"I can't trust that you'll stay out of trouble even while you're in the hospital, can I, Sherlock?"

Sherlock growled. " 'o 'way, Mycruff…" he slurred. He twisted his body in frustration in the bed.

"Well, I'm sure it will be no surprise to you that your little playmate got away," Mycroft went on. He had changed positions. He was standing in front of the window, presumably. Sherlock could feel John tense up next to him. "I regret that I wasn't able to mobilize my reserves quickly enough, and we all know how very reliable our friends at Scotland Yard are…"

Sherlock swallowed against his dry throat. He reached out and managed to knock a glass of water onto the linoleum floor. He felt John cringe at that.

Mycroft's voice suggested a frown. "Anyway, you have your friend from the morgue to thank. Her quick thinking in response to Dr. Watson's messages was enough to get security mobilized for an ambush at least."

John was clicking on his phone. He let go of Sherlock's hand. " 'ow…" Sherlock tried to say around his raspy vocal cords. He cleared his throat. "How did you know?" His voice was weak and wispy, but comprehendible.

Sherlock's phone announced a new text and John opened it for him. "I GOT A PLAY-BY-PLAY OF YOUR WHOLE CONVERSATION WITH MORYART." A pause. More clicking "JIM."

Sherlock smiled at the implausible luck. "He didn't hurt you…?" he asked solemnly.

A throat cleared. A breath was inhaled. Then, "No."


They requested a visit from Molly, in which John gave her a hug and Sherlock patronized her, but only a little. Mycroft left soon after Molly did, promising to keep away any investigators looking for a statement.

John, still exhausted from his injuries, but too keyed up to leave Sherlock, climbed into bed with his friend. The pair intertwined fingers and rested, both of them excited at John's returning speech. It was all something to be sorted later, after a lot of sleep and recovery.


Sherlock woke up before John, light from the window bright against his face with the setting sun. It was uncomfortably warm with the surplus of body heat and Sherlock found himself trying to inch away without waking John unnecessarily.

He rolled onto his side and a flash of silver blitzed across his brain. It was so startlingly out of place that Sherlock wondered if the drug he'd been given was some form of hallucinogen. Then, there was a streak of bright white, and Sherlock's eyes opened. And everything was there. Strands of hair across his left eye, cream walls, white sheets, metal rails on the bed, the uncomfortably bright window…And then, to his right, was John. Sleeping, docile, exhausted John.

His phone announced a new text. Acting on impulse, Sherlock grabbed for it and read his text, actually read it.

I couldn't bear to win by default, Sherlock. The game is still on. JM.

"John…" Sherlock breathed. Then, with excitement, "John!"


Sherlock was cleared to leave the hospital at once. John would have to stay an extra night and assumed that his flat mate would be rushing home to use his regained sight to hunt for Moriarty. Sherlock surprised him by setting up a miniature command center on the small sofa in John's hospital room. He had casually explained that with his laptop and mobile, he could work just as well as he could from home.

At around midnight when John had exhausted any desire to watch anymore television, he noticed Sherlock slumped over the glowing screen of the computer. Unable to make a very loud request with his mouth, John threw a paper cup at Sherlock and hit him dead on the chin.

Sherlock startled awake and looked at John, confused. "Bed," John croaked, patting a small sliver of mattress at his side.

"It's a little cramped sharing a bed with you, John," Sherlock said, remembering how uncomfortable that had been the night before. "I'll just clear away my things…" He began shifting the computer.

John coughed. "You…skinny…I can…suck it in…"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at that. "Oh, really?" he said, grinning at John's unfortunate choice of words.

This time the TV remote hit Sherlock squarely in the chest, which was the equivalent of a polite invitation to John's bed.


In the middle of the night when John was half-asleep and Sherlock was just leaping out of a nightmare, their lips found each other powerful, hasty. John awoke quickly, kissing back with intensity and grasping the back of Sherlock's neck with his hand. Sherlock clutched at John's back desperately, the nightmare of his friend's death fading from his mind. A tear rolled off his face, landing on John's cheek. John broke the kiss and nuzzled into Sherlock's neck, whispering comfort.

"It's over," he said. "We're okay."

Sherlock rested his chin on John's head. "It's never going to be over John."

In the faint light of the moon, John lifted his head and Sherlock saw his eyes sparkle. "I hope not."


Marill: I'm so sorry this took so long! And sorry to make it end like this. But hopefully everyone enjoyed the ride! Happy holiday! :D