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John is floating in fog. It’s peaceful. Soft. He could drift here on and on… but there’s something itching in the back of his mind. He should remember what it is.
It slips away from him.
He slowly decides he isn’t dreaming. Dreams don’t have smells. He breathes in the medicine pong of hospital that is both comforting and unnerving, because there is a very large, very painful Something going on in his chest and if he could just get his thoughts to clear he knows he could name every muscle that’s currently screaming at him.
And then there are the sounds that only come from banks of monitors in the ICU. And the irritating pinch of the IV in his wrist and bloody hell. This isn’t his nightshift. He’s in recovery.
Must’ve been a bad one. But what? The fog swirls around him. Sleep pools into his eyes and nose and mouth. As he slides down he tells himself he’ll get right back to that thought.
A bloom of red pain surges through the fog and he’s gasping, drifting. Nope, no dream, this, and Christ but they’ve been odd. Clowns. Prisons. Mad sisters. Wells. Must be the morphine. And that’s a great idea, really. He’s pushing through the fog, missing it a bit already as he’s peeling his leaden eyes open, bits of himself coming into focus. His parched mouth, aching ribs. His hand weakly fumbles for the pain drip he knows will be within reach.
A sharp gasp stops him. Not his own. Then who? Mary? No.
His eyes aren’t focusing, but he hears the scramble of a body standing very fast, the bleating scrape of a chair pushed across the floor, feels weight pushing onto the bed next to him.
And then there are hands gripping his head, fast breath, a forehead pressing into his, fingers squeezing his skull, and the smell of Sherlock all around him.
Sherlock, here? At his bedside? He feels a sudden pain wrench his insides that has nothing to do with his recent surgery and it twists harder as warm, wet drops start falling onto his face and that’s Sherlock’s voice, right in his ear, rough like he hasn’t used it in a while, cracking with tears, muttering, “–they said you wouldn’t wake and I never believed them, never left you, John god John are you really awake? Can you hear me I–”
“You’re crying.” It’s barely a whisper, a croak, but Sherlock hears him and pulls back abruptly, just far enough for their eyes to meet and it sends another bolt through him. John’s vision clears to see Sherlock pale and scruffed with a ragged beard, eyes bloodshot and sunken with shadows and worry that’s being smoothed before his eyes by the most relieved smile, tears still staining his cheeks. Sherlock sniffs and ducks his eyes, but keeps his hands on John’s face, thumbs moving in little circles on rough cheeks, and John can feel the surge in his chest explode into all of his limbs and he’s grinning back and they’re giggling, giggling til they’re breathless til -
John grimaces and hisses through his teeth. Sherlock’s face plummets into worry. “What is it what do you need? Oh -oh right yes hang on -” and he reaches gingerly over his chest avoiding tubes and pushes the little box into John’s groping hand.
John clicks it expertly even in the blinding red wash of pain, then forces himself to master it, pushes the air in and out and releases his grip on the sheet, wait no, nope, he’s gripping Sherlock’s shirt, shakily moves the hand to safer territory on the bed.
Sherlock, still leaning over him with one hand cupping his head, the other moving to his pulse, stares into his face reading micro muscle movements, pupil dilation, pulse rate, then sighs just as John exhales.
“There, that’s better,” Sherlock determines. John agrees with the tiniest nod of his head, very aware of the damp heat coming from Sherlock’s fingers on his cheek that feel suddenly cold as he pulls back, blustering nervously, “I I should get a nurse, they won’t believe it, I-”
He stops, finding John’s fingers gripping his arm weakly.
“Not yet,” John whispers. “Sit here. Got questions.”
Sherlock turns back, obeying, perches awkwardly on the edge of the narrow bed, piercing eyes reading him, eyebrows puzzled. “Yes, sorry. I’m here.”
“This?” John geatures weakly to his chest, raises his eyebrows.
“You don’t remember?
“Got shot. Obvious.”
The corners of Sherlock’s lips quirk in a tiny smile that rapidly evaporates. “You… John you jumped in front of a bullet.” He stops, swallows. “For me.”
John squeezes his eyes shut, trying to find a hole in his mind where this information fits. It’s all fog. He looks up at Sherlock. “Who?”
He can see this hurts Sherlock, and he wants to know as much as he wants to rub the worry from Sherlock's tired face.
“John, don’t think about this yet. You’ve just woken, you’re still so -”
Fog is creeping into the room, tendrils vining around his feet and he feels so peaceful though he knows this is Very Serious Stuff they’re dealing with.
Why…
And then. Yes.
He barks one dark, dry laugh that makes Sherlock frown, eyes flicking to the IV. A lance of sun burns through the mist and he sees what he needed to find in the fog, can’t let it slip away before sleep hides it from him again.
“Mm. Doesn’t matter.”
Sherlock’s eyebrows knit in familiar incredulity. “It most certainly-”
“Know why. Doesn’t matter who.”
Sherlock looks so stricken that some part of John thinks hell, what did they do to end up here? Find out later, doesn’t worry him much, not right now when the fog is so soft and the Very Important Thing is right there glimmering at him in the fog. He’s so, so tired but it’s ok because Sherlock will be there when he wakes up.
He feels his hand tugging Sherlock to him, watches his face struggling between confusion and relief and curiosity.
“What John, what do you remem-”
“Love you.”
Sherlock startles.
John smiles sweetly, so pleased to have remembered, to have given up this vital fact, so important that Sherlock know. The clue to solve the whole case he couldn’t see, and John’s cracked it.
Sherlock is staring at him, blinking and blinking, lips moving as if to speak.
“Yep,” John whispers, “love you. That’s it. Going to sleep a bit, I think. Be here when I wake up, yea?”
And then the act of speaking is exhausting and he closes his eyes, feels the mattress shift.
Through the fog the scent of Sherlock is close again. He can tell there is something happening on his lips and a bright arrow shoots through his body, through the fog. The touch is feather light, hardly there, the bristles of their stubble barely touching and before his body can even respond, Sherlock buries his head in John’s shoulder, black curls spilling over his face.
“John,” Sherlock whispers against his ear, “John. You came back to me.”