A/N Guys... thank you so, so much. THIRTY-TWO alerts, seventeen favorites, and thirteen reviews, all for two chapters. I can't express just how absolutely grateful I am to each and every one of you for making this story so popular (by my standards, that is ^^;). Once again, reviews would be wonderful. I hope you've enjoyed the story! Also, I'm going to shamelessly advertise a bit here- a few days ago, I posted a one-shot for this fandom entitled "The Fall," and if some of you guys could maaaybe R&R... I would be very happy. ;u; It's just a piece that I really like, and would greatly appreciate feedback for. Okay, self-promoting over. Anyways, thanks again! :D I love you all!

Thanks to LittleMissDreamer7, Aranel3, ChelGallifreya221B613, Lusca Luna, lumoscaitlin, Nina, and pixie freak

Disclaimer I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc.


Her first thought: God, I must have been drunk last night.

After all, what else could possibly explain the current state of her body? She felt like she'd been set on fire, dumped off a rooftop, and then run over by a truck after hitting the ground. Possibly more than one. No other combination of circumstances could account for the pounding ache in every cell of her exhausted body, not to mention the cottony fog that seemed to be stretched over just about every useful area of her mind. The idea of actually remembering whatever occurred before she completely succumbed to what must have been alcohol was truly laughable. Still, she pressed her mind as hard as possible, searching in all the dark corners. There had been something... with a party... and probably a party that contained no absence of wine...


Once these considerations appropriately managed to put some semblance of rest to her first inquiry, another question floated through the cloudy expanse of her mind.

Where am I?

It struck her at the moment that perhaps opening her eyes would help to assist in the answering of this. And so she attempted to, but it was hardly easy. It actually felt as though her eyelids were weighted down, and when she so much as twitched them, a painful stab hit her in the temples. Apprehension began to curl in her chest- to be this utterly wiped, she was probably drinking for a reason last night. Probably a reason she didn't even want to remember.

And this bed didn't feel familiar...


This sickening prospect managed to provide enough leverage for her to finally open her eyes properly, then squeeze them shut again almost instantly. Everything was extremely white, and extremely bright, as well. White... bright... light. Ugh. Maybe sleeping some more wouldn't hurt. Her headache was pounding worse than ever, though. Maybe it would be good to see if wherever she happened to be had any pills to help with it.

At this point, her other senses began to focus a bit more acutely, and she noticed that everything smelled rather like disinfectant. Enough so, in fact, for her nose to sting a bit. In drowsily pulling a pillow towards her face to block the odor, she discovered that the soft thing under her head had what seemed to be a disposable cover.

Hospital, her mind told her. A few moments later, she managed to pin a definition to the three syllables, and with it came another downward swerve of her stomach and a choice number of explicit phrases flooding her thoughts. Luckily, the horror also managed to fuel her enough to properly get her eyes open, and take a look at her surroundings.

Yeah. Definitely a hospital. Overly sanitary sheets, dull white walls, some sort of machine, plastic chairs for guests, Sherlock.

Wait- Sherlock?

Her bleary gaze stumbled backwards, managing to refocus. It was indeed Sherlock, perched a bit stiffly in one of the seats, his long fingers repeatedly drumming out an impatient staccato rhythm on its arm. His eyes were fixated on her, and, understandably, she reacted by scooting slightly backwards, rather alarmed by the penetrating stare. Her leg responded with a ferocious pang, and then it began to come back- first in a trickle, then a stream, and finally a barrage. The party, Samantha Jones, burlap sack, gun, car, bathrooms, more bathrooms, Moriarty, Sherlock, kissing.

Oh, right.


"D'you think you could... stop looking at me like that?" she asked shakily, feeling her cheeks radiate sudden heat. She couldn't quite manage to draw her own gaze away from his mouth, and something inside of her twinged when his lips moved in speech.

"I'd rather not. I'm a bit concerned about you, at the moment."

"Why?" It was possibly the most idiotic question she'd ever asked, considering that she was half-lying in a hospital bed with a bandaged leg and a massive headache that was doubtless an affect of the multiple drugs she'd been introduced to the previous night.

"I'm sure that even you know the answer to that, Jane."

She sighed, neither confirming nor denying, and struggled to raise herself a bit higher on the mound of pillows that had been placed behind her head. "What exactly... happened? I mean, I remember the general... stuff... obviously..." She located a tiny hole in her sheet, and began to pick at it with interest. "But... the end. After we left the house with Moriarty."

"I'm not surprised that you can't recall it. You were a bit... woozy. They didn't let me ride with you in the ambulance, but you were unconscious by the time they took you out and moved you to the emergency room. It's morning now... they only just let me in, as a matter of fact. Apparently you hadn't woken up until now."

"Wonderful," she groaned, "just brilliant. Should I ask how bad the leg wound is...?"

"You should be out in a couple of weeks."

Weeks. Oh, perfect. "Next time," she hissed, "it would be nice if you considered my safety before launching me into a party where there was even a chance of me getting shot and kidnapped."

"Jane-" He looked surprisingly worked up, and she noticed his hand tighten their grip on the chair. He half-rose, then stayed that way, finally making the decision to rise to his full height and shuffle towards the bed. She watched him silently, not sure how to react as he awkwardly extended his hand towards her. She didn't move hers, but rather let it remain in place. It was his chance if he wanted to take it or not. Apparently, such an action was too big a leap for him, because he let it drop.

"I... I am sorry," he finally mumbled, not meeting her eyes. "I never suspected that Moriarty would find a way to get involved. If I had any idea, I wouldn't have... put you in danger like that. You being injured is... upsetting, I can assure you."

"Oh, lighten up, will you?" she finally sighed, half-smiling at him. "There's nothing wrong with saying that you were concerned about me. It's... nice, actually."

"Nice? Is it?"

"Yeah. Very nice."

"Good. That's... yes, quite good." He gave a small cough, swallowing heavily. "If you're fine, then, I guess I'll..."

"Oh, stop it," she muttered, getting some leverage with her elbows so that their faces were nearly level.

His eyes- what color were they? Gray-blue, normally, but right now they seemed green. Bright, beautiful, exquisite green. And the emotion contained in their cautious depths- it was shyness, almost. Not an expression that she'd ever expected to see on Sherlock, but now that it was there, it was undeniably... well, adorable.

"Stop what?"

"Stop being so damn cute," she muttered, then leaned in and kissed him on the lips, so lightly that it was hardly more than a faint brush. She felt him tense, and pulled back, watching as her mind was consumed by a chaotic cacophony of Why the hell did you do that crossed with Is it bad for him to look so confused and a bit of God, this man really is an idiot.

"Cute?" he repeated, speaking the word as though it was an obscene curse.

"Yes, Sherlock, cute. Extremely cute, as a matter of fact." So he doesn't seem too put off so far. That's good. She reached out and closed her fingers around his wrist, carefully gauging his reaction. He glanced down for a moment, looking almost confused, then back up at her.

"What about me is... cute?" he questioned suspiciously, a stray curl dangling right between his eyes. She held back a giggle. He certainly didn't seem upset. And that was all the indication she needed to go on.

"Everything, you idiot," she whispered, then leaned in to kiss him again.