Sherlock lounged in one of the fake leather chairs outside of the room that they had detained John in. He drummed his fingers against the overly-lacquered wooden armrest, desperately wishing for a cigarette. But John would never forgive him, and besides, even the great Sherlock Holmes wouldn't be able to argue his way into smoking in a hospital.

He had been sitting in those chairs for what was creeping into the fourth hour, moving from floor to floor and door to door. The scenery was always the same, finished wooden doors, locked sets of three or four chairs, some near-death plants, and a small stack of ancient magazines atop a low-set table. The only thing that varied -and not much at that- was the pattern of the wallpaper and the plastic fabric of the chairs. It was not much to keep anyone's mind occupied, much less Sherlock's.

Mycroft knew what had happened, of course, and Sherlock didn't doubt there would be a large amount of flowers and or balloons in John's room as soon as it was appropriate. Lestrade had been informed, as well as most of the precinct, and had called as soon as he found out. But even concern didn't make it any less middle-of-the-night. He had promised to come round with Molly as soon as they could get in, and cautioned Sherlock not to spend every waking minute there. Mrs. Hudson was to be told the next day, and maybe later than that. A worried old woman was bad when it wasn't Mrs. Hudson, and well, she was.

So Sherlock sat and thought and pretended that he could completely ignore the stomach-dropping fear that he felt every time a doctor walked down the hall in his direction. John would be fine as he always was, and that was the only thing he would tell himself.

But what if he wasn't?

This thought cropped up every minute or so, just when Sherlock had convinced himself that John would be completely and utterly one-hundred-percent fine. It was a vicious cycle that he couldn't seem to stop in any way, shape, or form.

He wasn't sure what would happen if John was no longer there. Permanently or otherwise. Life without his companion, nay, his friend, was generally blurry and forgotten about. The new memories were much more important for a reason that Sherlock was not completely clear on. Going back to a time where Sherlock and John was no longer a large part of his life was not an option. It was... Unthinkable. Ludicrous. Ridiculous. And more terrifying than anything Sherlock Holmes had ever thought of before.

He squeezed his eyes shut and leaned forward, mussing up his already disheveled hair with his fingers. Sherlock sucked in as much of the antibacterial chemical scented air as he could, breathing it out in a single stream. He needed to see John soon; he needed to know if- no. He needed to know that John was alright. Deftly and with practiced ease, he plucked the cell from his coat pocket, checking the time and looking for notifications of any kind as he had rhythmically for the past few hours. When it showed no results, the detective stood and started pacing, debating whether sneaking into John's room was worth the effort and probably being kicked out of the hospital.

Just as Sherlock was deciding that he could just come back in disguise if necessary, -it would be worth it to see John breathing- a woman in a lab coat came promenading down the dreary aisle.

Early forties. Is married, and has been for a large portion of her life. They're happy together. No kids, no pets- wait no, yes on pets. They have one, maybe two large birds. Macaws perhaps. She's rather unorganized, especially for a doctor, but it doesn't affect her work much.

"Mr. Holmes, I assume?"

"You assume correctly. Is he okay?"

The doctor seemed rather taken aback by Sherlock's straightforwardness, but regained her composure. "Yes, he's relatively stable. The bullet managed to miss any major organs, and wasn't too deep in the end. The worst was the blood loss, but it can be fixed." She seemed to want to say more, but Sherlock cut her off.

"Wonderful. I can see him now, yes?" It wasn't really a question, just more of a command phrased like one. The doctor smiled slightly, knowingly almost.

"Yes. He may not be conscious, but Mr. Watson is in room two-twenty-one." Sherlock didn't know if the hurried thank you was ever heard by the other; wasn't even sure if he'd even said it in the first place, but he was moving so quickly it probably didn't matter.

He was flying down the hall, flicking his eyes back and forth between the numbered doors on each wall. Two-nineteen, two-twenty, two-twenty-one. John.

Sherlock stopped for a second with his fingers resting on the handle of door 221, catching his breath and shoving off any excessive emotions that would concern John. With a mental shake, he stepped into the room, silently clicking the door behind him.

"John," he whispered almost involuntarily, feeling broken at the sight of him. John Watson was angled awkwardly in the room's bed, hospital gown covered by the crisp white sheets that lay over his legs as if he were a corpse. A cannula curved around his ears and ended in his nostrils, tubes going every which way to the happily chirping machines surrounding him. An bag of dark red liquid hung ominously on a pole above John's head. His eyes were closed, but Sherlock stood in the doorway for a moment watching his chest rise and fall with each breath.

When Sherlock relaxed, hanging his head and letting his shoulders drop, he was shocked to feel tears running down his cheeks which he wiped away quickly, moving closer to John's bed. He stood next to the edge of the bed, sliding a chair under his legs before carefully gripping John's fingers in his own. Sherlock could still feel those nails digging into his skin through the material of his coat. It felt like decades ago. "John, John, John, my Watson," he murmured reverently. Sherlock wiped more pesky tears from his face, the feeling suddenly taking over. Relief. More than relief. There wasn't an english word for how Sherlock felt then.

"John, I'm so sorry. So sorry." he breathed in unsteadily, and leaned over, resting his elbows on the vinyl mattress and pressing John's hand to his cheek. "You're alright, you're okay, John. Everything is fine because you're fine. John, John, John, John." Sherlock sat hunched like that for a short while, holding John's hand to his face and saying his name repeatedly, tears falling off his cheeks onto the cloth of the bed. He sniffled a bit and attempted to regain his composure.

Feeling John's pulse beating steadily under his fingers and being told the same thing by the bleeping computer screen next to John's head was enough to suck the adrenaline away. Sherlock suddenly felt exhausted, the past day's activities catching up with him in bone deep sapped energy. Gingerly placing John's hand back where it had rested, Sherlock stripped his own coat off, throwing it over the back of one of the other chairs. He settled back in his chair, carefully collecting John's right hand in his left.

"I'll be here when you wake up, John. And you better wake up. Just because I said you could sleep doesn't mean you never have to come around." Sherlock paused, wondering if John could really hear him. It didn't matter. The words were still true. "I love you, John," he said quietly, as though it was a secret. But it wasn't a secret. It never had been.

John awoke slowly, the drugs loading his system holding him to sleep for an undetermined amount of time. When he finally opened his eyes, he found himself in a dimly lit hospital room, rubber tubes breathing cool air into his nose. Glancing around, John smiled to see Sherlock curled catlike in a chair to his right, their hands intertwined. John rubbed his thumb across the side of Sherlock's, watching him breathe slowly as he recalled yesterday's events. Wait. Was it yesterday?

For all John knew, he could have been out for days. It seemed unlikely, but he really had no way of telling. There was a schedule of sorts on the wall that probably had the date, but he couldn't see it in the mostly darkness. He contented himself with watching how peaceful Sherlock looked and waiting for him to wake up to ask.

When Sherlock roused himself a little less than an hour after John had, the first thing he felt was his hand being squeezed. Confused, he swung his head around to see John smiling at him.

"Hey," he said simply. What he was thinking was more along the lines of 'Hey, thanks for keeping me from bleeding out on the floor of a protein powder/cocaine factory basement, and sorry you that you spent an unknown amount of time probably being insanely worried about me.' But just 'Hey' was easier.

Sherlock smiled so widely it seemed to defy the boundaries of his face. "John, you're awake," he said, sounding gleeful. John still looked wrong, his too pale skin defining the dark circles clinging to his gray eyes. But they were open and John was breathing and alive and healing and alive oh God he was so perfectly alive.

"Yeah," he sighed. "How long was I out? I wasn't in a coma or anything, right?" he smiled wryly. Sherlock narrowed his eyes in concentration, not sure of the time really himself. He flicked his eyes to the clock on the wall.

"No, only a few hours," It's 10:12 now, and I was let into the room approximately seven hours ago. You were checked into the hospital at 11:07, so about eleven hours. I was so worried. "Not long at all."

"You're lying. How long?"

"About eleven." John grimaced at the number.

"And how many of the eleven where you outside waiting to see me?" Sherlock opened his mouth but John cut him off. "Be honest."

"Only four or so," he muttered, averting his eyes and reading one of the wellness charts on the otherwise bare walls. John winced at the realization that Sherlock had gone that long without knowing whether he was alright or not.

"Sherlock-"

"But you're okay, and that's all that matters." John smiled in response to Sherlock's grin, squeezing his hand like a lifeline.

"I'm probably gonna be stuck here for a while. Weeks maybe. You should go home and take a shower, maybe get some sleep." John said, leaning back on the pillows.

"Sleep is unnecessary. I'll sleep when you're healed."

"Not even you can stay awake for that long. Just go home for a while or I'll have to call the nurse and tell her you're bothering me." John almost laughed at the range of emotion that crossed Sherlock's face.

"You've only just woken up, John. I promise that once you've gone under, I'll go back to the flat and be here again when you resurface."

"Sher-" John began before he was cut off by Sherlock's look of 'Try To Stop Me.' "You are ridiculous."

"We have established this," Sherlock smiled when John rolled his eyes. "Lestrade made me promise to call him when you came to, so I'm going to do that. Be right back," Sherlock leaned over as he was speaking and said the last word against John's forehead as a sort of kiss.

At that moment, a nurse walked through the doorway, holding a clipboard. Sherlock slid by her with a muttered excuse me and an award winning smile.

"Morning, Mr. Watson," she said brightly. "I'm just here to check on you. Everything alright?" she asked as she puttered around the cords, checking screens and scribbling onto the chart.

"Yes fine, thank you."

"Feeling tired at all? Any pain?"

"Just need a bit of rest is all," he said, glancing towards the door to make sure Sherlock wasn't standing in the hall. John nodded the nurse towards him conspiratorially. "Just make sure he goes home after I'm asleep, yeah? If he won't leave just tell him it'll be better for me for whatever reason." he whispered. The nurse nodded understandingly.

"If there's one thing I can do, it's send home loved ones after visiting hours are over. That and test urine for disease," she whispered back, winking at John. He laughed a little, shifting slightly to get himself more comfortable.

"Thank you."

"No problem." She paused at the foot of his bed, fiddling with some of the papers.. "If I may say, you two are a really cute couple." The woman smiled a little before slipping back out. John barely heard her tell Sherlock 'he's all yours' before strolling away down the hall.

Sherlock strutted back into the room, staring after the nurse. "Apparently they told Mrs. Hudson and she almost snuck past the guard to come see you." He stopped and cocked his head at the still shocked look that had froze onto John's face. "Are you alright?"

John smiled a bit, shook his head, and turned to face a concerned Sherlock. "I am all yours aren't I? What could be better?" John chuckled at the pale pink blush that had spread across the mortified look on Sherlock's face. He still heard the words 'cute couple' as he reached out his hand for Sherlock's, pulling him closer for a kiss.