When Sherlock came back to consciousness, he was immediately aware of three things. One, he had been sleeping on his back, which he rarely did. Two, he felt very relaxed, but the relaxation seemed to be masking pain. Three, someone was holding his hand.

Thanks to his time abroad, especially in Serbia, he no longer trusted moments where he woke up somewhere without remembering how he got there. He knew Baker Street immediately, the smell and sound of it, whether it be his bed or the sofa or even his chair. He'd spent the night at John and Mary's once or twice, and knew the particulars of the Watsons' guest bed and the way the light came into the room in the morning. And he knew and could identify places like the crack den he'd stayed at recently (though admittedly the latter was much less comfortable and safe than the former two).

Wherever he was now, it was none of the three. Panic immediately unfurled under the odd sense of relaxation.

Keep your eyes closed, Sherlock told himself. Use your other senses to deduce it.

He heard the gentle whirring of machines and the occasional beep. There was the subtle smell of antiseptic. The bed, while not as comfortable as his own, or even the sofa, wasn't terribly uncomfortable. And he was warm—not overly, but clearly being cared for.

All that plus the "being on his back" bit meant only one thing: he was back in hospital. That would explain the relaxation-masking-pain as well: he was likely hooked up to a morphine drip again.

Then it started to come back to him: he'd been shot, been in hospital, sneaked out, gone to the Leinster Gardens' bolt-hole, then back to Baker Street…and that's where things became fuzzy. The morphine wasn't helping him remember, nor was it making his head particularly clear. Must adjust the drip when given the opportunity.

Onto the last factor: someone was with him. But now that he knew where he was, he deduced whoever it was wasn't a threat.

So. Adult hand, most likely male by the size. Not Mycroft, for obvious reasons. Not his father, because while Mr. Holmes had no qualms with affection—especially when his youngest son had nearly gotten himself killed again—his hand was larger than Sherlock's. The hand wrapped around his fingers was smaller than his own. If it wasn't immediate family, then it could only be one person.

John.

Ah, yes. And while John was prone to bouts of sentiment, he wouldn't be holding Sherlock's hand in hospital—more for his own comfort than Sherlock's—unless they were alone. So, no captors, no terrorists, no police, no Mycroft even. Sherlock was safe. They were both safe. It would all be fine.

Sherlock was just about to open his eyes and say as much when, over the soft beeps and white noise, he noticed other faint sounds. Irregular breathing. An occasional hard swallow and gulp for air. Congested sinuses, resulting in nearly imperceptible sniffling through the nose.

John was crying. Almost silently, but he was positioned close enough to Sherlock for the telltale signs to be noticeable.

This realization brought on a new set of deductions. Sherlock assumed he hadn't been unconscious for long. It was probably within the same day, though likely much later at night, when no visitors would be stopping by. And if he woke up on his own, he was clearly stable, so there would be fewer check-ins from medical staff. It was just the two of them, with Sherlock presumably sleeping, and so John would feel comfortable giving in to stress and grief, for just a moment.

Upon considering John's emotional state, Sherlock suddenly recalled the full situation of what caused it. Mary had shot him, Sherlock had almost died, and then had left hospital to confront her. That was at Leinster Gardens. John had been there, too. Then they'd all gone back to Baker Street and Sherlock had seen John angrier than he'd ever witnessed, even after the detective had returned from the dead. Which was saying a lot. But John expected that kind of deceit from Sherlock. Not Mary. And that's what he'd said: "She wasn't supposed to be like that!"

Quite a shock to the system, really.

Then Sherlock had gone into cardiac arrest, and almost died, again. And if the detective remembered correctly, just before that happened John was failing to see the logic in thanking Mary for saving Sherlock's life because she'd also been the one to shoot him. "Mixed messages," Sherlock had admitted.

Sentiment or not, it was no wonder John was reacting like he was.

Despite his friend's obvious distress, Sherlock opted not to open his eyes. If he suddenly intruded on John's breakdown, he knew what would happen: John would immediately stop, bottle up whatever stress remained, and become horribly embarrassed for being caught in a vulnerable moment. And Sherlock wasn't good in these situations anyway. He felt emotions, but didn't understand them; therefore, he knew he was terrible at providing effective comfort. Logic didn't work in moments like this. It was better, then, to give John what he needed: time to purge the anguish, the perception of privacy while doing so, and the comforting knowledge that his friend was alive.

Keeping his eyes shut, Sherlock breathed deeply and evenly, as if in sleep. Sighing softly, he turned his head away from John, giving him slightly more space to do what he needed to do (and attempting to look a bit less corpse-like flat on his back).

Sherlock had almost fallen back to sleep by the time he heard John take a few deep breaths, steadying himself. When John sounded almost normal a few moments later, Sherlock gave his hand a brief squeeze and turned his head. He waited until he was facing John before slowly opening his eyes.

John's chair was parallel and pushed up next to the hospital bed, but he had twisted himself around so he was facing Sherlock. The older man's eyes were bloodshot, but he gave a genuine smile in relief. "Finally awake, yeah?" he asked softly.

"Only just." Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "So, the short version is...not dead...again."

John lowered his head and let out something caught between a laugh and a sob. "Yeah," he choked out, patting Sherlock's hand before removing his own. "I know we need to see each other more, but...maybe less in these circumstances?"

Sherlock chuckled, then turned to stare at the ceiling.

"What time is it?"

John looked to the wall on the clock. "'Bout four a.m. You've been out a while."

"Yes, regarding that," Sherlock reached over and adjusted the morphine drip, lessening the flow.

"You'll regret it," John warned.

"I've had worse. Need to think clearly."

They sat in silence a moment.

"I'm sorry for all this," Sherlock said finally. "Could've waited, I suppose, but—"

"No," John interrupted, his voice tight. "You don't apologize. You don't apologize for this. It's her fault, not yours. It's her..." John's voice broke off and he looked away, scowling at the wall.

Sherlock observed his friend, trying to find a suitable response. Relieving the solider from his post seemed the best solution at the moment.

"John. I appreciate that you've been here all night. But I'm fine now, and you need rest. Go home."

John looked back, his expression something between amusement and despair. "'Home'?" he repeated with a dark laugh. "And where is that, exactly? To my wife, who's actually a stranger to me? A murderer who almost killed my best friend? That 'home'?"

But she had a reason, John, I know she did. She's not who you thought, but that doesn't make her evil. Sherlock's mind provided the rebuttal, but the morphine kept him from arguing, so he simply acquiesced, "If not there, then Baker Street." A pause. "You know it's always there for you."

John shook his head. "I just...can't, right now, Sherlock. Not tonight." He settled back into the chair, his intent clear.

"That won't be comfortable," Sherlock remarked.

John smirked. "I've had worse," he said, echoing Sherlock's earlier reply. "Anyway, thanks to Mycroft, it reclines."

Sherlock chuckled and lay back, closing his eyes. He no longer felt tired, but John needed rest and, ever the doctor, wouldn't unless he believed Sherlock to be asleep. After a few moments of quiet, Sherlock heard John's breathing even out, soft snores beginning, no doubt due to congestion lingering from his earlier breakdown.

Sherlock felt the light mattress move slightly and turned his head to the source. John had kept his hand closest to Sherlock—the one that had been clutching at his hand earlier—on top of the bed.

It was John's left hand, and now it was shaking slightly.

Sherlock was rubbish at providing comfort, of that he was certain. He'd been told as much in the past, by many people. In Sherlock's defense, John was just as bad at accepting comfort. But John was asleep now, so if he did it wrong...Sherlock reached over and placed his hand on top of John's. It stilled immediately.

"It'll all be fine," Sherlock said softly. "I promise, John. It will all be fine."

From other mouths to other ears, that statement was simply a meaningless platitude. But not Sherlock to John. It was a reminder of the vow he'd made to the three Watsons. He would be there for all of them, no matter what. First thing in the morning, he'd start making that promise come true.

For now, though, Sherlock closed his eyes. Maybe he did feel tired after all. He meant to let go of John's hand before falling asleep, but didn't. As he drifted off, the weight of his best friend's hand in his own echoed its own promise.

You're safe. We're both safe. It will all be fine.

Author's Note: thank you for reading! Reviews, thoughts, and constructive criticisms are greatly appreciated.