherlock. John didn't see any other way out – he needed to engage Sherlock in investigations again. Otherwise, Sherlock, who had been so strong for the last couple of months, would simply surrender; today he was stripped of all hope, and his minimal chances for recovery were slimmer than ever even in John's opinion. John realised very well that work and the thrill of the chase, of the riddle, the triumph of the brilliant intellect were part and parcel of Sherlock's life, its axis, and a man who would lose his… John had a sudden memory of himself saying "Nothing ever happens to me" and looked at Sherlock's sleeping face, at his furrowed eyebrows even as he had long drifted off to oblivion, and John thought that he was prepared to move mountains to not let the same thing happen to Sherlock.

As the first sunlight slanted through the curtains into the living room, John was woken up by Sherlock, who over the night didn't as much as inch away from him and now started moving, slowly blinking himself awake. Gazing at the detective sleepily, John met his bleary eyes and tried for a cheerful smile.

"Morning, Sherlock. Breakfast?"

John made up his mind to initiate the talk he had been contemplating soon after they would finish the breakfast and before the morning gymnastics, so that he could avoid depressing arguments about it being a pointless waste of time. Depressing arguments would not be working in his favour.

Over the course of the breakfast, Sherlock regularly threw glances at John, who had a thoughtful, mildly worried expression on his face, yet seemed to be doing everything he could to hide it, albeit futilely, from time to time smiling at Sherlock or even joking, quite successfully, when he mocked a radio anchor from the morning programme which Sherlock had turned on. To read the anxiety written plainly on the doctor's features was possible not even from the first glance, but more likely from the zero glance, for Sherlock had gleaned his friend's preoccupation a while ago from the way John dropped first his fork, and then his tea spoon. Brushing his teeth later, Sherlock not without amusement wondered what was in store for him that morning; and it was screamingly obvious that whatever John had planned would be coming straight after the bathroom routine. Finished, Sherlock wheeled himself back to the living room, picked up a random newspaper and buried in it with fake interest, surreptitiously watching John from the corner of his eye.

John briskly swept up a mess in the bathroom, then threw Sherlock's comb into his lap, and then – oh, can't be good – forgot to put a laptop next to his bed, leaving it on the desk. Sherlock was almost on the point of telling John that whatever he planned to talk about – and Sherlock knew full well what he had planned to talk about – honestly wasn't worth so much trepidation. And there he was; John stopped in the middle of the room, shoulders squared, and… No, John thought better and settled for a more equal position, sitting in a chair instead. No, not good either; Sherlock would have to face him half-turned. He stood up, went out into the kitchen, produced a moderate racket with some plates and cups, apparently creating an impression that he was there for a reason. Seconds later, John stepped back into the living room again, made straight for Sherlock's bed and perched on the edge of it. And, action!

"Sherlock," a tad unsure.

Sherlock set his paper aside and looked up at John.

"Yes, John."

"Sherlock, listen—"

"Already listening."

"Listen," he pressed. "Lestrade phoned me up a couple of days ago, and—"

Sherlock drew a tired sigh and folded his arms on his chest.

"John, in order to avoid a meaningless waste of your time, and mine too for that matter, I won't be helping Lestrade with investigations. I won't be taking private ones either. Case closed."

"But, Sherlock—"

"Case closed."

"Damn it, Sherlock! Please, just bear with me on this one, all right? Give me ten minutes of your precious time and explain to your idiot of a friend why you bristle at the very idea."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed again, grudgingly condescending to explain.

"It's glaringly obvious, John. I had the impression you were sufficiently familiar with my method to realise that it's grounded in observations and conclusions based on them. If my conclusions are construed on the observations of completely blind and poorly qualified people of Scotland Yard, then my work will become worthless, and I have no desire to stoop to that level. Are we clear now?"

Defeated, John lowered his head but then jerked it up again, a glint in his eyes.

"What about our cases below seven? I mean skype. I can always go to a crime scene myself and help you see it with your own eyes online," John gave a triumphant smile.

Sherlock shook his head.

"See, we're talking about below seven cases. Cases one could solve with a fleeting glance at a crime scene. What about the other ones, what about those where we have to talk to witnesses, put forward a question at the right moment, check some details on the basis of the preliminary conclusions? You can't arrange a teleconference, John, every time we need one. Who would even let you?"

John was on the point of answering when there was a voice coming from the door.

"Knock-knock, I'm home, boys. How are you doing?"

Sherlock pursed his lips into a thin line and turned to the wall; John, shaking his head in disapproval, put on a polite smile and spun around.

"Good morning, Mrs. Hudson. All is well," said John.

"All right then." Worried, Mrs. Hudson nodded in the direction of pouting Sherlock, mutely mouthing 'how is he?' John shrugged, while Sherlock, not even sparing her a backward glance, drawled in a bored voice.

"I'm fine, Mrs. Hudson, thank you for your devoted caring."

John looked at the old lady, pasting on an apologetic smile, and she gave him one of her own before waving a hand in the air.

"Well, I'm around if you need me."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," said John. When the footsteps receded in the background, he sighed wistfully, turning to Sherlock, "Well, why would you… Okay."

John pressed his lips into a tight line, fishing for the right wording, his fingers drumming a rhythm on his knee.

"All right, I'm going to say something and you're going to listen. And look at me when I'm talking to you!"

Sherlock turned to him, an exasperated expression of 'the world is inhabited by idiots' on his face as he looked at the doctor.

"Right. I'm sorry, Sherlock, it's just… All right. Listen, we have to admit that our life has drastically changed for the foreseeable future." Sherlock had already inhaled, filling his lungs with air to full-out respond to this, when John hastened to continue, "I'm begging you, please hear me out, okay? It's not easy to say it out loud in the first place. I'm asking you not to fill in your sarcastic commentary. Not now, please."

Sherlock rolled his eyes heavenward with a theatrical ostentation, sighing as though he were nothing short of a martyr. John ploughed on, "Yes. So, as I was saying. It changed, and lapsing into a profound depression won't be of help to anyone right now. We should adapt to what we have and learn to live by the new rules. We don't have any other choice."

"God, must you state the obvious? John, do you honestly think I don't realise all that?"

John pursed his lips, gluing his eyes to the floor, then sighed and rose to his feet.

"Look, maybe I just chose the wrong time. Okay, I need to get some shopping done. And don't give me that look, because we're really out of food, and out of syringes too. I'll be back in a jiffy."

With that, John retreated into the kitchen and, judging by the sounds he produced, closely inspected the fridge and nearby cupboards. When he had to cross the living room again, he picked up the jacket he had slung yesterday over the back of the chair. Sherlock lay facing the wall, listening to John's footfalls which slowed down at the doorway.

"Right. See you soon."

Sherlock was on the verge of snapping at him, 'Just go already. Go and give me a chance to be alone for a change!' but he held it back. A door slammed shut downstairs. Sherlock reached a hand to take his violin from the chair. He hadn't played for a while. The wooden body of the instrument felt smooth and home-like under his fingers. Lost in thought, Sherlock began plucking the strings. Despite what John might be thinking, Sherlock was keenly aware of the new order of things.

He was a cripple now. Now that he formulated and voiced that thought, it made something painfully stir in his stomach. Perspiration beaded on his forehead. Irritated, Sherlock instantly wiped it off. Invalid. He had to get used to it. John was right.

With a sheer force of will, Sherlock repressed a hysteric urge to hurl something at the wall, or bang his head against it. He squeezed his eyes shut and bit on his cheek until it was painful, until he felt a copper taste in his mouth. If only he had known it would come to this, he wouldn't have held on to that pathetic life, goddamn you Mycroft, always deciding for him, always sticking his finger in every pie.

Hating himself, Sherlock sharply pulled a string, promptly eliciting a blood-curdling squeal of protest. Mycroft had him completely taken in, not without unsuspecting John's help.

John. A chilly feeling washed over him at the thought of John. His brain was instantly filled with images: John at the graveyard, John touching a hand to the tombstone in a token of goodbye, as though it was still his old friend, as though he was patting Sherlock's shoulder instead; John with his hand over his face, hiding tears; John's haggard face, John's empty look, John's tensely straightened shoulders; John's tears of joy, John hugging him instead of punching him squarely in the face (well, he did the punching part later).

You coward, you pathetic, egoistic bastard, Sherlock chastised himself furiously as he braced his hands against the bed to lever himself up, nearly toppling over the violin he had lying on his stomach. He wasn't going to just sit there and smear snot over his face, pitying himself and his poor fortune. Back then, on the asphalt in front of Bart's, it would've been easier for John to see him with a broken spine than dead. After he returned three years later, he promised John to never make suchlike life-altering decisions on his own ever again, decisions which regarded both of their lives. Well, he didn't exactly promise it verbally, but John understood him, as he always did.

Besides, it wasn't like John had it any easier than Sherlock. However much on a spur of the moment impulse Sherlock wanted to shout the contrary, it was their life, not only his, that had gone downhill. The detective wasn't blind and could see perfectly well how much his friend was worried about him: he could see John's wrinkles which went deeper over the flow of past weeks, and he could see sleepless nights which had left their evidence under John's black-circled eyes, and he could see John's trembling hands and strained back. John's life was revolving exclusively around his indisposed friend; not even once he had gone to spend time with some of his other mates, not even with Stamford or Lestrade, instead passing all his evenings at home in Sherlock's company.

Besides, when it came to John's penchant for going out on dates with women, now there was no question of that. And where would he meet them anyway if his only pastime outside boiled down to a few runs to the pharmacy here and there? As a result, come to think of it, all this time John's life wasn't really all that different from the paralyzed detective's. And if Sherlock permitted himself to keep wallowing in a morass of self-pity, his one and only friend's life would remain a life of an invalid, too. For Sherlock knew full-well that under no circumstances John would leave him to go and build a life of his own. At best, taking into account the dearth in their budget, John would find himself a job a small distance from home, a clinic perhaps, and work hours as a therapist without taking any night shifts.

That way, the circle would close: a home with an invalid – a boring job – grocery shops – a home with an invalid. Add to it walks in the park in Sherlock's company while strolling a wheelchair. Which meant that Sherlock could– had to try to return to his work, if not for his own sake, then at least for John's. Naturally, exposing himself to occasional bullets felt a lot easier than exposing himself to compassionate looks of acquaintances or even listening to the words of condolences and sympathy, seeing as he would still have to get to crime scenes, to the lab, to the morgue. Envisioning these appalling scenarios, Sherlock helplessly threw back his head, slightly smacking the back of his head against the wooden rear, clenching his hands into fists. Then, for better emphasis, he punched the mattress, giving it one full-force blow. And another. Damn it.

After returning home, John found Sherlock half-sitting on the bed with his shut eyes. Feeling a stab of guilt, the doctor saw that he had forgotten to place the laptop within his friend's reach. Putting grocery bags right on the living room floor, John crossed the room in a few strides, picked up Sherlock's laptop and stationed it on what became its new proper place. In a matter of seconds, Sherlock flicked his eyes open, scooped up his laptop, tucking it onto his stomach, as he deftly balanced himself upright.

"I'll check my website; we need to start earning money. And you call Lestrade and see if he has anything interesting to get the rust off my brains. He'll be happy at the prospect of soon-increasing closed-case rates. Perhaps, he'll even receive a bonus and his wife will think twice about leaving him."

John froze at the foot of the bed, not daring to believe his ears. Despite himself, Sherlock slanted a sideways look at him.

"Going to keep standing there like a statue? Bring me my phone."

Coming round to his senses, John precipitated to Sherlock's room to fetch his long-forgotten, disused mobile from the bedside table. First John had been insisting on placing the phone next to Sherlock's bed so that the detective could call John, should the need arise, but Sherlock had been infuriated for some bizarre reason. "John, don't be daft. The water jug's on the table, the bucket's under the bed; I can use those single-handed, what else would I need?" he had said. In the end, unwilling to get on Sherlock's nerves again, John had had to relinquish the idea. Now, quickly retrieving the phone and its charger, he hurried back to the living room.

Sherlock was buried in his laptop. Letting his eyes feast a little more on the busy detective, John plugged the charger and placed the phone on the table. With a happy smile on his lips, he released a sigh of relief and dialed the DI's number.

- 0 -

Almost seamlessly, their life had gained the erstwhile rhythm which they both had been craving so much. The sight of Dr. Watson, who bustled around at a crime scene with his opened laptop and an earphone pinned to his ear, had soon grown to be a par for the course for police officers, although at first they kept throwing guarded and somewhat suspicious glances his way until Lestrade didn't give them a pointed look, glaring them down into getting back to their work without further interruptions.

Naturally, not everything worked out swimmingly with a long-distance arrangement and for certain cases Sherlock had to meet victims' friends and relatives in person or had to examine victims' flats for clues first-hand, since still living inhabitants oftentimes fervently protested against a camera man in their home.

On the other hand, now Sherlock had fewer qualms about private investigations, brushing them off on a less frequent basis, for since interested parties welcomed his participation they were also much more predisposed to indulge a request or two when it came to John and his laptop.

Still, they had to get used to the fact that the final stage of investigations which usually included capturing and arresting now took place without their direct assistance. Instead, they had to sit through the most exciting bit of it at home and wait for Lestrade's phone call; Sherlock drumming his fingers on his knee and John pacing in circles in the living room.

That particular kind of adaptation wasn't always coming along as smoothly as one would wish and reached its zenith during a series of murder investigations. The killer's identity had been established exclusively on the basis of Sherlock's logical train of deductions and not on hard evidence. Lestrade had been taking an entire hour to get a warrant for his arrest, meanwhile the murderer could leave the place of his current whereabouts at any moment and plunge into the hugeness of the big city for yet another unknown period of time.

Temporarily stopping his circular perambulations around the living room, John resolutely turned to the detective.

"Right. I'm going there. While they're sifting evidence and sorting out paperwork and formalities, the killer will slip away and you'll have to start over again, and god knows what kind of hell he'll cause this time."

Without another word, John was just on the verge of striding upstairs for his gun when he bypassed Sherlock's chair and his hand was suddenly gripped in a steely clutch of Sherlock's strong hand.

"The hell you are, John. The police will take care of it."

John's withering glare stumbled upon Sherlock's glittering eyes.

"Sherlock, you realise they won't be in time? They won't be fast enough!"

Sherlock increased his hold on John's wrist; his pale lips tightened.

"Three dead bodies, John, and he will hardly draw the line there. You're not going on your own, not on my watch, understand it? I won't take any more cases lest I have you risk your life in the process. Are we clear on that?"

During the first few seconds of intent glaring John was fighting an acute desire to snatch his hand back from a manacle of Sherlock's grasp and go to get his gun and catch the killer himself, yet was arrested by the possibility that the git might actually hold true to this threatening promise. Drawing a couple of deep, steadying breaths, John perched on the armrest of Sherlock's chair and locked his eyes with the detective's infuriated and inexorable ones. Behind the superficial firmness John saw a distinct jag of fear. He sighed once more and averted his glance.

After all, if it wasn't for Sherlock, the police wouldn't even know the identity of the murderer, much less his whereabouts. John was just immensely irritated at Sherlock treating him like some kind of property. Although, looking at it from another viewpoint, wasn't it John who was practically ablaze with fury every time Sherlock rushed headlong into the whirlwind of danger? When John still worked as a doctor, wasn't it him who shouted at Sherlock, not sparing strong language, to prevent the detective from getting into skirmishes before the police would come to his aid, at least during John's clinical hours?

John felt the cloud of rage ebb away, an air balloon deflated with a prick of a needle. He gave another loud sigh and patted Sherlock's shoulder with his free hand, unsure.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," he mumbled. The fingers around John's wrist unclenched, and the detective muttered something unintelligible under his breath.

That time, Lestrade had in fact let the perp slip away, however over the course of that same day the police had managed to pinpoint the place of his new abode, admittedly not without the witnesses' help and Sherlock's painstaking description.

"They're not entirely useless, John, you know. Pity it doesn't happen that often," Sherlock commented after receiving a victorious text from Lestrade on his way to the kitchen where John was setting up dinner.

They didn't mention it again, but now John wasn't as eager to detain criminals on his own as before. Everyone had their role to play, and theirs now was limited to information gathering and data analysis. And although John missed the thrill and the sharp taste of danger, he had to make do with what the new working conditions entailed. After all, Sherlock had to make do with a lot less.

A little over three months passed in the similar fashion.

One morning John padded downstairs, a yawn twisting his face. Ten o'clock wasn't the best time for dragging himself into wakefulness, given that it was only some couple of hours ago that he and Sherlock finished unraveling one very intricately concocted Internet fraud. The other day John had spent entirely on the move, armed with his laptop and skype; and then they had passed the night in rifling through the collected data. Only when they had finally sent the results over to Yarders, had they had a few quick snacks and, barely standing on their feet by that point, betook themselves to bed. A few winks wouldn't go amiss, for there was another investigation, suspended for the time being as they waited for the expert results back, ready to bring the case to a logical end.

Entertaining the idea that he might as well phone Lestrade and inquire as to when the results would be ready, John trudged into the living room. Sherlock was still asleep, lying on his back rather dangerously close to the edge of the bed, his arm swinging down and blanket pooled on the floor. At first John was in half a mind to simply scoop it up and cover Sherlock, but then was afraid to leave the detective lying so close to the edge and carefully began moving him. After all, nothing terrible would happen if Sherlock woke up. Sherlock did just that seconds after John thought it. Sherlock half-opened his blurry eyes and stared up at John, who gingerly picked him up in his arms.

"Moving you. You were halfway falling off the bed," John mumbled with a strained effort, anticipating the question.

"Careful," Sherlock said, his voice clearly displeased. "And cover me up. My feet feel cold. Oh wait, don't bother, I'm awake now anyway."

With that, Sherlock deftly balanced himself up in a half-sitting position. John propped his back with a pillow and went out to the kitchen to put the kettle on. As the water was starting to boil, John was about to make a trip to the bathroom when he had to linger right in the doorway of the living room noticing Sherlock sit stock-still, an air of tensed stupefaction about him as he stared in front of himself with rounded eyes. Forgetting the bathroom entirely, John rushed to his side, grabbing Sherlock by the shoulders with both hands.

"Sherlock, what is it?"

Sherlock's eyes were pitch black, pupils dilated, as he moistened his lips and turned to his ruffled flatmate, speaking in a coarse voice.

"My feet feel cold."

John's breath hitched in his throat, his mouth instantly dry. Letting go of Sherlock's shoulders, he threw back the covers and took the detective's feet in his hands. Sherlock nodded. Feeling suddenly utterly exhausted, John plopped himself down on the bed beside him, breathing heavily as though he'd just run a marathon.

"Oh god, Sherlock."

John's thoughts scattered, blown away as if they were shaking leaves in the autumn wind; words didn't want to form sentences while Sherlock kept staring at him with a stone-dead expression on his face.

"Sherlock, why aren't you— you should be glad! Glad! We have to— yes, we have to call the professor, yes!" As if on springs, John jumped right out of bed, swept a befuddled look around the living room, unable to identify the location of his own mobile phone at the first attempt. Then, catching sight of it, John swooped down on it like a vulture and scrolled to the professor's number with trembling fingers.

Sherlock sat in a numb daze, feeling his heart hammer at the back of his throat, feeling his stomach turn over with spasms and afraid to let the hope escape to the surface. It was only restoration of sensitivity, he told himself in a stern inner voice, trying to wall himself from overly-enthusiastic John. It didn't mean there could be a chance of restoration of motoric functions just yet.

John, in the meanwhile, finally tackled his phone and pushed the call button.

"Professor Linz? Hello, this is Doctor Watson," John spoke in a shuddering voice, making long pauses to deal with his ragged breathing, which was so uncharacteristic of him. "Sherlock here is— He's got the sensitivity back. Yes. No. Although, I don't know. We were sleeping, and he woke up, and—"

For a moment, John listened to the voice on the other end, a slight frown between his brows. "No, I haven't checked the volume. No, neither the types. But the temperature for sure! Yes, yes, of course, right away. Yes, I understand, in an hour in the clinic. Thank you, Professor!"

A new pause, a brief look at the frozen sitting statue of Sherlock. Then, "Erm, no. I would say he's in a bit of a shock. Absolutely. Yes, thanks again. Okay. We'll be right there, Professor. Thank you."

John hung up the phone. When he turned to face his friend, Sherlock stared at him with a frightening intensity in his eyes. John gave him a broad smile.

"We're going to have a quick breakfast and then right off to a check-up. The professor is very happy for you and harbours great hopes for your progress." John inhaled an abrupt breath and slowly let it out, regaining control over his churning emotions. "You're going to be fine, Sherlock."

Later, when the examinations were over, they waited in the hallway for the professor to call them back in. Sherlock was openly nervous by then, beating a ragged rhythm on the armrest of his chair and chewing on his bottom lip. John was doing everything not to get up and begin wearing the ground of the corridor, yet made himself sit still next to his friend, his spine erect with tension. Much to their relief, soon the torture of waiting was brought to an end when the professor walked out in the hallway, waving them to come back inside.

"Well," the professor gave them a sincere and warm smile. "Told you that miracles happen if only if you don't lose hope. My congratulations. In a few months you'll be racing each other."

Breathing out a sigh of relief, John beamed at Sherlock, barely suppressing the urge to squeeze him in his arms there and then. Sherlock slowly exhaled and turned to John, a somewhat flabbergasted look about his face. Then he breathed out once more and let an unsure smile spread over his lips. The professor, for his part, watched the two men with undisguised content. After a brief pause he finally gave a light cough. His 'patients' started and glanced at him as if on cue.

"Well, Mr. Holmes, if you want to start walking again sooner rather than later, you'll have to put your best effort into restorative gymnastics and physical procedures, although thanks to your friend's commendable perseverance who wouldn't stop, and I'm quoting your words here, torturing you with pointless exercises—" At that, John, already red in the face, lowered his eyes and didn't notice a fond look Sherlock sent his way. "—the state of peripheral spinal cord, according to the test results we have here today, is excellent, and it shouldn't require much time for the functions to restore. You still need to continue daily physiotherapy, and not only at home. Would you rather have it on an in-patient or out-patient basis?"

"If possible, daily outpatient visits are the best option. We seem to have a raging allergy to hospitals," John replied and exchanged understanding smiles with the professor.

"Then it's settled. You'll be expected at the reception desk tomorrow at eight. I will conduct daily examinations myself as well as monitor the dynamics."

- 0 -

In two months, Mrs. Hudson will again be grumbling at the nature of certain articles in her boys' fridge which would make a better fit in an anatomical museum rather than in a decent British kitchen; and she will be cautiously picking up a lid to peek into closed vessels which abundantly littered the table, because who knows what might spring at her from a peacefully-looking saucepan or an outwardly innocent pot; and she will carefully skirt her way around a sophisticated snare laid on the kitchen table with a blood-drenched sock thrown over it in a slightly threatening fashion; and then, late in the evenings, she will be sitting in front of her telly, occasionally listening hard for the footsteps on the stairs, while waiting for her tenants to make it back from their yet another night chase. And then, in other evenings, when the boys won't be neck-deep in one of their investigations, there will be a melodious, sweet-sounding voice of a violin, singing its beautiful song upstairs, and it will bring a serene smile to Mrs. Hudson's face as she will know that everything is back to normal in their home. Everything is all right.

FIN

Thank you for reading! :)