Now: Sherlock Wakes in Hospital

My throat is dry.

This is my first observation. It's followed closely by sounds and smells one can only find in combination in a hospital, and the soft and clean feel of hospital sheets wrapped around me.

I hate it.

I force my eyes open. They feel swollen, as though I've been sleeping for weeks. Maybe I have. I can't tell. For all I know, I've Rip Van Winkle'd my way into the next century. I touch my face to assure myself there are no wrinkles. The act takes great effort and I shut my eyes wearily as I let my arm fall back to the sterile white sheets.

I haven't gotten a proper look at the room yet. My brain is so foggy. I turn to my left where I can hear the gentle hum of some kind of monitor which I can only assume is hooked up to the things I feel on my chest, forehead, and stuck into the back of my left hand.

Right again. A morphine drip.

A hand slips into my right. Rough, strong, John-sized. I turn to see who owns it and my Doctor Watson is there. I choke back a sob. He only smiles at me. "I was wrong," I say.

"That's a first."

"Yes," I say. "Either there is something after death or you weren't dead to begin with."

"Some kind of sedative," John acknowledges. "Moriarty's shooter really was a crack shot. Managed to miss any vital organs. Well, nicked a lung a little bit, but nothing to slow me down."

"Ah," I half-laugh, half-cry.

I want to burrow into him, I want to hold him, but mostly importantly- I want to be around him.

"I'm sorry," I apologize.

John shrugs uncomfortably. "Nothing you could have done. I think I've made a deduction of my own, Sherlock."

"Have you then?"

"Yeah," he says with a bittersweet smile. "You might be proud. Very impressive for an idiot."

"You're not an idiot."

He looks at me, holding my gaze for a moment before shaking it off. "You, uh. You said that if someone had killed me, you'd find my murderer and torture him to death."

"I did say that."

"But Moriarty's neck was broken. Fast and clean."

"Maybe I intended to go after the shooter," I suggest.

"No," John shakes his head. "We both know that no matter who pulled the trigger, it was Moriarty. No, you wanted to kill him, but he managed to get that morphine into your neck before he died. The dose he gave you was massive. Would've killed anyone who didn't have some kind of tolerance."

John stops speaking a moment. There's something he wants to say about my apparent tolerance, but he continues, "You knew you were fading fast. You had to do it then or risk losing him for months, years, maybe forever. You chose to stop him instead of getting your revenge."

"I still won."

"Yeah," he agrees, but the smile is gone.

I squeeze his hand in mine. "Well reasoned," I praise him. "No idiot could have pulled that off. Only a consulting detective like yourself."

He blushes with a little laugh and I feel my heart warm and my hopes rise. "I didn't do so well without my partner," I admit.

"No," he agrees. "You still won, though."

I don't have an answer for that. "Did I?" I query bitterly.

"No case is yet left unsolved by the great Sherlock Holmes."

I have no answer to that.

John sighs and withdraws his hand as he sits back in his chair. Everything inside me goes cold, even as I take in his rumpled clothes and unshaven face. He's slept by my bedside for at least one night. Two, by the state of his beard.

"Shall I go then?" John asks.

"If you intend to go back to whatever it is you've been doing these past two months, then I think it would be for the best," I say simply.

"Do you mean working at the clinic?" John asks incredulously. "Of course I'll be working at the clinic. It's my job. People need me there."

I may not be people, but I need him, too. "Then I guess it would be easier if we didn't have to prolong this, as the longer you stay the harder it will be to…"

"What?"

"To just sit here and watch," I snap angrily. "I don't even enjoy solving cases anymore, and it's your bloody fault!"

"What?"

"It's not the same!" I spout off. "It's just me now, isn't it? No John tagging along to-"

"What?" he interrupts. "Take notes? Admire your massive intellect?"

I shake my head. "I never had a problem with being alone until I knew what it was like to not be. You're the one person who ever treated me like a person, and… Well, you've made your views perfectly clear. So, leave. You should just… leave."

John stands and everything inside me stops.

"I've made one last deduction, Sherlock."

"What?" I ask, wishing he would get it over with.

"You're an absolute imbecile."

I scoff. "Well, if that's-"

He touches my face and I can't speak. "I left because I didn't think you cared."

"Of course I care," I whisper and my stomach gives a painful lurch.

"Fooled me," he says. "Honestly, I was tired of feeling like one of your experiments, Sherlock."

"No," I promise. "No, you were never-"

He places two fingers on my lips to stop me talking. "No need to explain," John assures me. "The rest is just transport."

He leans in and kisses me gently. I lift my head, dying for more, but he breaks away too soon. "Goodbye, Sherlock."

He starts to walk away. "Wait-" I strangle out.

"I may come when you call, love you unconditionally, and even play fetch when you need a phone from your own pocket, but I am not a dog you can kick about as you please."

"No," I agree.

"Goodbye, Sherlock."

"I love you," I crack. He freezes.

Finally, it hits me. I know why I love John. It isn't his praise or admiration or impressed audience. It's the simple fact that he was there, sharing it with me, believing in my potential for humanity.

"You love me," he repeats and I can't read his tone. His back is to me. "Do you even know what that means, Sherlock?"

"Maybe not," I admit. "But I know that if I've ever cared for anyone, it's you. And I know that I've never experienced a pain like the pain I felt when you gave up on me."

"I didn't give up on you."

"Yes," I insist, "you did, John. You called me inhuman and walked out."

"I didn't call you inhuman."

"Fine," I sigh. "You said I had no feelings. I don't know which is worse."

His back is still facing me, and it's infuriating. He doesn't speak again, so I continue. "John, if you're going to leave, you should leave. I was only hoping that… The kiss… Are you going to do anything, John? Please, just…"

I think about telling him that I won't do this again, that I'll probably give myself enough morphine to kill an elephant the second I'm home, but I don't want him to return to 221B out of obligation. I don't want pity. I just want him.

He turns to me, eyes shining. "You're a bloody idiot."

"Occasionally true."

"How much morphine must you have been taking, Sherlock?"

"Not enough."

"Bloody idiot."

I don't reply again. I'm waiting for him to either leave or… Whatever he plans to do if he doesn't leave.

"If I should walk over and kiss you right now?"

"Just as I did a minute ago, I'd kiss you back."

"And when you should get bored of me?"

"I won't."

"How do you know?"

"Because I'm Sherlock Holmes and I know everything."

John laughs a little, and then does as he threatened. In spite of the energy it takes, I reach up and pull him closer. I think a tear is running down my face and I burrow into his neck. "Are you staying?" I ask.

"I thought you knew everything?"

"Doesn't mean I don't want to hear it."

"I'm staying."

"Good."

A/N: So that's the end. I'd really love to know what you thought of it.