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He wasn't entirely sure how, but John managed to sleep. He woke, still kind of on his feet, with a searing pain in his lower back where he had hunched over the bed, his head resting on folded arms, leant against the bar, in line with Sherlock's slowly rising and falling chest. Supressing a groan, he straightened his aching back and fiddled at his shirt sleeves to get to his watch. It was almost seven am and he knew that nurses wouldn't be long in coming around. He stretched his arms above his head, trying to work the kink from his crooked spine and yawned silently into the static-filled room. He scrubbed the heels of his hands into his sandpaper eyes and dragged them down over his exhausted face as another yawn stretched down his chin before it snapped shut again. Regaining something close to full composure, he peered over at Sherlock's face, finding a small smile as Sherlock's eyes opened, blinking at him with something between exhaustion and confusion. John wasn't sure which he'd rather be confronted with – a tired Sherlock or a lost one.

"Good morning," he said, wrapping his fingers around the bar.

It was muffled, weak and tiresome, but Sherlock's reply came a moment later, muttered behind the oxygen mask in two breaths; "Mor-ning."

John's mouth flattened into a straight-lipped smile, weak but sincere, his eyes a little misted. "Do you want to take this off?" He asked, placing his left hand carefully onto the mask. Sherlock's nod was miniscule but definite. "OK," John was calm and professional but far from clinical as he pulled the mask down from Sherlock's chin, resting it to the side of his neck and gave a tiny smile, "I can see you better now."

Sherlock blinked slowly, lifting up his right hand sluggishly to John but found he was far too weak to support the limb, leaving it to flop heavily against his hip. John reached down, taking Sherlock's hand in his. "Is…it-," Sherlock licked his dry, cut-up lips. "…b-bad?" his voice was more weak and frail than John imagined could ever have emanated from Sherlock's lips.

Opening his mouth to speak, John found he couldn't conjure up the words; he didn't know if he should, either. But he knew that lying to Sherlock wouldn't help and so opted for honesty without elaboration. "Yes," he nodded and he watched Sherlock give a minute nod of acceptance. He didn't ask anything else, seemingly too exhausted to be able to, anyway. John squeezed his hand in his own and leaned over the bar, kissing the crumpled bridge of Sherlock's nose with gentle lips. "I'm just nipping to the loo – I'll be right back, OK?" He reluctantly extracted his hand from Sherlock's, despite having felt Sherlock's grip tighten slightly, and excused himself from the room.

Out in the corridor, the hospital was coming to life and John knew it was only a matter of time before somebody more senior than a nurse came in to check on Sherlock and he knew, deep in his stomach and high in his heart, that their news would be Earth shattering for all involved. He didn't want to be alone for that. Before entering the toilets, he took his phone from his pocket and quickly called Lestrade, keeping his eyes on the corridors around him, knowing they hated to see people using their phones inside the hospital. The call was picked up immediately; "Lestrade."

"Hey," John's voice was small. Frightened? "Greg, its John,"

"John – everything alright, how's he patient?" the DI's voice was skirting close to joviality but John could hear the trepidation, too; it ran a constant undercurrent in his tone.

"He's a little more with it but there's no…change. There won't be any change," he licked his lips. "Look, I'm calling 'cause, the doctor will be doing rounds soon and they'll be coming in to check him over, do some pretty standard but decisive tests. I'm expecting the worst but – is there…could…?" John sighed heavily, rubbing his temple with the fingers of his right hand.

"I'll be there as soon as I can." Greg spoke up, "I'll get Dimmock to cover and I'll race around."

John's chest exhaled a breath he didn't even realise he was holding. "Thank you."

"It's not a problem, John. Not at all."

There were no goodbyes, each man simply waited a moment in case the other had something more to say and then cut the call. John stuffed his phone back into his pocket and pushed into the toilets, kicking himself for not having thought to dig through the bag back in the room for his toiletries; he could have cleaned himself up a bit or got changed, but relieving a bladder ignored for hours and sipping water from the tap as he quickly washed his face to feel a little fresher, at least, was enough of a luxury for him while his mind was so painfully distracted. He wasted no time in returning to Sherlock, shuffling past the people who looked infinitely more rested then he did. He stepped back into Sherlock's room, the buzz of the machines hitting him immediately after being in the static-free hallway, and startled as he heard the deep voice of Doctor he had yet to be introduced to.

There were nurses surrounding Sherlock's bed and the straps across his body had been removed, the oxygen mask replaced for a small, pronged tube that sat in his nose and his head was propped up, the bed raised ever-so-slightly from its flat position, giving him a little more life. The clip on his finger, keeping a check of the oxygen in his blood, remained while the pads that had decorated his chest had been removed, aiding him to look less small, somehow less frail, but accentuating just how pale his skin was now that it wasn't broken up by the red pads and grey leads. One of the nurses was carefully helping Sherlock's fatigued arms into the sleeves of a gown.

John cleared his throat carefully and eyed the medical staff before holding out his hand to the doctor. "I'm Doctor Watson," he introduced himself with what he hoped was a confident voice and a noble stride, but he doubted it.

"Ah, yes," the man smile behind his thick moustache and shook John's hand with all the vigour of an Army major. "Doctor Webber," he nodded.

"You needn't sugar-coat it," John nodded toward Sherlock, wincing at Sherlock's expression as the nurses replaced the cannula in the back of his hand and saw to the catheter respectively. "I am aware that the outlook isn't good but I need facts," he was firm and authoritative – he could hear it himself – and Doctor Webber responded with a calm nod.

"We completed a range of tests to assess his motor skills…"

"Babinski?" John asked, cutting across the doctor but with an even and unrushed tone. But when Doctor Webber shook his head sadly, John's stomach dropped to his knees more forcefully than he'd expected it might.

"Mr Holmes responds to no stimulus past the lumbar region. Regaining sensation here now would be miraculous." The said, drawing his hands out of his trouser pockets, and took a steady breath. He demonstrated against his own body with both hands, "Here," he placed them on his hip bones and then moved around to the centre of his back, right along the spine, "The point of bullet entry," he explained. "Taking into account the force with which they hit, the damage they then caused and the subsequent movement following the shots, expectations of anything greater than what range of movement he has now is unreasonable."

"So he has movement?" John's brow furrowed.

"No," The doctor shook his head, "Sorry, you misunderstand. I mean to expect him to regain anything – sensation, movement, anything at all – would be naïve." He drew his hands back to his front and washed his palms against his stomach and down, "Numbness occurs completely, right to the toes." He dropped his arms to the sides and then lifted one, touching John's arm. "I am sorry."

"When will you start PT?" John asked, locking his arms protectively across his chest. Where was Greg? He wasn't supposed to be doing this alone – he didn't have the strength for it.

"We'll give him time to recuperate; though his head injury wasn't serious, he will feel a little out of sorts for a little while longer. He needs to heal from the operation, there's still the drain in his thigh though it looks clean and so far no signs of infection or redness which is positive. I know that time is of the essence and that the quicker he gets to improve his strength, physically and mentally, the better, but let's just give him time to adjust, time to rest, and then we can tackle everything head on with a fresh outlook." He patted John's arm again before nodding in Sherlock's direction and walking away. It was only then that John noticed that the nurses had disappeared.

He looked with wide, sad eyes in Sherlock's direction and did his best to smile. He needed to be positive, to keep Sherlock positive and motivated; he had to buck up and be strong, be tough. He couldn't cry, he couldn't pity or wallow; Sherlock had a future and he was alive – he was clinging on to that tightly, both hands grasping at that thread till his knuckles were white with exertion. Mycroft's words the night before were true – thousands of people live perfectly normal, happy, healthy lives after spinal cord injuries, he'd seen it himself. But no amount of rationality and knowledge stopped the hurt, it didn't make the pill any easier to swallow and it certainly didn't change the fact that life with Sherlock as he'd begun to plan could no longer be that way.

He walked closer to Sherlock, his face tugged into a tired smile and raised his eyebrows in an attempt to hide the ache; "You OK?"

"I-I think I should be em…embarrassed." Sherlock's voice croaked from his throat sleepily, his body pumped full of drugs that overpowered his system.

"Embarrassed?" John's brow furrowed, "Why should you be embarrassed?"

"Female nurses," Sherlock licked his lips, his eyes closing in a long, slow blink before opening again, lacking their sharpness, and fixed onto John.

John smirked, "What about them?" he leaned on the bar, still draw up for Sherlock's protection.

"Touching me in-intimately," he breathed out, his head was so fuzzy and his body so weak that everything was tasking.

John did his best to turn his watery eyes into a bright smile, "I'll tell them you're spoken for, shall I?" he tried to hide how his voice rose higher, stretched with an emotional lump tightening his throat. Sherlock tried to laugh but it was impossible against the medically-induced fatigue. His eyelids fluttered softly before closing and remaining that way. John watched him, chest moving more swiftly than it had done earlier but steadily nonetheless as he relaxed into a deep, false sleep.

Confirmation had come and that was that; life had changed irreversibly and with more conviction behind it at the doctor's words, finally settling into John's mind – finally becoming official. Sherlock was paralysed, no feeling past his hips. Sherlock could no longer walk nor read the signs of his body. A sarcastic laugh escaped breathily through John's nose as a thought occurred to him; would there be any physicality to their relationship anymore? It had never been a big part of their live as a couple – Sherlock was Asexual and though he loved John, sex wasn't a necessity – but was what little intimacy of a sexual nature they did have going to be possible at all? Not walking John could get around – it changed nothing; the personal care he could do, too – he was a doctor and squeamishness and blushing didn't factor into it. but sex with Sherlock – such as it was – wouldn't be the same anymore, it would be one-sided and down to John to inform Sherlock if he even had an erection, if indeed there was even the ability to stimulate him to arousal at all. Fifty percent of the things he loved about Sherlock had gone or been damaged and all at the hands of a man John knew would never be caught. Anger wasn't the paramount emotion, but it was second only to grief.

I seemed to rewrite this chapter almost fully. I changed the Doctor's explanations, John's responses and the omnipotent overview, too. Framework is the same, but details are different! I like it better - which is the entire point to this rewrite.

My medical knowledge is limited but I want to thank Rasmus and Hannah for their help in supplying me with candid and well-explained info on all I've needed for this story. Whilst this chapter has been proof-read, there could still be one or two errors and I accept them as my own.

Date: 2015-12-18; view: 657