This is the first thing I've written for this fandom since I used to write fic for it in my notebooks back in high school XD so I may be a little rusty. And as always, I don't own the Lincoln Rhyme books and I make no profit off of writing this story.

From what the digital clock on the wall beside the door told him, it was nearly midnight. Lincoln Rhyme stretched his arms (albeit clumsily; he was still getting used to the movement) and experienced a moment of intense satisfaction at the fact that he then was able to reach up a scratch the itch that had begun irritating his cheek.

Small victories.

Across the room, slumped in what didn't look to be a particularly comfortable position, Amelia Sachs was still asleep, the shaft of moonlight highlighting her features. For the second time that night, Rhyme paused to just look at her, and with all the noise and bustle and concentration of capturing The Watchmaker behind him, with nothing else to occupy his attention, he was able to take a quiet moment to appreciate how beautiful she was.

Of course, like any other person, Rhyme appreciated beauty. He didn't find it particularly important, but he appreciated it. When it came to Sachs, however, it was important, because it transcended that lovely face. Her beauty had more to do with her intensity, her passionate drive to do her work, and her stubborn insistence to stand by him no matter how much he sometimes wondered if he held her back. There was a little smile of amusement that worked its way over his face when he thought about that. About how the one time he had ever actually expressed that wonder, she had shut the idea down without really having to say a word. It worked that way between the two of them a vast majority of the time, and Rhyme found it easier than always having to use words.

With his attention still directed toward Sachs, Rhyme was immediately aware when she began to stir, shifting into more of a sitting position and groaning. It occurred to him that he must have been unconscious for quite some time—it certainly couldn't have been a fast process to fall asleep in that chair that he could tell was uncomfortable without ever having touched it. As she sat up, Rhyme watched her stretch, push her long red hair from where it had fallen into her face, and blink heavily several times. He chose not to say a word, just continue watching her silently until she finished all of those unconscious little rituals people partake in upon waking up and then looked over at him.

Momentarily, all she did was stare.

He noted that her smile worked its way onto her face at the same moment as his. Instantly she was up, wincing briefly at what he was sure was a stab of pain in her knees from those prematurely arthritic joints. As she made her way over to the bed, their two pairs of eyes locked and stayed that way. There weren't words, not on her part, just silent staring as her eyes wandered over his arms. It was almost reverent, that silence, and he could sense her relief that he had made it through the surgery. Then, her smile widened considerably.

"About time you woke up." Her voice carried equal levels of playfulness and worry, and it struck Rhyme that sometimes she was as much of a mother hen as Thom when it came to him. The corner of his mouth quirked up in a larger smile at that.

"You say that like you thought I wasn't going to."

"For a while there we did."

"I'm too stubborn for that."

"You're telling me." Sachs seemed far more relaxed now, and as she reached the edge of the bed and stopped just short of her thighs bumping the edge, Rhyme reached out to her. There was a moment when she just seemed silently stunned, and then her smile returned. Her hand reached out as well, their fingers meeting and twining. The sensation of their skin touching was muted, but still there, especially in the fingers, and though Rhyme couldn't actually feel his body reacting, he was sure he relaxed at the touch. The two smiled at each other for a long moment, and though Rhyme could count hundreds of moments over the years when they had done so, this moment felt significant. In the silence of the empty hospital room (Rhyme was sure Sachs had only gotten permission to stay by flashing her badge), with the moonlight spilling over her hair and face, he was able to see his lover in a completely new light.

As something more permanent, perhaps.

The thought had never really crossed his mind before. He had been baggage, plain and simple, was the way he saw it. But now, he could feed himself. Probably bathe himself. He could do things that he had never believed possible again before the operation. Now, he was slightly more independent. Capable of things that human beings took for granted every day. Now, he wasn't what he would consider such a burden on the tall redhead before him. And though he had never really considered ending things, he had never given any intense thought to a future between the two that was any different than the present. Now, it was easy to give the fleeting thought promise in the back of his mind. Not for now, obviously. But for later.

"We got your letter," Sachs told him after a time of silence, of their fingers being locked. "Thom's furious."

"Good." The response drew a roll of the eyes from Sachs, which simply made him smile more.

"What were you thinking, running off without telling us—"

"I hardly think it qualified as 'running', Sachs."

"—and getting dangerous surgery without even saying goodbye? You could've—"

"But I didn't," he told her firmly, cutting off the word 'died'. "And the alternative doesn't really matter now, does it?" moving his free hand to touch the back of her hand that still held his, he could dimly feel the soft warmth of her skin beneath his fingertips, and it was unspeakably monumental to be able to stroke her in a gesture of comfort. It simply left her silent with wide eyes, and the expression was one he never got tired of.

"For now, I'll let it slide," she told him in a tone that let him know she was making a huge compromise by putting her anger aside. "You're safe. I can kick your ass when you're out of here."

"Wouldn't want to make a display of domestic violence in front of the nurses." Rhyme was feeling distinctly cheerful despite her distress. Because now, a whole world of possibilities was opened up for him, and the future seemed boundless, endless. Walking was, of course, a distant and unlikely dream, but for now he didn't need it. He had enough. Both in the sense of his newly mobile arms and the detective holding his hand and looking at him with a mixture between irritation and affection. Nothing more was said at that point, just more silent, soulful staring. Then, in a slow and deliberate motion Sachs let go of his hand and leaned down, hovering above him to slowly work her arms very carefully around his torso, being mindful of his stitches. As her face settled into the crook of his neck, Rhyme could smell her shampoo and the faint hint of perfume that she must've sprayed onto her neck that morning. At that moment, he was nothing short of content.

Slowly, a bit clumsily, Rhyme raised up his working arms and twined them around her in turn. No sensation followed; the electronic implants were not advanced enough to allow him that luxury. But it was more than enough to be able to do this regardless, to hear the soft, contented sigh Sachs released against the slope of his neck. For the first time in their long, intense relationship, he was able to return an embrace she gave him. That alone was enough to make him feel at peace, even without thinking of the enhanced lifestyle he'd be able to live now and the fact that they'd finally put Logan behind bars. Right now, it was enough. Sachs was enough.

Sachs was more than enough.

And there was still that moonlight, the only source to combat the dimness of the room. Somehow, though it cast an eerie glow, there was still something warm about that light. Though that could have just been the sheer optimism he was feeling about something besides a case for the first time in years.

For what was one of hundreds of times, Sachs climbed into the bed with him as she often did in his home. Rearranging their arms around each other again was an awkward feat, but the fact that it simply made the both of them laugh rendered that awkwardness meaningless. If the cramped nature of the hospital bed with two people in it was uncomfortable, Rhyme had no way of knowing. He was simply aware of the warmth of her in the place where her head met the space under his chin, though the rest of their contact lacked sensation. He didn't need sensation. Shifting a bit, Sachs gave him a kiss, which he was happy to return for several long moments before she settled herself back against him.

"Something on your mind?" she asked him after a time, sleepily, and it occurred to him that he had been quiet. A small, barely perceptible shrug, and Rhyme smiled again.

"The future," he told her absentmindedly, monitoring his arms visually as he chanced giving her a small squeeze. There was enough promise in that tone that her only response was a small nod, and another one of those contented sighs of hers that he loved so much as she gave him a squeeze in turn; he could sense her shifting. As they exchanged I love you's and Sachs started to doze, Rhyme felt his own eyelids too starting to droop. The last thing he was aware of before he let them close to sleep was the sight of her hair, slightly tangled around one of his arms.

It was one of the most beautiful sights he could recall.