Disclaimer: I do not own BBC Sherlock.

He feels consciousness fall away gradually.

He orients himself first, fixing where is up and which way is down. He locates his head, a roiling mass of thoughts and fog, then his body, and finally his limbs. He sorts out textures, like what is soft yet firm somewhere against his back. Nothing hurts, exactly. He feels heavier, like his bones are made of concrete and lead runs through his veins in place of blood. It takes him a few more blurred moments to organize his thoughts further, they rush past with nothing but mere glimpses to focus on.

He reaches out and grasps on to a distant beeping, holding on to it for dear life. It's a central, exact focal point and he takes it in and surrounds himself with it. He draws the sound closer and it's like he's rising from the depths of the ocean, feeling tendrils of water smoke sleep roll off. Not completely, though, they hold him fast in a hazy half-awake state.

He opens his eyes.

Briefly, everything is white and his thoughts race and he wonders, but then he blinks, once twice three times and he hears a sharp intake of breath that is not his own.

The whiteness is really just a ceiling, a ceiling of tiles at that andcertainly not heavenly vapor, no, of course not.

Somewhere beside him, John Watson is crossing the short distance to his bed and oh god he's in a bed, he's in a pastel room and something among the fog clicks and he's in a hospital. Everything is eerily familiar and yet alien all at once. The haunting feeling of deja vu overtakes him, no, no, something is entirely not right.

John notices the panic on his stricken face. "Hey," he says gently. "Calm down, it's alright." His voice is there and soothing and more real than anything Sherlock has ever heard in his life, he takes hold of that lifeline and breathes.

He tries to swallow but it hurts, and how long has he been out––what happened, John, tell me, what did I take this time?

A cup of water approaches him and he's not aware enough to feel his dignity slipping away as John holds the cup, a straw between his lips and this isn't water, it's gold. He sips and swallows and coughs and sips and sips and coughs again and alright, that's enough now.

The tendrils are gripping him tighter now, dragging him back under. He fights he fights he fights he stops he succumbs.

John is relieved, John is happy, John is over the moon.

He watches his friend slip back into sleep but this time that's fine, because Sherlock will be alright, Sherlock will be okay. He wants to cry from relief and exhaustion but he just smiles into his hands and stares at the pale pale man.

He leaves the room to try and find a doctor and phone Mycroft and tell him that Sherlock will be alright, that Sherlock's fine.

The doctor tells him that, unlike in the movies, people don't awaken from comas all of a sudden, that it'll take a few days until he's fully up and responsive, did he say anything? No? Well that's alright, that happens sometimes, and John knows all this (he's a doctor, after all). When the doctor leaves John phones Mycroft. The elder Holmes says that the news is good, that he'll find his way over to the hospital later. John can't read his voice, can't tell if he's as relieved as he is, but he must be.

He texts Lestrade and goes down to the cafe and he gets a cup of coffee he's built up a begrudging resistance to, but he still adds half a dozen sugar packets to it. He texts Lestrade who says that they're just finishing up in the field, he'll drop by as soon as he can.

John walks the wide white familiar hallway to the room and enters and freezes and he's hyperaware of his movements, his breath, his blinking, his heart in his ears and the cup crashes to the sterile tile floor but he doesn't notice, he approaches the chair by Sherlock's bed where he had sat too many hours.

On it sits a box, cheerily wrapped in red metallic paper and tied with a big silver bow, so tragically unassuming. The tag reads 'Get Better Soon!' in curly handwriting.

With shaking hands John removes the lid.

A syringe is tucked away inside, the tip just barely discolored with a drop or two of dried blood. It rests on a bed of soft velvet, like it's some hideous piece of jewelry. On the inside of the lid there is a card that says

I thought he'd never wake up!



and John is shaking John is shaking John is crumbling.

A/N: sob

this is really awful I'm sorry 8(

and really LATE

I understand if you all hate me

thank you for reading and waiting until I updated, I'll be more regular in the future

I accept all sorts of questions and comments and reviews and critiques, I want to hear if you love my story and if you hate it.

Thank you so much for reading.