A/N: Sorry for the long wait between updates. Hopefully the content of this chapter will make up for it. Enjoy!

Chapter 6: A Bittersweet Reunion

Early the next morning, John walks into the waiting room at the hospital. Almost immediately, Mycroft emerges from around the corner, and says, "I believe it would be best if we spoke somewhere more private."

John simply nods, and follows Mycroft down a very long hallway, to an empty room.

Before Mycroft even opens his mouth, John knows what he's about to say. "He still doesn't want to see me?"

"I wouldn't say that."

"Fine, he won't see me?"

"My brother is very stubborn—"

"No shit."

Mycroft raises an eyebrow at John's language, but then continues without further comment. "And he is in a great deal of pain—both of the physical and—well, other varieties."

John lets out a very tired sigh and fights the urge to curse again. "Mycroft, if he won't agree to see me—at least tell me what happened. You can't leave me in the dark like this."

"Very well."

John is shocked by the speed of Mycroft's acquiescence, although Mycroft immediately adds, "On one condition."

"Sure, what?"

"I would like to know the status of your marriage to one Mary Watson. Or is it Morstan again? Has she perhaps taken on an entirely new identity by this time?"

"No—we—we're separated, but I've spoken to her. We both needed space. Things have just—after everything that happened with—"

John stops, fights to regain his composure.

Mycroft nods, a signal that he knows what John is about to say, and John is so grateful to avoid saying those words that he doesn't even bother to wonder how Mycroft has gotten his information.

"We drifted apart. We were so happy at first. Mary was the best thing—well the best thing other than Sherlock—to ever happen to me. But things were so difficult—"

"It's hard for me to imagine anyone more difficult than Sherlock."

John smiles, fondly. "No, he's hard to top. But things were difficult in different ways. I don't know—something was missing."

"Or perhaps someone?"

John looks at Mycroft sharply, but he doesn't answer the question. Instead, he says, "Anyway, we decided to take a break. Mary stayed in our flat, so I've been staying on Mike Stamford's couch."

"Is that where you stayed last night?"

"Ah, no."

Mycroft gives John one of his infuriatingly knowing looks.

"Really, you can tell where I slept last night? What, is it the way my hair is mussed? Or should I just assume that you have cameras everywhere?"

"I have cameras many places, but that's neither here nor there. However, I would have been happy to put you up in a hotel, if I had known you would be spending the night in a parked car."

"So you just figured that out based on my shirt or something?"

"Nothing that clever. I confess to having an inside source. My security alerted me to the situation. I assured them that you were not a threat, of course."

"Thanks for that, I guess."

"Shall I make a reservation for you tonight?"

"What? Oh, no. I—in case anything happens, I want to be here."

"Ah, I see. Well, I can have the staff arrange a private room on this floor for you to use as long as you like. It's not what I would consider comfortable, but I suppose given your military background, you've probably had far worse accommodations."

"Yeah, at least no one will be shooting at me here. Although trouble does always seem to find Sherlock."

"I would say it's more a matter of him finding it. Although lately—but that's not a concern right now. This building is heavily secured."

"Good. That's good."

John pauses, waits for Mycroft to make the first move, and then finally says, "So how bad off is he?"

Suddenly, Mycroft looks very, very tired. He sinks into a chair, before quietly saying, "Sherlock received numerous injuries, but the worst of it, as best we can tell—he suffered a traumatic compression of the lower spine, at the T10 vertebra and because of this—"

"He's paralyzed."

"Yes, from the waist down."

At that confirmation, John sinks down heavily into the chair across from Mycroft.

Neither of them can bear to make eye contact, so John directs his next question to the floor.

"Is it partial or full?"

"Neither."

And now John looks up. "I'm a doctor, Mycroft. I know how this works."

"I do not doubt that. But as ever, with my brother, matters are not so simple."

"So there's no sign of trauma, but he can't move?"

"There are many signs of trauma, of the physical and mental varieties. After what he went through—I did my best to keep an eye on him—so to speak—while he was abroad, but at some point he went off the radar, and by the time we found him again, he was half dead. I shudder to think what might have happened if we hadn't been able to reach him—"

Mycroft grimaces, and then shakes his head slightly, as if to erase the dark thoughts. Then he continues, "It is clear that of his many injuries, there was some manner of traumatic compression of the spine, but his doctors have yet to determine any concrete physical cause behind his continued paralysis."

"It's possible that there's some injury the scans aren't detecting. Have you gotten a second opinion? Maybe I could take a look?"

"You are welcome to peruse the data for yourself, but I assure you, I have sought a second, a third, and a fourth opinion from the best practitioners in the UK and the continent."

"And?"

"Everyone has their theories, but nothing conclusive, and Sherlock has not been particularly—shall we say—cooperative."

"No surprise there." John pauses, then adds, contemplatively, "Have you considered—"

"Have I considered that there is in fact no physical basis for Sherlock's paralysis and that it is instead a mental response to the trauma he's experienced?"

"So you have considered it?"

"Of course, but alas, there is no way to know for sure, especially with Sherlock being his usual difficult self—only more so."

"So what's the prognosis?"

"The doctors believe that with time and physical therapy, there's every reason to believe that he'll regain use of his lower limbs. It is clear that there is no permanent damage to the spinal cord, so eventually the situation should resolve itself."

"But for now—"

"Yes."

"I can't even imagine—he must be—Jesus."

"Yes, as you are well aware, this news has been quite a blow to someone like Sherlock, who thrives on action and excitement—not to mention independence."

"Christ, I wish—"

John trails off.

"Yes?"

"I wish I could see him."

"There might be a way."

John's head snaps up at Mycroft's words.

"How?"

"With your permission, I might bring certain things to Sherlock's attention—"

John looks at Mycroft sharply. "What things?"

"All Sherlock can think about right now is his own misfortune. He does not want to be a burden, and his pride is preventing him from opening up to you."

"What does that have to do with—"

"I believe that if he were aware you were suffering also, it might make him more amenable to see you."

"I don't want to manipulate Sherlock into seeing me."

"Trust me, I wouldn't do this if I didn't believe it to be in Sherlock's best interests."

"In that case—"

Before John finishes his sentence, Mycroft says, "I'll go speak with him now."

And just like that, Mycroft is out the door, leaving John alone in the empty hospital room.

When Mycroft enters his brother's room, Sherlock immediately asks, "Did you send John away?"

"You should know it wouldn't be so easy."

"He's still here then?"

"He never left."

"What do you mean?"

"He spent the night on the premises."

"And you let him?"

"Well, he's hardly a threat to your safety. Quite the opposite, in fact."

"Is that your way of encouraging me to see him?"

"Would it matter if it was?"

"No."

"In that case, I will not give you my opinion on the matter."

"But?"

"Why do you assume—"

"There always is."

"But I think you should consider that you are not only hurting yourself by your refusal to see your friend."

Sherlock waves his hand dismissively. "John has more than enough on his mind with Mary, the baby—"

"There is much you are unaware of. You are not the only one who has suffered over the past six months."

Sherlock asks, sharply, "What happened?"

"You'd have to ask him."

"As if you don't already know."

"What I know is that you are not the only person who is in a great deal of pain."

"I would have known—You would have told me if John something had happened to John." Getting more agitated, Sherlock continues, "You said you would watch over him—keep him safe—"

Calmly, Mycroft interrupts. "No, it's nothing like that, but certainly you know that many of the worst hurts are invisible."

"You're being even more tiresome than usual. Stop speaking in riddles."

"If you'd like to know more, you'll have to speak to John."

Sherlock is once again staring at the blanket on the hospital bed, and so Mycroft waits, for many minutes, but when Sherlock doesn't respond, Mycroft turns to leave.

He is over the threshold, about to close the door, when he hears Sherlock say something quietly.

Mycroft turns around and says, "I didn't catch that."

Without looking up, Sherlock says, "I'll see him."

"I'll send him right in."

A few minutes later, there is a soft knock on the door, and then John turns the knob and walks in without waiting for a response.

Even though he prepared himself for the worst, John is still taken aback by the sight of Sherlock in the hospital bed, battered and bruised, unnaturally pale, and shockingly thin.

"Christ, Sherlock. You look terrible."

With a ghost of a smile on his lips, Sherlock says, "You should have seen the other guy."

Despite himself, John returns Sherlock's smile with a faint one of his own. "Was there only one?"

"No."

John sees the shadow fall over Sherlock's features, so he quickly changes the subject.

"How are you feeling?"

"Fine, never better."

"Are you lying to me? Or did you just figure out how to re-program that morphine drip?"

Sherlock shrugs and says, "Both."

Then Sherlock asks, quietly, "So, what did Mycroft tell you?"

"Not much, other than some highlights of your medical status."

"So you know that I'm a cripple."

"He said that it's not permanent."

"It could be."

"It sounded like the doctors were fairly confident—"

Suddenly, Sherlock shouts, "I don't want probably and I don't want eventually—I want now, right now."

When Sherlock is done voicing his anger, John says, "I'm so sorry, Sherlock."

"Why?"

"Because I know how hard this must be for you."

"You have no idea."

"I—"

"Maybe you would be fine with this—maybe this would be okay for you—but not for me. I'm trapped, in this room, in this body. I'm useless and damaged and wasted, and I don't want your pity."

"You're right. I'm not you, and I've never had anything like this happen to me. But I know you, Sherlock. I know you well enough to know how hard this must be."

Sherlock doesn't say anything in response. He just stares at the floor in front of John's feet.

After a few moments of silence have passed, John asks, "Do you know how long you'll be staying here?"

"No, although Mycroft might."

"You haven't spoken to him about it?"

"I avoid all conversation with him whenever possible."

"What about your doctors?"

Sherlock shrugs.

Speaking more to himself than to Sherlock, John says, "Mycroft must be beside himself."

Sherlock immediately bites back, "Why?"

"I'm sure he couldn't possibly imagine—when he gave you this assignment—"

"Trust me, he knew exactly what he was doing."

"He knew and he didn't tell you that he was sending you off on some mission impossible—"

"Don't be so dramatic."

"This isn't me being dramatic, Sherlock. You almost died. And you're telling me that Mycroft arranged this without warning you—"

Quietly, Sherlock says, "I knew."

"Wait, what?"

"I knew where Mycroft was sending me and why. I knew everything."

"How could you know and not tell me?"

"It was better this way. And besides, I did tell you, in a manner of speaking."

John pauses and goes back to his memory of that day, to the words that were spoken.

The last conversation I'll have with John Watson

Some undercover work in Eastern Europe

Six months, my brother estimates

After that, who knows?

And just like that, the reality hits him.

"When you said lasting 6 months—"

"Yes."

"You meant, you would only last 6 months, not the assignment."

Sherlock nods.

"For Christ's sake Sherlock, how could you do that to me? How could you walk off to a death sentence like that—"

"I had no other choice."

"How could you—you almost died, and you didn't even say goodbye—you didn't even—"

"I tried."

"Oh really? That was you trying?"

"Yes, and you barely even noticed! All you cared about was your wife and that bloody baby. "

"Emma."

"What?"

"That's what we were going to name her."

"Were?"

John nods.

"What happened?"

"I—I don't want to talk about it."

"Oh—so it's not okay for me to keep my own confidence, but if John Watson wants to keep things all locked in, that's no problem at all."

"Please, Sherlock, just leave it."

"You know I can't do that."

"Of course you can."

"If you don't want to tell me, that's fine, but the minute you leave the room, I'll just ask Mycroft."

"Can't I have a little bit of privacy? Is that really so much to ask?"

"You're the one who practically begged to be let in here! What, now that I'm a cripple, you're done with me?"

"No, Sherlock—that's not it at all. It's just—"

"Something happened."

"Yes."

"To Mary?"

"No—well, we don't know exactly. Sometimes these things—they just happen."

"Birth defect?"

"Edwards syndrome."

"Trisomy 18."

"How could you possibly know that?"

Sherlock looks vaguely embarrassed. "When I found out you and Mary were having a baby, I may have conducted a little research on the matter."

"You researched birth defects?"

"Among other things."

"So are you telling me you were reading child psychology books too? Googling the pros and cons of attachment parenting?"

Sherlock looks away, but doesn't respond.

Despite himself, John starts to laugh.

"Is it really so funny?"

"No, not at all. It's actually quite—"

Sherlock sends John a warning glare, so John stops himself from saying sweet. Instead, he says. "Thank you."

Sherlock shrugs, and then he waits, until finally, John starts to share.

"It's more common with older mothers and especially when the baby is a girl. Usually they catch it sooner, but with everything that happened—"

"Everything?"

"Yeah, with Mary, and you—"

Sherlock flinches, almost imperceptibly.

"I didn't mean—I'm not blaming you. Jesus, my wife—Mary shot you. How could that be your fault?"

Sherlock can't help but notice John's mid-sentence correction, but he doesn't remark on it, simply filing it away for later consideration.

John takes a deep breath. "By the time we went in for the scan—the ultrasound, it was—there was nothing to be done. Well, they couldn't have done anything anyway, but if we had known sooner—"

"You might have been able to termin—"

"Yeah."

"So it—she was stillborn?"

"No, worse than that."

John didn't expect to tell Sherlock this—he didn't expect to tell anyone about this, but now that he's started, he can't seem to stop.

"Mary—it was worse for. She went through 24 hours of labor, and the baby—Emma, she wouldn't even make it that long."

He didn't intend to say any more but something about the way Sherlock just waited, staring at him intently—with concern, but not pity, and without useless words like how terrible or what a tragedy or even worse she's in a better place now. Just knowing that Sherlock is there to listen is enough.

"We knew, there was nothing that they could do, and so we told them not to—that we didn't want—"

"No extraordinary measures."

"Yeah—they said that there was nothing that could save her, and I didn't want her to suffer.

"She was so small, and—and there were so many things wrong with her, so many problems—but she had this perfect little nose. And I loved her. She was my daughter—our daughter."

John takes a deep breath, before continuing, in a rough, hoarse voice—

"All I could do was hold her, while she struggled to breathe, while she took her first and last breaths. All I could do was hold her, and tell her that I loved her—that we loved her—that we would always love her. I wish—I wish I had the time to tell her about the nursery we made for her—that we decided on yellow walls, because Mary didn't want pink. We picked out a stuffed elephant for her first toy. We had already started to talk about moving to a bigger place, out in the country, where we would have a yard. Maybe we would get a dog. We had already gotten into a fight about whether she would be an artist or a scientist. If she would want to go to Oxford or Cambridge.

"We had this whole life planned for her, and then just like that, our world crumbled. Me and Mary—we both fell apart. We couldn't bear to be around each other. It was just so hard. I—It was like before—when you died. There was nowhere to go—nothing I could do. I couldn't escape. I was so alone."

John can feel tears welling up, threatening to fall, so he clenches his eyes tightly, but all that does is bring back images of that day, and being here—in a hospital, a different hospital, but still—those familiar scents and sounds—it's too close to reliving that nightmare.

Sherlock waits until John has opened his eyes before saying, "I am so sorry, John—sorry about Emma, and sorry that I wasn't there."

"But you're here now."

"I am."

John takes a deep, shuddering breath, and with forced levity says, "Look at me, I'm a wreck. Please, distract me with something, anything."

Sherlock pauses, staring out into the distance contemplatively, before saying, "I was reckless—overconfident. I misjudged the situation. And I—I was wrong."

"What? I don't understand—"

"That's how this happened."

"Oh."

"Yes."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No—not now. But I maybe—we can, later."

John says, "I know—I know that emotional displays aren't really your area, and I didn't want to burden you after everything—but it's good to—I missed having you here, to talk to."

"As I remember, I did a lot of the talking."

"When you weren't being silent for days on end."

"Or that."

"It doesn't matter. I'm just glad to have you back."

"I wish I could say the same."

"A bit harsh, don't you think? Christ, if you didn't want me to—"

"Oh, no, don't be stupid."

"Ah, now that's even better."

"I'm happy—it's good—I don't not want you here."

John rolls his eyes at Sherlock's inarticulateness.

"Well with a sentiment like that..."

"I mean it, stay as long as you like. It has nothing to do with you. It's me—this body. I don't want to be here, like this."

"I know, Sherlock."

Without even thinking, John reaches out, and takes Sherlock's right hand in his, and instantly Sherlock holds on like the contact is a lifeline, gripping John's hand so hard it almost hurts.

But John doesn't pull away. All he says is, "I am here, Sherlock. And I'm not letting you leave me again."

Sherlock can only nod in response, because suddenly a lump has developed in his throat, and the ability to speak seems to have left him.

But John seems to understand, because he doesn't say a word, he just waits, and when Sherlock loosens his grip, John lets go too, but he doesn't get up. Instead, he reaches for the remote, turns on the telly, and says, "I'll just stay here for awhile longer, if that's okay with you."

Sherlock is so grateful to John for offering to stay, because it saves Sherlock from having to ask him to. Instead he says, casually, "Be my guest."

Sherlock doesn't bother trying to keep up with whatever vapid show John is watching, because almost immediately he finds himself overwhelmed by exhaustion, so taking comfort in the familiarity of John's presence, he allows his eyes to close, and as sleep prepares to swallow him up, the one thought echoing in his mind is—

Finally, I'm home.

A/N: Finally some Sherlock/John scenes! I really hope you liked this chapter. There is definitely a good dose of angst, but I tried to balance it out with some bonding between the boys.

I have no idea when I'll get the next chapter out, but I haven't forgotten about that letter Sherlock wrote in Chapter 2, and as the story progresses, we'll find out more about what happened to Sherlock when he was on his mission. And of course, what would a Sherlock story be without crimes to solve?

Stay tuned! And please leave a review if you get a chance! I've really appreciated all the feedback I've gotten on the story so far :)