She could hear voices fading in and out like a pulse. They were unfamiliar, talking amongst themselves as if she were not there. Maybe she wasn't there. Was this what death felt like?
"We've stopped the Pentobarbital," said one of the voices.
"How are her stats?" another replied.
"She's handling it well."
She tried to take a breath but she felt like she was choking. She began to cough and gasp, the feeling of panic washing over her as she realised she wasn't breathing.
"She's trying to wake up," said another voice. "How is she waking up this soon?"
"We need to remove the ventilator."
She felt hands keeping her head in place, her lungs burning, and a rough pain as they dragged the tube out of her throat. She coughed and spluttered as she took a harsh, desperate gasp of air. She tried to speak but the sound left her in a cry.
"It's okay, Margaux, try to stay calm, okay?" A hand stroked her head gently.
Her eyes fluttered open, just for a moment, before the voices grew weaker, and eventually she drifted off again.
The next time she woke, the first thing she saw was the sun setting through the window, a gentle mist falling from the deep, purple sky. Her breaths whistled and wheezed and her head felt heavy and sore. She tried to look down at the cannulas in her hands, but a sharp pain in her shoulder made her gasp.
"Ow," she cried quietly, before looking down at her shoulder wrapped tightly in bandages and held in place with a sling.
The door creaked open.
"Hello, glad to see you're up." A doctor smiled as he stepped into the room.
"What's going on?" she croaked. Her words were slurred and quiet.
"You're in hospital, you've had surgery. You've been asleep for a few days."
"How many?"
"Five."
Her eyes welled up as her brow creased with confusion. "What happened to me?"
The doctor sighed and perched on the edge of the bed. "Margaux, you were shot."
III
Sherlock stood outside the hospital as the sun disappeared in the late evening sky. He flicked his collar to shield himself from the cold mist as he held his phone to his ear.
"She's still sleeping," he said. "They said she woke up briefly but it's normal for patients to take a while to come around."
"Yeah," said John through the phone. "Barbiturates usually stay in the system between 15 and 50 hours depending on the person's overall health."
"I know, John, I'm a chemist."
"Right, sorry."
He finished his call and travelled back inside the hospital. As he sauntered through the reception waiting room, he noticed people whispering to each other as they tried to inconspicuously photograph him with their phones. But everything was conspicuous to Sherlock.
"Would you like me to wear the hat too?" he said. His voice was loud and commanding, catching the people off-guard.
As he stepped out of the lift onto his floor, he noticed a nurse rushing towards him. His heart sank like an anchor as he felt the colour drain from his face.
"Mr Holmes, we've been looking for you," said the nurse. "She's awake."
III
He opened the door and stepped into the room slowly, taking a deep breath as he laid eyes on her. She was lying back, her hair strewn across the large pillow that was propping her head up. There were deep shadows under her eyes and her lips were puffy and dry. Yet she managed a weak smile as he entered the room.
"Hi," he said, his feet stuck to the floor in the doorway.
"Hi," she replied, squirming in discomfort. "You can come in, you know."
"Yes, sorry..." He closed the door and rushed to the chair at her side – the chair he had called his bed for the past five days.
She turned her head as much as she could to look at him. "I thought I died," she said.
"Almost."
She gazed at him for a moment, mustering the strength to speak again.
"Sherlock... Who did this to me?"
He sighed. "Eurus."
"Eurus?" Her brow furrowed, her voice breaking with a cry. "Why? Why would she–"
"Ssh." He took her hand. "It's not important right now. I will explain it all, but not now. Not until you're stronger."
Neither spoke for a moment, the only sound coming from the monitors around Margaux's bed.
"Vaughan," she said. "Is he..."
"He's fine. He's with my parents."
She nodded and relaxed into her pillow, flinching as a jolt of pain ran down her shoulder.
"I got shot," she said plainly.
"Yes, you did."
"That's wild."
Sherlock let out a laugh. "Yes. I suppose that's one word for it."
"And such terrible timing," she looked straight into his eyes. "Right after you told me you loved me."
He shifted in his seat for a moment. "Ah, you remember that, do you?"
"Of course. How could I forget?" she let a smile curl the corners of her mouth.
He smiled too, running a hand over her forehead and stroking her hair.
"I meant it," he said. "And I said it before you were shot, so you can't even accuse me of saying it out of remorse."
Margaux giggled. "Not like the time you proposed to me because you felt guilty."
"No." he laughed. But his smile faded quickly, melting into a much more serious expression. "I love you, Margaux."
She smiled. "I love you too."
"I thought I might never get the chance to tell you that again."
"Well now that you can, I hope you know I'll be expecting to hear it quite often."
"I'll do my best."
III
Mrs Hudson stood at her kitchen sink dancing to the radio as she washed the dishes. A sudden knock at her front door startled her. She picked up a soapy knife from the draining board and rushed to the door, holding it close to her chest as she slid the chain from the lock.
John's eyes widened as she opened the door. He threw his hands up in surrender.
"Whoa, settle down," he said.
She dropped the knife to her side and rolled her eyes.
"What were you expecting?" he asked as he stepped into the flat.
"Well with Sherlock Holmes living upstairs you never know," she said.
"Oh yes of course. I hear most of the criminals he feuds with are polite enough to knock before they attack." He followed her into the kitchen. "I just wondered if you still had that yellow spray paint you confiscated."
"Hm, yes I think it's in here." She walked to the cupboard. "All done?"
"Almost. Just needs a few... finishing touches. Sherlock's up there not lifting a finger while the guys work around him."
"Honestly, John, the trouble those Holmes' get themselves into; I should double his rent."
He chuckled as she handed him the spray can.
"What's it for?" she asked.
"Need to replace the smiley face."
He gave her a smile and walked out the flat.
She rushed into the hall after him as he climbed the stairs. "Oh, not my brand new wallpaper, John!"
III
Margaux sat on the edge of the hospital bed as the doctor examined her. She grimaced as she felt him tearing the dressing away from her neck, and held her breath as he carefully unwrapped her shoulder.
He pressed his finger gently around the stitches on her collarbone. "They're looking good," he said. "Same with the ones on your neck."
"So, does this mean I can go home?"
"I hear you've been asking that since you first woke up," he laughed.
"And eventually the answer will be 'yes'," she replied.
He stood up and removed his gloves. "Let me go and get your new dressings and we'll talk about it."
The doctor walked out of the room, leaving the door closing slowly behind him. Margaux let out a long sigh, pushing air into her cheeks and looking around at the same four walls she had been trapped inside for the past seven days.
A tall, slender figure slipped into the room before the door could close. She glanced up, her exasperation instantly transforming into a smile.
"Where've you been?" she asked.
"Shooting holes back into the wall at Baker Street," Sherlock replied.
"Ah... Did my ceiling hole survive?"
"I wouldn't let them touch it." He smiled wryly.
"Good."
Sherlock sat in the chair facing her with one leg crossed over the other. His eyes fell immediately to the deep purple scar on her neck and the large sewn-up gash across her collarbone. He felt his stomach turn and the hairs on his arms stand on end – the feeling of responsibility and blame rushed through him like a cold sweat.
"You okay?" asked Margaux, noticing his eyes wandering across her wounds.
He shook his head and cleared his throat. "Yes. Yes, I'm fine."
The doctor stepped back into the room, his hands full of packets and a new pair of gloves.
"Sorry about that," he said, before noticing Sherlock. "Oh, sorry, hello."
"This one's new, I've never seen him before," Sherlock said to Margaux.
She rolled her eyes and turned to the doctor. "Sorry about him. I swear as soon as I leave here we'll be working on his social skills. Which is another reason why you should send me home immediately."
The doctor let out a laugh as he began to redress her wounds. "It's okay." He turned to Sherlock. "I'm Dr Sinha. You must be the boyfriend."
Margaux cringed as she waited for the cold, sociopathic response that would leave everyone feeling awkward. But instead, her eyes widened as Sherlock began to nod.
"That's correct," he said.
She stared at him, stunned by the ease of his response. He hadn't stammered, nor fidgeted, he hadn't hesitated or rolled his eyes. She began to smile before a sudden pain in her shoulder made her yelp.
"Sorry!" said the doctor. "Just making sure it's nice and secure. Don't want it coming off while you're at home..." He made eye contact with her and smiled.
"Seriously? I can go home!?"
"We'll need you to come in for regular appointments for a while. But yes, you can go home." He turned to Sherlock. "She doesn't have much mobility in her arm. That will come back slowly but she'll probably need quite a bit of assistance for a while."
"Yes, that's fine, she'll be with me."
"I will?"
The doctor fixed her sling in place. "I'll go and get your discharge forms."
She waited until they were alone to speak again.
"You're really willing to come and stay with me while I recover?"
"No, you're coming to Baker Street."
"Says who?"
"Says the doctor. Did you not hear him? You'll need help."
"Okay, so why can't you help me at my flat?"
"I receive clients from my living room. Baker Street is practically my office, I can't be away from it."
She narrowed her eyes. "You've already thought about this, haven't you?"
"Why else would I have rushed the repairs?"
She breathed out a laugh. He was unbelievable – he always had been.
"So, you – Sherlock Holmes – are happy to have Vaughan and I living in your flat, getting under your feet?"
He furrowed his brow. "Why is that so preposterous?"
"Let me reiterate... You are Sherlock Holmes. You are going to have an injured woman and a two-year-old child sharing your space..."
"Must you always underestimate me?"
III
The smell of paint and sawdust drifted down the stairs. She wondered how different it was going to look; if it would feel like the same flat or if Eurus had destroyed it completely.
Mrs Hudson came out of her flat with a bright, lipstick-tinted smile. She reached out and pulled Margaux into a hug, holding her carefully like she was made of paper.
"Shall I make you some tea? I can put a straw in it," she said.
Margaux gave a puzzled smile. "You know this one still works?" she waved her left hand.
Mrs Hudson covered her face and let out an embarrassed laugh. "Of course, sorry. You just let me know if you need anything."
"You didn't ask if I wanted tea," said Sherlock as he stood at the bottom of the stairs.
"Kettle's upstairs, love," Mrs Hudson replied.
He rolled his eyes before holding his arm out to Margaux. She linked her arm in his and he helped her up the stairs.
As she walked along the landing, the smell of paint grew stronger. She held her breath as he pushed open the door, stepping aside to let her walk in. She exhaled with a smile as she laid eyes on the flat. It was almost exactly the same; from the skull wearing headphones to the spray-painted smiley face on the wallpaper. She glanced down at his armchair and laughed in disbelief.
"How the hell did this survive an explosion?"
He looked up from his phone. "Hm? Oh, I know. I was rather pleased."
Margaux made her way into the kitchen, looking around at the blend of old and new. She ran her hand across the kitchen table, thinking back to the first time she ever kissed him. Then she remembered something else.
"Sherlock?"
He stepped through the archway. "Yes?"
"You never actually asked me..."
"Asked you what?"
"In the hospital. When the doctor asked if you were my boyfriend, you said yes. But you never asked me, and I never asked you."
"Oh," he glanced around the kitchen for a moment, his lips pressed together as he tried to think like a normal person. "Do... Do I... Shall I ask?"
Her mouth curved on one side. "If you want to?"
"Okay..." He stepped forward and sucked in air through his teeth. "Margaux... Will you be my girlfriend?"
"No."
His brow furrowed, sitting heavy over his piercing blue eyes.
"I'm just joking, of course I will."
His nostrils flared. "How many times: you're not–"
"Funny! I know. Sorry."
He stepped toward her, allowing a small smile to crease the corners of his eyes. He cupped her face and looked at her.
"I've never done this before," he said, his voice deep and low like gravel. "I'm not perfect; I will make mistakes. I will find things... difficult. But I promise you I will try."
She nodded, resting her cheek against his palm. "I know."
He leant down and pressed his lips against hers. His touch was soft – cautious – like she was an injured bird and he feared he would hurt her. She reached up with her other arm and placed her hand around the back of his neck, kissing him back with more fervour, showing him it was okay. After a moment, he pulled away, resting his forehead against hers.
"I'm sorry I made you wait so long," he whispered.
"It's okay," she whispered back. "Turns out I'm very patient."