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This is the second-to-last chapter :(

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Chapter 23

Burning. I felt like I was on fire, particular around my chest. But I didn't smell fire or anything burning.

I slowly opened my eyes to see nothing. Just blinding white light.

Was I dead?

Was I ascending into heaven? When I pictured an afterlife, I didn't think of pain.

I noticed I was on something soft. A cloud? No, it felt more like a mattress.

Yes, I was on a mattress. And I could feel a blanket draped over my legs.

I propped myself up on my elbows. The pain in my chest was horrible, but I wanted to get a better understanding of my surroundings.

I wasn't dead at all!

I was in a hospital. St. Bart's, hospital.

A quick glance around the room told me that I was alone.

Where was Sherlock?

I thought about how quickly and violently he had killed Sebastian after I had been shot.

He had been clutching onto me before I lost consciousness, as if my death would result in his.

And above all, I had seen him and heard him crying. Sherlock didn't cry. It was astonishing if not a bit disconcerting knowing that I was the one thing that could bring tears to his eyes.

There was a knock on the door before a woman wearing a white nurse uniform entered into my room.

My first question was, "Where is Sherlock?"

"Doctor Watson, you should get some rest," the nurse tried to convince me, but I wouldn't have it at all.

"Where's Sherlock?" I asked again.

The nurse sighed. "I can go get him if you would like."

"Thank you," I nodded and laid back into the hospital bed, waiting.

I looked down at my chest. They had not put a hospital gown on me so that the doctors and nurses could check on the wound more easily. I was sitting in the bed in only my pants.

The hole that the bullet had made in my chest was ugly. I looked at it in disgust. Now I would have two scars for the rest of my life, but at least it was life. And it would be a good life if Sherlock was in it.

And speaking of the man...

"John!" Sherlock exclaimed rushing into the room. He stopped at the end of the bed, not coming any nearer, as if he would hurt me just by being here.

"Sherlock," I smiled. I saw him looking down at the wound on my chest. "Yeah, I know it's bad."

"How much does it hurt?" He looked sad.

"It's fine, Sherlock. I'm okay. It hurts, but I'm alive and you're okay," I said.

Sherlock strode over to my side and sat in the chair beside my bed. He gripped my hand and held his head down.

"It's my fault," he murmured to himself.

I sighed. I knew that he would be thinking this and I already knew what I was going to say to him.