Disclaimer : Still not owning it.

AN: Probably of no interest to you, but I got my AS exam results yesterday. Five As! I'm so happy.

28 reviews for two chapters – thank you all, again! Please enjoy, this was quite a difficult chapter to write so I hope it turned out okay.

Someone is sat next to Sherlock.

...everything I have to say has already crossed your mind...

The someone shifts in their chair.

...probably my answer has crossed yours...

A long pause; too long, Sherlock's hesitation is obvious...

Sherlock can hear beeping.

...you won't do it...

...oh?

...nope...because all of us go up...

It's very irritating; he wishes it would go away.

...I should warn you...you are sadly misinformed...

The explosion is so loud, he thinks his eardrums might actually break; there's pain and noise, then the blissful quiet of the pool where all sound is muffled, but he needs to breathe – he's far too light-headed for it to just be the oxygen though...something is wrong...

Which of the noises he can hear are real? He can't tell...

...evening...

...John – what the hell?

...stop his heart...

...what people DO!

All of them are very vivid, and at the same time seem from very far away.

...did I really make such a fleeting impression?

...I will burn you...

What's that beeping, anyway? Is it the bomb? But no; the bomb hasn't made a noise. Not until Sherlock buries a bullet in it, anyway.

...Sherlock run!

...burn the heart out of you...

...Jim? Jim from the hospital?

...making me dance...

He wishes he knew which part was real. It's all very muddled; is this what normal people's heads feel like? Sherlock doesn't like it. Why are things happening out of order? And why does his whole body seem to ache?

...you won't do it...

This is wrong.

Sherlock is not a cliché; he doesn't look like he's resting, he doesn't look peaceful, he doesn't look normal. Were it not for the hospital room, the wires and tubes and machines, he would not have appeared simply asleep.

His brow is creased with a frown; his eyes are moving rapidly under their lids, and his hand twitches; no. Not his hand. His finger – his trigger finger. John knows what Sherlock is dreaming about, and a fresh wave of hatred for Moriarty sweeps over him because this. Is. Wrong.

It's wrong because Sherlock was the one closest to the pool, he should have had a better chance – because right now it feels like Moriarty has won, whether or not he survived, because Sherlock just shouldn't look like this.

He shouldn't be so frighteningly pale, he shouldn't have to have machines to tell them whether his heart is still beating normally, he shouldn't be covered in so many bandages, the chart shouldn't read gunshot wound, abdomen, major blood loss, it shouldn't say broken ribs, it shouldn't, it just shouldn't!

Sherlock should be awake, and scoffing disbelievingly at the sheer stupidity of everyone around him...he should be awake to be rude, to be sarcastic and brilliant, unpredictable, insufferable, eccentric...

And coughing.

John jumps, calls for help and automatically tries to extract the intubation tube but he is pushed aside as a stout, grey haired doctor rushes in and takes instant control, ensuring quickly that he is breathing on his own and running a quick check on his vitals. Seeming satisfied at least that he isn't about to go into cardiac or respiratory arrest, she speaks.

'Sir, are you alright?' She asks loudly and slowly, as though speaking to a person either deaf or extremely dim; John winces, hating that Sherlock of all people is the one to be spoken to like that. 'My name is Doctor Fircroft; can you tell me your name?' She flashes a light across his eyes, checking pupil dilation. Apparently pleased, she steps back and scrutinises him with her hands on her hips.

'Sherlock Holmes,' is the hoarse reply, as he blinks to rid himself of the blind spots the torch has caused. He looks irritated; somehow, this is a relief to John.

'Do you know where you are? Do you remember what happened to you?'

'Yes. To both,' Fircroft raises her eyebrows. John smirks.

'Well?'

'You asked...' he stops, frowning and wincing away from the brightness of the room. 'John, you tell her.' Fircroft looks at John, perplexed.

'You asked him whether he did or not; you didn't ask him to tell you what he actually remembered.' She still looks doubtful. 'He's being pedantic, it's a good sign,' John sighs, but he's smiling,

'You're going to have to tell me yourself Mr Holmes; I'm not curious, I'm trying to assess your mental state,' Sherlock raises a painful eyebrow at John, who shrugs helplessly. Sherlock groans.

'Hospital; bomb.' Speaking is painful, so he restricts his answers to her questions as far as possible to being single words.

Do you know what date it is? What's your brother's name? When's your birthday? How many fingers am I holding up?

On and on the questions seem to go, so dull that it's barely worth Sherlock's effort to reply, but he manages to pass Fircroft's test eventually and both he and John breathe sighs of relief when she pronounces him recovering, checks his painkillers, and leaves.

Sherlock closes his eyes and leans into his pillow. It hurts to talk. It also hurts to breathe, but he supposes he can't really avoid that; his throat is raw from the intubation tube and the pain in his chest is far too much to simply be the stress on his lungs of jumping into the pool; he suspects broken ribs.

'I'm –' John begins uncertainly, 'I thought you were dead. At the pool...you collapsed...' Sherlock opens one eye,

'I'm not.'

'I'm glad.' Sherlock's smile is almost nonexistent, but it flickers on his face long enough for John to notice.

'You too,' Sherlock suddenly says awkwardly; John frowns. 'You know...I mean – I'm glad that you're...'

'Thanks, Sherlock.'

For a long time neither of them speak and John takes the opportunity, while Sherlock has once more closed his eyes, to consider his friend's injuries. Sherlock is still extremely pale; his face and arms are littered with minor scratches and when he moves, he does so carefully, wincing as pain flashes through his chest or abdomen.

John cringes as guilt, like a physical pain in his already over burdened body, washes over him. This is his fault – if he had just been more careful, if he had seen, if he had thought – but that's stupid, of course it isn't his fault...if Sherlock hadn't seen it coming, how on Earth was he supposed to? But he could have fought harder, he could have refused to go into the pool in the first place – and be killed. Anyway, Moriarty would have found someone else. He could have pulled Sherlock away, insisted on leaving before Moriarty came back, instead of just collapsing to the floor...but how was he supposed to know that Moriarty was coming back? He –

'Shut up,' mumbled Sherlock grumpily,

'I didn't –' John stops, rolling his eyes. It's easier not to argue the point, and besides, he's so glad to see Sherlock conscious that he hardly cares what he says.

'Not your fault,' The Detective continues, his eyes still closed, frowning, 'and you're giving me a headache.'

His mouth twitches into a smile and he opens his eyes, ever so slightly, to see John's reaction; John can't help but smile back.

'I'm sorry.'

'Shut up.'

Both of them look up as the doors at the end of the ward open; Lestrade waves away the nurse following him irritably, looking tired and annoyed, but he manages a brief smile that looks more like a grimace as he sees them.

'Glad to see you're awake,' he says to Sherlock when he reaches them; John notices the dark shadows under his eyes and doubts he's slept since yesterday.

'Moriarty?' Sherlock asks before anything else can be said; Lestrade shakes his head grimly.

'We've scoured the whole area but there's no sign of him, alive or dead.' John eyes widen and for a moment fear grips him with surprising force so that he has to concentrate to hear what's said next, trying to control the rush of images from the last two days which threaten to envelop him, actually glancing down to assure himself the sudden weight he feels isn't the bomb jacket back – to make sure there are no tell-tale red lights on his chest.

'He's alive.' Sherlock states, and there's a quaver in his voice John has never heard before, though his face remains impassive as ever.

'It would seem that way,' Lestrade replies carefully, 'though I wouldn't like to say for certain just yet.'

'Oh don't be stupid,' snaps Sherlock, 'he knew what I was going to do the moment he stepped back through that door; he must have had an escape plan.'

'But...Sherlock...' John says, though he knows Sherlock is probably right. He always is. 'We know he didn't jump in the pool, and how else would he have escaped?' Wishful thinking. He tells himself. He knows, he's known since he woke up in the hospital yesterday afternoon, that Moriarty would have survived...things just can't be that simple.

'Do we John? We were a little too preoccupied to notice, don't you think?'

John starts to say something, but stops himself; he can't argue. How can they know what Moriarty did when the bomb went off? He, for one, was far too focused on ensuring both he and Sherlock survived – he hadn't spared a thought for Moriarty, and a man like that...he would have had other ways of getting out of there, John is sure of it.

He shudders.

Sarah visits later, though only briefly. She's tearful and relieved; John is quiet and guilt ridden. He should tell her to go. She's already seen how dangerous he obviously is to be around, and it isn't fair to expect her to put up with it too – but he doesn't say anything. He can't bring himself to.

She kisses him on the forehead when she leaves, promising to be back soon, smiling at him...John returns the gesture stiffly but if she notices anything unusual, she doesn't comment. Probably putting it down to his injuries, John decides. Or she's already made up her mind to leave, and hasn't told him yet. He won't blame her if she does; she should. It's safer for her. And why?

Moriarty.

Breathing hard, he realises he's clenching his fists so tightly his hands hurt, and slowly uncurls his fingers. He won't let Moriarty win. He won't. James Moriarty is not going to rule his life, or Sarah's. He wants to think 'or Sherlock's', but he knows it's impossible...as long as Moriarty is alive, of course Sherlock will be drawn into it.

And so will John.

And Sarah, if she stays.

Fuming, John gets to his feet and begins to pace.

Sherlock once thought that being at the flat without a case was boring; now he almost longs for such a time, because at least then he can move, he can pace, he can experiment. This is terminal. Almost literally; he isn't allowed to get up and every time he tries he gets pushed back down with stern admonishments from the nurses. He wouldn't comply, but it's painful to move, so he reluctantly stays on the bed, his mind teeming.

Bored.

Where's Moriarty? He thinks hard, but he can't remember seeing him move at all...he had been in the middle of an explosion, throwing himself into a swimming pool, he tells himself. Even the great Sherlock Holmes can't be expected to notice everything in those circumstances.

He's reluctant to say so without more evidence, but it seems naive to assume that Moriarty would have returned without a fool-proof escape plan. He's too good for that. The flicker of admiration Sherlock feels at, for once, having an adversary even close to matching him in intelligence, is quickly drowned by annoyance; he doesn't like losing.

Bored.

He doesn't like just laying here either; he entertains himself, once or twice, shocking passing hospital staff by announcing what he has deduced about them. Their reactions are typically predictable; one doctor scowls and leaves, muttering about arrogance and invasions of privacy. Another is astonished and overjoyed when Sherlock tells her that her husband really is sorry. Although, unfortunately, the affair did still happen.

It isn't enough though, and he feels he might go mad with the tedium. All the noises of the hospital are so repetitive and irritating; he wants his violin, but the doctors won't let him have it. His visitors are restricted, so he doesn't even have the opportunity to talk to John. Even one of his flat-mate's 'crap telly' shows would be welcome now.

'Anything yet?' Asks John; two days searching since Sherlock waking up have so far revealed nothing, and the only development is that Sherlock has been moved out of ICU, though his movements are still restricted to prevent him causing damage to himself. Lestrade shakes his head.

'We've combed every inch of the area, I think we have to accept that somehow, this Moriarty escaped.' It's the answer they were both expecting, but Lestrade notices both Sherlock and John react with disappointment; fear skims across John's features and Sherlock frowns, apparently deep in thought.

'He must be injured,' Sherlock mutters, more to himself than either John or Lestrade. 'He can't have moved fast enough not to be caught by some of the blast...might even need medical attention.'

'I've checked all the surrounding hospitals –'

'Do you really think that Moriarty is just going to walk into a hospital and ask for treatment? He, unlike some people, is not an idiot.'

'Well then what do you suggest?' Lestrade asks, forcing his voice to remain calm.

'Run a check of all the local pharmacies – break ins, thefts, anything. He'll have done it quietly – he won't want to draw attention to himself if he's weakened. Anything that looks professional. He may have taken small amounts from a number of places to avoid suspicion – not personally, of course, he'll have someone else do his dirty work.'

'Or,' begins John slowly, not wishing to make himself look a fool by challenging Sherlock, 'he might have made it look like something...you know, kids or something. Or junkies. To throw us off.' Sherlock looks surprised, but pleasantly so; John feels a flicker of pride. Has he just impressed the mighty Sherlock Holmes?

'You're forgetting one thing,' Lestrade says, 'he thinks you two are dead; if that were the case then we'd have nothing to go on. He probably doesn't even think we're looking for him...' he trails off under the simultaneous hard gazes of John and Sherlock. The detective is rubbing off on the doctor, he thinks; usually only Sherlock manages to make him feel quite this stupid.

'He'll know,' John says quietly. Sherlock says nothing, pushing away his tiredness roughly. Now is not the time.

'How?'

'He just will. He probably knew...' John half glances at Sherlock, partly concerned about Sherlock's quickly stifled yawn and partly asking for reassurance that he isn't about to say something wrong, 'he probably knew we'd survive when he came back in.'

'Well then why bother? What's the point in threatening you if –'

'To mess with us,' Sherlock's voice is angry and determined, 'to entertain himself.' There's an odd look on Sherlock's face now; a mixture between understanding and, if John didn't know any better...he would say guilt. Then Sherlock leans back onto his pillow, blinking his weariness; sleep is an irritating human need, Sherlock decides, one he would much rather do without.

'Come now, come on!' Doctor Fircroft comes bustling over immediately, flapping her hands in a shooing gesture, 'Mr Holmes needs rest, you may come back later!' Lestrade nods, assures them that he will look into any pharmacy thefts, and leaves. John lingers. 'Come now, Doctor Watson, you may return later! You will do no good distressing Mr Holmes by keeping him awake!' Her voice is firm, but kind, and John turns to go, then pauses. He's surprised Sherlock hasn't spoken up his defiance at ordered solitude.

'You aren't him, you know,' he says quietly. Sherlock raises an eyebrow, 'Moriarty. You aren't him.' John clarifies, 'you're bored; he's bored. You catch murderers; he creates them.' With that, he turns to leave. He doesn't see the tiniest flicker of gratitude on Sherlock's face as he does.

The knowledge that Moriarty is almost definitely alive and plotting his next move against Sherlock makes it impossible for John to sleep that night; he lays awake for hours, staring into the darkness and trying to convince himself that the feeling of being watched that plagues him is paranoia and nothing more. He's jumpy, restless, and angry, and the feelings keep him awake, thoughts and speculations swirling in his head, howling like the wind that batters the window of the hospital room...

He's not sure if he eventually drifts into a fitful sleep or not; if he does, his dreams are much the same as his waking thoughts and when he wakes it's still dark, but there is someone in the room. Moving near the foot of the bed.

'Hello?' He cringes at the uncertainty in his voice. He's a soldier, for God's sake! Taking a deep breath and focusing hard on steadying his voice, he tries again, 'who's there?'

The dark figure doesn't speak, but it moves to the side of the bed and John feels, more than sees, his IV line twitch.

'What are you doing? What is that?' Something shiny – a needle? Glints in the darkness; panic shoots through John and he struggles to sit up, tangled in bed sheets and trying to grab the figure's hand. He feels the IV line twitch again, the needle heading towards it, and heavy exhaustion begins to settle on him. His eyelids droop against his will, and the harder he tries to remain awake, the faster he slips into unconsciousness.

It's early when Sherlock wakes in the morning, only shortly after dawn; the light has that dim, grey quality that lingers after sunrise and the hospital seems entirely still. It's oddly relaxing, though Sherlock has never been one for silence. It's boring.

He turns his head on the pillow and spots something on the small table next to his bed – keys? Lying on a neatly folded square of paper. A sense of foreboding grips Sherlock as he reaches for the keys, wincing as his ribs protest the movement. His scoops them carefully into his hand, holding them like glass as though afraid they might break.

John's keys.

Much faster, he grabs the paper; it crinkles in his hand, which is almost shaking in its urgency, and he unfolds it. The handwriting is neat. The sentence is only six words long.

Burn the heart out of you.

AN: In review format, please place votes for/against a sequel! (Will, if written, be called 'M for Moriarty', or if you would prefer will simply be added to this fiction.)

On a side note, out of curiosity...to anyone who is a fan of the show 'House' – is it me, or have you noticed certain similarities between Holmes & Watson and House & Wilson? Also, take a look at the answer Wilson gives to Kutner in the episode 'Joy To The World' (S5,E11) about the supposed sender of the mystery green present...brilliant!

Looking forward to your thoughts! Sorry for the long author's note...