Disclaimer: Sherlock and Co. are still not mine. Nuts! It's so not fair.

A/N: I think this is the last chapter of this story. It is for now anyway. I'll open it back up when I finish the one that immediately follows it maybe but for now this is the end. Thank you for reading. Review if you like. And thank you to Redhood for the review. Glad you like my stories.

John

Sherlock had moved his pacing to the hallway outside the door of the room they were settling John in. The idiots that Mycroft had hired wouldn't allow him in the room until they had all the equipment hooked up to his husband. It was completely unfair. He knew what John needed better than they ever could. John needed him.

He'd only caught a flash of that beloved face. It had been pale, paler than he'd ever seen it and John had been unconscious. It was an image that would haunt him and he knew it wouldn't allow itself to be deleted like any other unwanted and unnecessary data. Nothing about John was ever deleted. He'd tried before but every minute with John or about John resisted deletion.

"Mr. Watson-Holmes?" A soft voice called to him from behind and he spun around to face the speaker.

"Yes." Sherlock told the short, squat Asian woman in the white lab coat.

"I'm Dr. Fugikama. You're brother called me in to monitor your husband's condition," she explained to him in excellent if slightly accented English. "Dr. Watson-Holmes is doing as well as can be expected in these circumstances and it will only be a few more minutes until you will be allowed in to see him." She kept her voice quiet and respectful.

"In these circumstances?" Sherlock asked, beginning to feel alarmed at her wording.

Dr. Fugikama sighed. "I'm sorry Mr. Holmes but there seems to be a bleed somewhere. It's not big and we don't believe it to be life-threatening yet." She hurried to reassure him when his eyes widened. "We don't know where it is and we won't without more tests but we know it's there because his blood count isn't rising as it should. We're going to monitor him and hope that it fixes itself. If it hasn't slowed by tomorrow we'll do the tests. We will monitor him very closely between now and then."

"Will the vein be able to repair itself?" Sherlock asked curious. "His records said there was an infection. Will that impact his body's ability to repair itself? How long until the bleed becomes life-threatening?"

Dr. Fugikama gave him a small smile. "I love talking to people that understand medical speak," she told him. "It should repair itself but we don't actually know. The human body is an amazing thing. Sometimes if the person's will is strong enough, like Dr. Watson-Holmes' apparently is, the body will survive injuries that should have seen them dead instantly. Dr. Watson-Holmes has an amazing will to live. I'm sure you could gather from the report that he was seriously wounded." Sherlock nodded painfully. "And yet he survived what should have been a killing shot. I firmly believe that he will come through this, Mr. Holmes. I also believe that he will make a full recovery. Luckily the damage from the bullet is minimal in muscle damage. It shattered his scapula and pierced the artery but somehow only nicked a few muscles in the shoulder." She patted his arm and Sherlock controlled his instinct to back up. "He'll be just fine, I know it."

"While your faith is commendable we do not give our patient's families false hope here at Sister Agnes'," a dark voice interrupted them.

"Pardon?" Dr. Fugikama tilted her head at the intruder and glared hotly. "And just who are you?"

"I am Dr. Ronald Pelter. I'm in charge of Sister Agnes'." The man told her pompously. Sherlock tuned them out and turned to watch the activity in the hospital room through the small window in the door. He was confident that the short, fiery woman would handle the arrogant doctor with no problems.

"Mr. Holmes?" A male voice asked at his shoulder a few minutes later.

Sherlock turned his head and took in the red haired man in the black suit. "Mycroft finally sent guards. Good."

The man gave him a smile and a nod. "Yes sir."

"Mr. Watson-Holmes," Dr. Fugikama eyed the black suited man and then turned her attention to the room and then Sherlock. "They're finished. You can go in now."

"No, he cannot! I have not yet examined my patient." Dr. Pelter insisted. "I must examine him before he can have visitors. And if this man's attitude doesn't change he will not be allowed in. Attitude is the first step to recovery." Sherlock snorted softly.

The man in the black suit stepped in front of the irate doctor. "ID please, sir." He held his hand out patiently but there was an icy coating to his voice and eyes.

Sherlock tuned them out again and slowly opened the door of John's hospital room. Quietly he entered and the bustle of people filed out leaving him alone with John.

With cautious steps he approached the bed that held the only person whom he had ever loved with everything he had. His eyes and brain catalogued every single change in his husband and his breath caught. He'd come so close to losing him. Never again, he vowed. John would not ever come that close to dying again, not if Sherlock could stop it.

"Sher…lock? Is…that you?" John's voice was rough and slightly slurred.

Sherlock took the last two steps to the hospital bed and scooped up the hand that was lying on it. "Yes, John, I'm here."

"Good. The fire…didn't get you."

Sherlock briefly wondered what that meant and then decided it didn't matter, John was drugged to the gills on pain killers, antibiotics and who knew what else. "No, John, I'm perfectly fine."

The hand in his squeezed weakly and dazed hazel eyes met sorrow filled grey ones. "Love you," John said. "Glad…you're here."

Sherlock blinked the blurriness from his eyes. "I love you too."

John smiled and stared. "You cryin'?"

Sherlock raised John's hand to his lips and kissed it before cradling it to his cheek. "No John."

Hazel eyes fluttered closed. "Tired," John sighed.

"Sleep then," Sherlock whispered. "I'll be here when you wake."