When Sherlock woke, his head was thumping. The brightness of the lights and the whiteness of the walls weren't helping. Wait. White walls? Crap. He was in a hospital. Trying to sit up was impossible. Every time he tried, the detective's muscles screamed.
"Shh. You need rest." Mycroft's calm voice reassured his little brother.
"Where am I? Where's John?" he asked, looking into Mycroft's eyes. Sherlock wanted John to shout at him. He wanted to see him with his hands on his hips in that ridiculous beige jumper, telling him that he had to eat and sleep otherwise the doctor would make him regret it. Mycroft turned away.
"You went to the pool without telling anyone. What were you thinking, you idiot? You invited a bomber to...to talk. It thought you knew it wouldn't be that simple. He had a bomb. And John. You flat mate saved your life, you moron. When the bomb exploded, he pushed you into the pool." The politician's voice cracked.
Sherlock didn't like where this conversation was going.
"Where's John? Tell me Mycroft."
"He...he didn't make it. I'm sorry, Sherlock."
The detective leant back on his pillows. He couldn't breathe. John was gone. He couldn't be. No. Not John. His best friend was dead. And it was all Sherlock's fault. Two tears slipped from his silver eyes as Mycroft put a hand on his shoulder. A sob came from his skinny scarred chest. One word echoed inside his head.
John.