Cool hands are stroking his wounded temple. Cool, inviting hands that are oh so familiar, but who do they belong to? Whose hands are they? Surely he wouldn't feel so comfortable if a stranger were handling him in such a way. These hands, he knows, belong to somebody he trusts.

"John… hear me? Can… hear?… John!"

John hears a voice echoing through his mind.

"…'m here... open… eyes… wake up… need… wake up…"

John's thoughts are swimming in blackness. He can hardly make sense out of these words.

Those hands… they are caressing his head. He feels safe. He feels peaceful.

"John."

He can hear his name. He doesn't want to open his eyes. He only wants those hands to caress his vulnerable form a little bit longer.

"Don't be an idiot."

Words are forming sentences. They come from a voice he knows. He knows this voice. That deep, baritone.

"Open your eyes, John. Wake up."

This voice beckons him to leave the comforts of unconsciousness.

But those hands… they also beckon him to stay.

"Wake up, John."

He hears these words clearly. They sound so desperate and scared. And yet, they are delivered so calmly.

"Please."

And this is when John decides he needs to wake up. He is needed. His eyes squint as they let some light filter through.

"You can do it, John."

The voice is so encouraging now. He fights the urge to slip back into unconsciousness. But somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows those cool, gentle hands will be there when he wakes up. He knows. He knows.

His eyes open a little bit more now, adjusting to the light.

He blinks once.

He has completely emerged from the blackness. Everything is blurry, including the newfound light.

He blinks twice.

A clearer picture starts to form. He can see the outline of a body.

"Almost there, John."

That voice. It is closer now.

A third time.

The blur has dissipated. He can now see things clearly. His eyes settle on one thing and one thing only. That familiar figure. That familiar face. That voice. Those hands. He knows now. He knows things are okay now. He knows he is safe, because he knows who owns those hands that are now squeezing him into a tight embrace.

"Hello John," the man says with a relieved smile.

John manages a weak smile.

"Hello, Sherlock."