John awoke and struggled for a moment to place where he was. The bed was unfamiliar and the room was dark, so dark that his eyes adjusted much more slowly than normal. It was not his bed at home, and the texture of the darkness was all wrong.

His left shoulder throbbed and for a moment, he thought the weather was changing and causing the old wound to act up. He shifted, then hissed, and the memories poured back from that day – the previous day? He had no idea what time it was and the room gave no clues – no clocks, no windows. He had a vague memory of being woken up by someone he didn't know and being fed codeine. It had either worn off or wasn't quite enough, and it lacked the flying-high sensation of morphine.

He was resting on something that wasn't a pillow and he let his eyes dark upward, making out a figure in the dimness. It must have been early morning, John decided, but had no real idea. He was stiff from having slept so long and more than a little uncomfortable. His head was cradled in Sherlock's lap, something that John normally wouldn't mind; in fact, he very much enjoyed sleeping curled up with his husband, but something was very clearly amiss.

Sherlock had one hand resting lightly on John's right shoulder, the good one, and he was sitting up, back against the wall. His other arm was propped on the wall at the elbow, his left hand resting absently on his lips. From what John could see, his face was turned toward the same way, staring at it.

He was absolutely still.

That was what John had sensed. Even when asleep, John could usually feel a restive energy from Sherlock which he always attributed to how quickly the other man's mind worked, as if neural connections themselves were able to give off radiation. The only times John had seen him truly still were either in a very deep sleep, delta sleep, when the body was regenerating, or in the hospital when he'd been unconscious.

He'd never seen Sherlock that still while awake before.

John raised his head gently, grimacing at the flare of pain in his shoulder. It was difficult to tell, but he thought they were the only people in the barracks – he'd been able to place where they were now. None of the other bunks had the telltale rolling shadows that indicated they were occupied.

He lay his head back and looked up.

"Sherlock?" he asked gently. His voice sounded loud, and hoarse, in the stillness. Sherlock shifted then, looking down at John, but John could not see his gaze, only the movement of his head. "What is it?"

His husband didn't reply, but turned his face away again.

"Oh, Lord, the boy," John whispered. He could remember, hazily, someone telling him that they had found the woman, Holly Merkley. Had it been when he'd been awoken for codeine? He had no idea. The memories were murky, as if viewed under water.

"No," Sherlock replied in a quiet, even tone. "We found the boy. He's at the hospital with his mother."

John frowned, fighting awareness of pain in his shoulder. It was difficult to think, to concentrate, and he had to focus on words before speaking them.

"Then what?"

Sherlock was silent for a long moment and John wondered if he was being ignored. But then Sherlock told him, his voice unnaturally calm and without inflection. John listened in horror, closing his eyes, willing it not to be true.

A young police officer and Mike Merkley.

"I didn't see it," Sherlock said, in the same flat and emotionless tone.

"No one did," John replied, opening his eyes again and looking up through the darkness. He knew how little difference it would make.

Sherlock didn't respond, but kept staring at the wall. John was at a loss, wracking his brain for what to say or do, but it was difficult to think around the shock of what he'd just learned and the stabbing-needle pain in his shoulder. He closed his eyes, wishing he had more codeine, or even more morphine.

The door opening softly caught his attention and a block of light from the corridor spilled gently into the room across the floor, so that the figure who stepped in was only a silhouette for a moment.

"Doctor Watson, good to see you awake," a voice said quietly and the door eased shut somewhat. John recognized the young constable from the previous afternoon, Sam Waters. "Can I get you anything?"

John was about to ask for some painkillers, when Sherlock turned his head slightly, not quite looking at the other man.

"We need a car. I need to take John home."

Shock coursed through John; he had been expecting a row and then a trip to the hospital, but not this. Sherlock was not even thinking about the hospital, he could tell. John wasn't even convinced he needed it, but he knew Sherlock had been, and had not expected a reversal of opinion so quickly. And without merit.

"All right," Sam replied before John could say anything. "I'll get that sorted."

He left, closing them in the darkness again and John felt dizzy or uncertain, distracted by the pain. He wanted to take charge of the situation, but couldn't focus or find the right words.

Sherlock said nothing, staring at the shadows, silent and still.

(End)