Hey guys, welcome to my first fic :D
Quick warning, this does contain drug references. They're not too explicit, but I just thought I'd give you a heads up.

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, unfortunately.

The uncomfortable plastic hospital chair sat untouched in the vomit-green halls outside the surgical waiting room of St. Bart's. His legs were moving as freely and as quickly as his brain, unable to stop. If he stood still, he would explode.

"He'll be fine, Sherlock, John's a fighter." Lestrade's voice was confident but did nothing to calm the pacing man. "I know you're worried, we all are. But wandering around and verbally abusing every member of staff you see isn't helping anyone."

Sherlock turned to scowl at the D.I who was clutching two cups of dirt-coloured liquid; one held out towards him in an offering. He waved a hand in dismissal, the other rubbing at the knots in his neck.

"You didn't see him. You weren't there. We should have heard something by now." Sherlock's voice was a growl.

Lestrade discarded the cups of coffee on the edge of the nurses table and leaned heavily on an unfortunate coloured wall. Sherlock could feel the other man's eyes boring into his back could almost hear his thoughts and see those eyebrows knitted together with worry. He knew he must look deranged, but he couldn't bring himself to care. This wasn't right.
It should be him in that operating room, not John. He was the one that attracted Moriarty, he was the one that was stupid enough to point a gun at a bomb and he was the one that pulled the trigger. But, with John being stubbornly selfless and completely ignorant when it came to self-preservation, he'd chosen to push Sherlock into the pool and absorb the force of the blast himself. When the smoke cleared and the dust settled, Moriarty was gone and John was left crumpled and broken, the minutes spent listening out for sirens spreading into something closer resembling years. Sherlock shook his head, stomach twisting at the memory.

Half an hour passed, then another, still with no news.
Eventually, Lestrade turned to leave. Paperwork, messes to clean up, a psychopath to find, it was going to be a busy day at Scotland Yard. Sherlock grunted a promise to call as soon as an update was available and threw himself unceremoniously into a chair, fingers pressed together under his chin.

Reasons John Watson will be fine:
Because he is a soldier.
Because he has seen trauma. He has experienced trauma. He has overcome trauma.
Because he is strong.
Because he has to.
Because I need him to.

A light cough caught his attention. The woman was small, mid thirties, wrinkled scrubs.
"Mr Holmes?" she stood slightly slouched with fingers laced together neatly at her front, and before she opened her mouth to continue, he knew. It seeped from her skin like a tidal wave, dragging him out into the middle of a bottomless expanse and leaving him to flounder. There were words like "so sorry" and "did everything we could", but he wasn't listening.
He was more than familiar with death, having experienced the personal loss of a grandfather as a child and relying upon people's mortality daily for work and to keep himself sane. But this...this was unlike anything he'd ever felt. It was numbness and pain and screaming and silence all at once. He stood, fighting to keep his knees from buckling and left, leaving the surgeon staring after him with tears threatening tired eyes.

It was cool outside; the floor was damp and glistening with the reflection of the rising sun. Sherlock didn't notice. He didn't notice the expensive black car creeping along side him and he didn't notice his brother calling his name. He ignored the protest of his feet on the walk back to Baker Street, but he couldn't ignore the looming, overbearing silence of 221B.

-

Sherlock stood, back resting against the door of 221B, eyes drifting over the room in front of him.

It was exactly how he'd left it not 10 hours before. There were cups of tea half-made next to the sink, books sprawling over the sofa, and john's laptop left open on his chair. Sherlock sucked in a breath.
What was he supposed to do next? Lestrade would be expecting an update, he'd need Sherlock to give a statement at Scotland Yard, and there were arrangements to be made and people to inform. He shuffled across the room, discarding his coat in the process, and sat rigidly in the cold leather chair he'd claimed all those months ago. He sat for what could have been minutes, or hours, mind dancing with sickening thoughts of John's eyes unseeing, his heart still and silent.

"34 years," he spoke aloud into the flat, voice breaking slightly "I had managed for 34 years, never needing anything from anyone. And then you, being so disgustingly ordinary, come strolling in and ruin EVERYTHING with how completely extraordinary you are! And then you go and die! Now what am I supposed to do?!" He was almost screaming into the empty room now, unconcerned with disturbing Mrs Hudson or the married ones next door.

Sherlock's eyes flitted to the kitchen.

The innocent looking silver box sat undisturbed on the shelf above the fridge, its simple design almost unidentifiable under the thick layer of dust that had gathered over years of sitting just out of reach. The only signs of use being the small, finger print shaped smudges on the sides where the lid had been moved slightly.
Sherlock stared at it, eyes glazed and glistening with almost-tears. His mind was so loud it was painful, but not in the way he was accustomed to. Instead of the usual ache that came with the silence in between cases, his brain was screaming. This quiet- this void- was unacceptable. He glanced to the vacant chair across from him and chocked a sob, before returning to the little spot above the fridge. His hands twitched. "John wouldn't want this", he thought momentarily before forcing this thought back down into whatever disgusting recess it crawled from. Suddenly he was on his feet. No, John wouldn't want this, but John wasn't here.

He took 7 steps into the kitchen, stumbling a little in his haste and clutched at the cool metal before returning to his room, box in hand. He hadn't needed its contents for a long time, but kept it stocked anyway.
"Old habits die hard", he snorted.

He didn't bother to clear his bed, instead crawling into the narrow space between books and discarded experiments and emptied out the box. It had been a while, but his nimble fingers made light work of tying a makeshift tourniquet with one hand. He measured out a dose of the clear, syrupy liquid, just enough to get him through the day, and sighed at the familiar sting of the needle piercing ivory skin.

Then, there was the warmth.