Well that didn't take a long time to write at all... I shouldn't make excuses but between exams and watching Love Actually for the first time (which really screwed up the way I see John) I had a lot of difficulty getting this done. Anyway, enjoy!

The wail of a siren. The clatter of a metal stretcher. The bleep of a heart monitor.

A few different sounds broke the vow of silence in Watson's mind. On a few occasions he seemed to be slipping back into consciousness only to find himself falling again as the pain, burning pain, took back over. Of course he wouldn't remember any of this; these moments would just be forgotten signals to a dead mind. It wouldn't be until his eyes slowly began to flutter open thirty-one hours after the encounter that he could really allow things to register.

The first thing he felt was the dull ache in his side. Tentatively he reached out his left arm to graze his hand over his hip but suddenly became aware of the catheter dug deep inside the crook of his elbow as he stretched the tube to far, causing the object to send a sting of pain right down to his fingers. After his initial wince, he withdrew that hand to replace with the other one which appeared free of needles. This time he found a large gauze underneath his paper robe stretching half way up his ribs. The slightest of touch set a fresh fire through his flesh and he felt a gasp escape his dry lips, tears catching in his eyes.

Suddenly the green curtains drawn around his bed were pulled back to reveal a young nurse. She rushed forward, quickly pressing a button that shot a jet of morphine into John's bloodstream before gently lifting his hand away from the wound.

"You shouldn't be doing that, Doctor Watson," she muttered. "I thought you would know better."

In his now drugged state, John was able to give a small grunt of amusement. Slowly he lifted his head to look at his nurse. She was a plain but pretty woman with pink cheeks underneath sparkling blue eyes. A crop of chocolate brown hair was pulled into a ponytail but lighter roots were visible. Obviously the colour wasn't natural then. Sherlock would be able to deduce a great number of things from that small fact, if he was here.

Sherlock… The thought of this blew a haze from John's mind which surprised him as he hadn't even notice he had been cloaked from the memories in the first place. He jolted up with a cry of "Sherlock!" but was pushed back into his pillows.

"Now, now. You'll be able to see him soon but Mr Holmes is with his brother at the moment. You should be resting."

"Mycroft? Who cares about Mycroft, I need to see Sherlock!" He tried to continue talking but the morphine was taking further control of his body, making his speech slurred. Maybe it wasn't just morphine; maybe the nurse had given him a sedative too.

John tried to fight it – he had to stay awake this time. Especially now, as he watched the nurse leave, pulling back the curtain to his left. His vision was blurry but that was Sherlock he could see. For a moment he couldn't believe his eyes, Sherlock lying in a hospital bed dressed in a paper robe seemed too surreal. Even more so when he saw Mycroft sat in a red leather chair beside his brother, umbrella and all.

Hold on, He told himself. Hold on, dammit! But his eyes were feeling heavy and his breath was slowing. He barely heard the call of "John!" before he fell into a painless slumber.

When John came to for the second time, his surroundings instantly registered as slightly different. The bed was the same, as were the covers, but the curtains had been pulled back completely revealing another identical bed a few feet away – they were the only two in the simple room. One door and one window interrupted the otherwise blank walls. Though these weren't the details he cared about. No, the one thing that really mattered was the figure perched on the partner bed, violin in hand. Gently he set it down, a huge grin spread over his face, before pulling the chair that was meant for visitors right beside John's bed. A curly mass of dark hair spread across his porcelain forehead, his pale eyes peering out from beneath the fringing. It had grown.

"How are you feeling?" Something was different in his voice, the care and sincerity at the base of the question shone through. Accompanied with this Sherlock's hand rested upon John's, their fingers lacing together. This did not have the same meaning as with ordinary people for this pair were by no means ordinary. Instead it just represented the fact that the world's only consulting detective cared for his friend very much.

"Like death warmed up." John tried to hold back his smile, honestly he did, but Sherlock Holmes was sitting next to him – and this time he wasn't holding a gun! "Actually, no, scrap that. Just death. Not warm."

For a fraction of a second Sherlock considered clambering onto the bed and snuggling (he really would have done anything to help seeing as it was all his fault) before he remembered the extra blanket folded at John's feet. Using only one hand and keeping the other resting with the other set of fingers, he pulled the rough orange material over the thin sheets. "Better?"

"Much." Though it wasn't. He just said that to make sure Sherlock was okay.

Silence fell for a moment, neither having anything to say nor wanting to break this idyllic moment with them both together again, until the words itching in the back of John's throat became unbearable. "Were you really going to shoot me?"

A grave nod communicated the answer before the words did. "Yes. If that's what it came to, if that was the only way to keep you relatively safe."

"And what happened instead?"

Obviously he was debating whether or not to recall the story or not. He'd been told not to by the doctors, but since when did Sherlock Holmes do as he was told? "Do you remember the man who asked me to get him out of Death Row in Minsk? Yes? Well apparently after a few years of appealing he managed to receive a verdict of not guilty. The whole thing has a distinct Moriarty feel but we shouldn't let that bother us now. Of course he had already spent many torturous days in jail so wanted to seek revenge as he thought it was my fault.

"Somehow he managed to find me though I don't even know how he figured out I wasn't actually dead – again, I suspect one consulting criminal. Once he found me in the homeless network, he found you and that's how we stumbled into our little predicament. My plan was to keep talking until the police came. I had an agreement with one of my homeless acquaintances to alert them if ever something like this happened so I was relying heavily on that. Unfortunately, our old friend was a little trigger happy and found I was taking too long. I'm sorry I didn't see that one coming, I haven't been thinking straight. Once you passed out I was able to hold out long enough before the shot got a reaction and reinforcements arrived. Fortunately the ambulance came soon afterwards too as I'm not sure you would have survived much longer.

"You were rushed into hospital where they managed to stop most of the bleeding but the bullet had caught your kidney. It had to be removed. After a couple of hours it appeared you weren't getting better and were placed through a few tests only to find you haven't had two proper working kidneys for while, only the one that was damaged had functioned fully. Once again you were taken to the operating room, now here you sit with just one of those damned organs. A few times you came around for a moment but you were in so much pain that half of your blood must be made up of anaesthetic and morphine by now. That should bring you up to speed."

That was a lot to take in, and John was panicking following the mention of Moriarty, which led him to decide that there was too much to be thinking about right now. One more question was bugging him though.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"Why are you wearing pyjamas?"

"Did I not tell you who the donor for your new kidney was?"

"No."

Suddenly Sherlock averted his gaze downwards not wanting to see John's reaction to what he was about to say. He never got nervous but for some reason this level of compassion was making him feel just a little awkward. Never before had he cared so much about someone so much that he would decide to be put under to help them. No one could ever know, but he was petrified of needles and it would have been a great sacrifice if he didn't care for John so much. He had even let the doctors make him stay in the hospital for a few days. "Well… I, um… That would have been me."

Eeek! Crappy ending! But yeah, I loved the idea that Sherlock would give up part of himself to help John so that is what I wrote. Stuff about hospitals and prison may not completely be accurate but hey, I'm not a genius. And I didn't want this to be a Johnlock romance but I couldn't help but have them holding hands :3

I'm unsure if I can continue this story... though if I think of something, I would love to.

Anyway, please let me know about what you thought whether by review or PM. Muchas gracias for reading and hopefully for any feedback!