A/N: Forgot to write it last chapter, but I'm not a doctor, so I apologize for every medical mistake (for spelling and grammatical mistakes of course too :)

This is the last part, enjoy reading :)

Part 3

The stupid antidote had been in his pocket. He had it so close all the time and didn't know it. Lestrade had cursed impressively, when he had heard it and then had ushered Sherlock into a police car.

Sirens shrieking, they had made a remarkable short time to the hospital and now the doctor was wasting it by asking stupid questions.

"Yes, I am sure," Sherlock stated, "besides what worse could it do." His gaze moved from the doctor with the needle in her hand, back to John. He looked worse than before, sweat was rolling steadily down his face. The fever was still as high as ever, having spiked up to 40,5°C. IV's kept him hydrated, but Sherlock knew, that fevers that high, could lead to brain damage. Moreover John was slightly jaundiced, his liver slowly giving out too. And Sherlock was beginning to lose hope, especially after he had seen the fresh bank of machines, John had been hooked up to.

The antidote had to work, needed to work, because Sherlock didn't know what to do, when John would die. Probably find the last bit of cocaine hidden in their flat and let his mind be carried off. While thinking of one syringe, he watched another being pushed into an IV port and the medication inside being released into John's blood stream.

Again he couldn't do anything more than wait. And he hated waiting more than everything else. Normally, he had John as his company, or his skull and lately even bad telly. But now, suited up in hospital gear, there was nothing that could distract him. So the slow peeping echoed in his head, his breathing aligned with the swoosh of the ventilator and he settled in.

At some point Sherlock must have fallen asleep, half reclined back into the uncomfortable chair, legs spread out under John's bed. It was an alarm that woke him, a sound that he couldn't place at first, but soon, too soon, his mind told him where he was and what that alarm meant. By then the place was already crowded with nurses and doctors and he was pushed aside, useless once more.

His back hit the glass window, that faced the hallway, and he felt his fingers trying to scramble for any grip, but he found nothing to hold on to. Sherlock's heart stuttered, then stopped together with John's and he found himself sliding down the wall, watching the doctors fighting for a life. Every time a charge was send through John's body, Sherlock flinched. Once, twice, three times and still the sound of the flat line drowned out the noises of the doctors.

Sherlock closed his eyes, placed his head in his hands and cursed the alien feeling of the latex cloves. He couldn't look anymore, couldn't watch his only friend dying.

He had shut the outside world out completely, had closed his eyes, had blocked his ears with his hands and just hoped that he would wake up from this nightmare. It was a soft hand on his shoulder, that brought him out of his self-build cocoon. Brown eyes stared softly into his and immediately his gaze went past the nurse and to the bed.

The nurses were rearranging equipment, setting blankets back into place and Sherlock heard the wonderful noise of a steady heart beat. Slowly he struggled back to his feet, moved shakily back to the chair, that had been pushed aside during the resuscitation, and sat back down again.

He held on tight to John's hand, still cold despite the fever and laid his head on the mattress, ignoring the nurses bustling around him and just concentrated on the feeling of starched hospital sheets against his cheek and John's limb fingers in his hand.

While John had deteriorated fast, it took him far too long improve. That at least was Sherlock's opinion. The doctors, however were pleased with the progress, especially since they had nearly given him up in the first place. The sickly yellow skin tone had changed into pale and his kidneys had started working again, so they had taken him off the dialysis machine twenty-four hours ago. Twelve hours after they had given John the antidote and ten hours after his heart had stopped.

In all the time Sherlock had not moved from John's bedside, much to the doctors annoyance, but again Mycroft and his all mighty power had helped out. Sherlock had used the nurses changing rooms to shower and had changed clothing after Lestrade had brought some over, but that were the only occasions he would venture from John's side.

Another twenty-four hours and they had removed the ventilator and had carefully pried the tape away from lids. The doctor treating John couldn't suppress a smile, when John's eyes stayed closed. A smile Sherlock couldn't quite share, because he wanted to see John's eyes open again.

He did smile tough, when they moved John from the ICU and into a regular ward. With the move Sherlock finally got rid of the protective gear and he had his own bathroom in John's room. Besides, the other bed was empty and Sherlock used that for himself to spread out. Nearly three days in that too small, uncomfortable chair and he revelled in the ability to spread out again.

It took John another two days to wake up. He had shown first signs of waking, soon after they had moved him to the ward. Sherlock had prodded at him, to hasten the process along, until a nurse found out and threatened to throw him out, if he didn't stop. Therefore Sherlock was reduced to waiting again.

The first few times John woke up, wasn't really awake and aware, so Sherlock didn't count them. While John had opened his eyes, it had only been for a few seconds, a minute at most. He hadn't been able to focus, much less answer any questions the doctors of nurses had thrown at him. The words brain damage came up again and had taken every bit of relief Sherlock had felt, when he had seen John's blue eyes again.

When he saw John blink his eyes open again for the fourth time, Sherlock moved forward so that he was sitting on the edge of the chair.

"John?" he forced his voice to sound calm.

Bleary blue eyes moved over to him and focused on Sherlock's grey orbs, "S'lock?" The voice was rough with disuse and slurred, but it was there.

A small sigh escaped the detective, before he smiled, "Yes."


If he suddenly wouldn't feel so guilty about the ruse, Sherlock would have jumped up and danced in joy. Even though it was just a word and not a sentence, it meant that John knew what was going on. The doctors could shove their brain damage to where the sun didn't shine.

"I have never been ill."

Confusion wrinkled John's forehead, "Why?"

"To catch a murderer. You got infected, when you fetched him for me." Sherlock explained. For now the short version would have to be enough. He would face the consequences of his actions as soon as John was better.

"You're an idiot." John's voice was slightly stronger, but mellow and still slurred and Sherlock wasn't sure if it was, because John was starting to forgive him, or because he was on his way back to sleep. "Why did you criticised my skills?"

Sherlock cringed at that, so not mellow, but rather because he was falling asleep again. The detective hadn't really feared this question, he had expected it and had an answer ready, he had just hoped that it would come far later. And the hurt behind John's eyes and in his voice felt like a knife into his stomach. The men and women, who were running the underworld had been more than right, because John was not only giving him an heart, he was definitely showing him what it felt to be human.

"Because you would have recognized that I wasn't really ill, no fever, no elevated pulse And you needed to be convincing to Smith."

He knew that this conversation was far from over, could see it clearly in John's eyes, but the doctor had problems keeping them open and Sherlock was slightly glad to delay this talk. There was still a lot of work ahead of him, to make sure that John knew of his confidence in his abilities and his friendship and he was going to fight for it. Because he would not lose his friend over such a stupid matter.

"Never again." John was already on his way to forgive Sherlock for his idiocy and the detective wondered, how he had earned this friendship.

"Never again, John. Never again." Sherlock whispered and watched as he fell asleep again. Carefully he took John's hand and held the warm appendage tight.

The End