Thanks to Ennui Enigma for the initial idea.

000

"Now let me hold your hand.

I want to hold your hand."

Lennon/McCartney

000

The tentative touch of a hand on her shoulder pulled her halfway out of her nightmare with a gasp. Subconsciously, her own hand reached up and grasped the hand that was gently shaking her, but immediately she let go and pushed it away. Even in her sleep, she knew that this was not John's hand, and she only wanted John. The persistent beeping of the monitors and the antiseptic smell filled her senses. Dragging herself into full wakefulness, she opened her eyes and looked at Sherlock in a haze of confusion. The studied look of irritation on his face barely concealed his concern. Mary was not fooled.

She looked around at the hospital room and reality slammed into her awareness with a ruthlessness that took her breath away. She had fallen asleep in the armchair by John's bed. John. John, whom she'd almost lost today. John, who was the entire world. The events of the day crowded back into her mind all in an instant: Greg's call, informing her that John had been stabbed in the back on a case that morning; Sherlock in a frantic state, covered with John's blood and going into shock in the hospital waiting room; and then all the waiting. Waiting to see if John would survive the trauma and the blood loss of his wound. Waiting to see if his surgery would be successful. Waiting for him to be released from recovery. And now, they were waiting for him to wake up.

"You were dreaming," Sherlock informed her in accusing tone. "I didn't mean to startle you, but you were crying and . . . sobbing . . . audibly. It was annoying."

Mary palmed the tears from her face and smiled at him, interpreting his remarks to mean that he was worried about her and wanted to make her feel better. She hoped she had not hurt his feelings by thrusting his hand away so abruptly. She and Sherlock had spent a good part of the day holding hands, trying to comfort each other as they waited for news of John.

She reached over to the bed and grasped John's hand, gazing at his peaceful face. He looked so young, composed in rest. She knew sleep was the best healer, and yet she longed for him to wake up and look at her, just to let her know he was really going be all right.

"I dreamed he was gone," she whispered to Sherlock, not taking her eyes from John's face. "He promised he wouldn't leave me, but he left me alone." She turned accusing eyes to her friend. "You disappeared, too. You both left me."

Sherlock frowned. "I am not to be held responsible for what I might do your nightmares," he informed her. "Obviously John is not gone, and neither am I."

Mary laughed shakily. "Thank God for that. I'm glad you stayed with us, Sweetheart." She took the detective's hand in her free hand and squeezed it gratefully. People had been coming and going all day—Greg, Molly, Mrs. Hudson. But it was now nearing two o'clock in the morning, and they were alone, listening to the monitors and waiting for John.

Mary stood and tried to work out the kinks in her back from sleeping in the chair. "Sherlock, would you mind getting us some tea. I'm perishing for a cuppa."

Sherlock made a face. "The tea here is sub-standard at best," he protested.

"It's what we have. Unless you want to go get a take-away from somewhere," Mary insisted. "Please." She looked him in the eye, pleading with him to understand.

He stared back, deducing, and finally nodded. "You haven't been alone with him since he got out of surgery. You wish to have a few moments to yourself, I can't imagine why. I'll give you twenty minutes." He half-smiled wryly and walked out. Mary's conscience smote her. Sherlock was as terrified of losing John as she was. This was pure selfishness on her part, and he knew it, and yet he was willing to give her this bit of time. How anyone could believe the detective was cold and heartless was beyond her understanding.

She returned to her chair beside John, her fiancé of less than one week, and gripped his hand in both of hers, pressing it against her tear-stained cheek. In the six months they had been seeing each other, she had become intimately familiar with his hands, knowing each callous and tiny scar and the feel of his fingers laced through hers. She sighed and kissed his palm, holding his hand against her lips for long moment. It had been so close, and she was so grateful for his life.

This was exactly the kind of situation that she had been dreading. Two months ago, she had doubted she would able to handle such a close call. Two months ago, she was barely able to handle his being three hours late for a date! But today had been terrifying, and she had not lost control of herself. She had, she admitted, had a minor melt-down after the crisis was over and had soaked poor Molly's blouse. But other than that, she had remained strong and calm throughout—and surely she had deserved the release of that torrent of tears after being stoic for most of the day.

"We did it, John," she whispered to him. "You kept your promise and didn't leave me; and I managed not to get myself fitted with a straightjacket. You were right. I can do this. I can handle anything if you're with me."

To her joy, he stirred a bit and mumbled, "Good . . . work."

"Oh, John!" she gasped with relieved laughter, and to her horror began to weep again, hiding her face in his palm. "Thank God!"

"Sorry . . . careless. . . ." he struggled to open his eyes.

"Silly. It was an accident. Not your fault," Mary was laughing and crying at once. "Good job not dying. That was well done."

He gave up on eye-opening and let a quirky smile suffice. "Anything . . . for you."

"And you've no idea how many panic attacks I didn't have today," she added proudly.

His hand, which she still held against her face, gently stroked her cheek. "That's my girl," he murmured, drifting off to sleep again.

By the time Sherlock returned with the admittedly abominable tea, Mary's composure was intact and her face cleaned up, ready to face whatever the future might have in store. She and John would be invincible together, hand in hand.