Sherlock leapt from the precipice, a smile gracing his face even as he fell, the water of the Reichenbach Falls feeling strangely comforting as it encased his body.
Finally he knew what needed to be done, finally he had the strength to do it......
The sound of beeping gradually permeates Sherlock's muddled mind, images of Watson.... John...... Drifting away like dust in the sunlight.
With the return of sound comes the return of pain; pain so violent that it causes him to arch his back and clench his fists.
One hand makes contact with a harsh, starched material that seems to cover his body. The other holds strong onto something hard, yet somehow soft; warm and yet strong.
Sherlock forces himself to open his eyes, the bright white of the overhead light momentarily blinding him.
With great difficulty he compels himself to look in the direction of his still clenched fist. John.
There, his knuckles bleached white from the force of Sherlock's grip, is John's small, but strong and steady hand.
Slowly, so as not to startle John, (or is that himself?
) Sherlock allows his eyes to follow the rumpled cardigan sleeve up to John's broad shoulder, up over his neck, until his gaze finally rests on the face of the man himself.
John Hamish Watson, doctor, ex soldier, best friend and husband to an assassin ..... Sherlock eyes flicker over John's dishevelled appearance.
He deduces that John hasn't slept properly for five, no seven, days; that he has been surviving on hospital canteen food and coffee.
A quick glimpse to the side shows that John has taken these items, or had someone bring them, and eaten by Sherlock's bedside.
John's clothes are rumpled, adding to the sleep deprived look, but are not the clothes he had been wearing when Sherlock had collapsed in their.... his .... living room at 221B.
Someone had been caring for John. Mary? He shakes his head slightly, even the small movement making him feel nauseated, fear starting to knot in his stomach.
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