It was a bitter night. Sherlock didn't bother pulling his coat closed. He allowed the chill in the air to sink into his bones, making him feel as icy as his heart now felt.

It had been barely a week since he'd revealed to the world that he was alive and kicking. He'd outwitted the nation, as well as Moriarty, into thinking that he'd committed suicide. The wool had been pulled from the world's eyes and the lie had been uncovered. The terrible lie. He did not care what the papers said about him, nor was he affected by the way the media had suddenly turned in his favour (Mycroft probably had a fair bit to do with that.)

The one person that he cared about the most, had reacted in the worst way. That was the reaction that had affected him, the one that had sent him reeling in shock, like his ex flatmate had drowned him, and he was trying to come up for air, but couldn't.

John. His John. How could he reject Sherlock? After all they'd been through. After the risk taking. The sacrifice. The torture that the detective's mind and body had been put through? All for his beautiful, wonderful blogger.

No, a jealous whisper hissed in the back of his mind palace, he's not your John and never has been. And he's definitely not going to be writing up about cases you've been on together any time soon.

John was going to marry Mary Morstan. He'd moved on. Didn't love him anymore. Despised him. Had physically hurt him. The man was a doctor, should have seen Sherlock writhing in agony after he'd landed a painful punch on one of the fresher scars on Sherlock's torso, but hadn't. Or maybe he had and that had pleased him, given him some sort of twisted pleasure, knowing that he had caused his bastard flatmate pain.

The look in John's eyes had been hurt, and there had been betrayal in them, mixed with regret. So much bloody regret. Like John blamed himself for not seeing through the trick. Like he thought Sherlock's deceit had been a direct tactic to hurt him. Quite the opposite. If only John Watson knew the truth behind his actions.

John had told Sherlock to fuck off. Those words, so vulgar, so bitter, had torn through Sherlock like an actual bullet, leaving behind an awful ache and pull inside his chest where his heart was.

His mind had clouded over and he'd found himself beyond clarity and reason, returning to one of the less favourable drug dens that he'd frequented on a daily basis back in the day. That had been before John, and before the cases, and before he had anything to live for.

Sherlock, with a sudden revelation that jolted through him like ice, realised that without John Watson in his life he really had nothing to live years of fighting tooth and nail, with men bigger than him and more dangerous, and all to keep John safe, so that one day he might return to him. And now…now it all seemed rather pointless.

He entered the dingy space in front of him, pushing past a door that was starting to come off its hinges. The odour that clung to its walls smelt like piss,human feaces, and defeat. It was where he belonged. He was no longer Sherlock the brilliant detective. That title had been ripped from him the moment he had lied to his friend. His best friend. No. His only friend, he corrected.

He took one more step forwards and that's when he saw it. The flash and gleam of a knife shining in the dim moonlight pooling through the gap in the doorway. The hand of a local drug addict gripped it tight, twisting it viscously as a threat. A warning.

Sherlock's lips twisted upwards with smug curiosity. He peered through the dark, trying to decipher what kind of person his attacker was. A lad, just a kid, nothing special. Probably not capable of brandishing such a weapon, so not a object to worry about, merely an obstacle between himself and his first hit in two years. Billy. Twenty five years old. Aged beyond his years because of drugs. A chemistry student. Someone who had clearly nowhere else to go.

"Stay back, ya 'ere me? Stay the fuck away from me. What are you doing 'ere?"

Sherlock held his hands up in mock surrender and snorted, a puff of his cold breath spiralling out into the air. "Come on Billy. We both know you won't stab me. You're not the type to kill. You're a drug addict. That's all. That's OK, so am I. That's what I'm here for."

This had apparently been the wrong thing to say. The boy's arm jerked upwards almost of its own accord, the sharp point of the knife edging its way closer to Sherlock. "How'd ya know my name? No one calls me Billy. Just my Mam and she's… she's dead. Only she gets to call me that!"

"Alright," Sherlock stumbled back. That was unusual for him. Stumbling. He was usually so light on his feet. A dancer. John Watson was clearly clouding his cognitive skills, as well as his judgement. "Calm down. I'm no use to you if I'm dead."

"What use are you to me alive?" Billy swung the knife in front of him. Sherlock could see that boy's twisted, hungry grin. When you're homeless, your entire family dead, with no purpose in life, he supposed that there was nothing holding the man back from stabbing him.

"I'm Sherlock Holmes," His words were out before he could stop them. He had not considered that the presence of a detective, one associated with Scotland Yard no less, was an unwelcome sight amongst the drug den's walls.

"The dead guy? One that faked his suicide?"

Sherlock licked his lips, mouth suddenly dry. "The one and the only."

"Shit, bugger, fuck." Billy swore loudly. Something flashed in the lad's eyes. Something dangerous. Then, before Sherlock had a chance to escape or duck out, he felt a sudden impact against his abdomen. At first his brain told him he'd been punched by Billy, but the sharp pain that ripped through him soon corrected his thoughts. Not punched, no. Stabbed, definitely stabbed.

He cried out, the sound strangled and rough, like sandpaper rubbing against the inside of his throat. His entire body swayed and he staggered. He was like a drunken man trying to keep upright. The tight pain in his stomach was bad now, but he imagined that it was only going to get worse if he didn't do something to stop the blood flowing out of him.

He managed to stagger out of the drug den, away from Billy and the taunt of the glistening blade, now covered in red. It was cold and beginning to rain, leaving the curly haired man shivering and moaning in discomfort. He slid down against a solid brick wall, the rough pain of the hard surface digging into him a pleasant relief compared to tight, pulling sensation in his lower stomach.

He'd watched John save people's lives time and time again, so he knew that he should know what to do in the case of a stabbing. This wasn't the first time Sherlock had been stabbed, of course. There had been his torture in Serbia. But he hadn't been alone back there. There had been a medical team waiting to save him. And his brother too.

He looked around, his head swaying unsteadily on his shoulders. He half expected his brother to have called for an ambulance by now, or for the man to step out of one of his ominous black cars to save him. But Big Brother wasn't coming for him, he realised with a sinking feeling.

Mycroft was too caught up over the possible terrorist attack hanging over London. It was also unlikely that Mycroft's people knew where he was. Sherlock had chosen his location to get high specifically because no CCTV cameras had access to it. Not even Mycroft's bright assistant - what was it today?- Anthea? Amy? Not even she would be able to arrive with help in time.

A horror steadily filled Sherlock up. It was like he was breathing in water, drowning whilst being stuck on land. He had come to a discovery that made him feel sick (or perhaps his nausea was due to the blood loss.)

Sherlock was bleeding out. Dying. Alone. He was really dying this time. There was no wriggling out of this one. He wasn't dying for a noble cause, for his beautiful John, he was dying because he had wanted to drown his sorrows by pumping drugs into his system. And why? Because John didn't love him anymore, didn't even want him as a friend!

"Oh," Sherlock didn't even recognise his own voice. He sounded strange, distant and small.

The hands that had been pressed to his stomach rose, one nimbly resting on his lips. He could taste his blood, feel it slick on his hands. His eyes rose bright with tears. He was alone. What did it matter if he cried? Who was here to watch his emotional defences crumble?

Not Big Brother. Not mummy. Not darling father. Not wonderful Molly Hooper. Or Lestrade, the man that had originally saved him from wasting himself on drugs. Most importantly, John Watson was not there to see him.

He began to sob softly, noises escaping him that hardly seemed human. He wanted to erase the past two years. If he could he would have stopped his past self from "jumping" and would have gone to John and told him the truth. If Sherlock had had the chance he would have taken John by the shoulders and kissed him - all sensible thoughts about them just being flat mates flying out the window.

Time can not be rewritten.

But the future is what we make it.

It was not too late to say goodbye. Or to tell John the truth.

His hands slid weakly to his jacket pocket. The object of his desire slipped and slid away from his grip, protesting against the slick wetness of the blood on his fingers. When he eventually managed to pluck out his phone, he entered his contacts and clicked on John's name. Two years later and John was still one of his most important contacts on there.

The first time he tried to call John, it rang out.

The second time the call was answered, but quickly hung up on, as though John had answered it without realising it was Sherlock calling.

The third time Sherlock was desperate, torrents of tears sliding down his sharp cheekbones. Please pick up, please answer, please -

The phone audibly clicked against Sherlock's ear. His hands were shaking, almost too weak to hold the device up. He heard an angry - scratch that - furious - sigh. John.

"Sherlock, I told you to fuck off. I mean it. I don't want to hear your bloody excuses. You hurt me. You lied to me. You…you cock! Not some pissy little lie, either. A big lie. You can't just turn up in a restaurant, on the day I was bloody going to propose to Mary, mind you, and expect me to take you back like nothing happened. Like I didn't watch you fall, didn't look down at your broken and crumpled body. It took me weeks to get the blood out of my hands. I thought it was your blood. Thought I was the one who'd spilt it from you, because I left to go check on Mrs Hudson and… give me one good reason why I should listen to a single word you have to say."

"I'm dying," Sherlock whispered, breathing now ragged and coming out short.

A choked laugh. Disbelief. "Yeh, right. OK. No. I'm not falling for that kind of crap again. You think I'm stupid , don't you? Think I'll just fall for one of your tricks again. Not this time."

"No,"

"I'm sorry?"

"No. I don't think you're stupid."

"You have a bloody funny way of showing it."

"John, please -"

"Please what Sherlock? What do you want me to say?"

Sherlock sniffled, his eyelids resting just for a moment, so that he was completely emerged in darkness, nothing but the sound of John's breathing filling his ears. He felt like ice. His blood was mixing in with the onslaught of rain water, gushing out of him like a red waterfall. He was so cold all of a sudden. Like the life was draining out of him quickly - almost as if he was already a corpse - ready to be poked and prodded at in a mortuary.

"Sherlock," There was a pause down the line. John sounded a bit concerned now, almost like his old doctorly self. "Are you…crying?"

Sherlock sniffled and didn't deny it. "Death is as horrid as they say. Worse even. It hurts. Crying is a natural reaction. It's very human. Isn't that what you always wanted me to be? More human."

"Fuck," That woke Sherlock up a bit, forced his eyes to open, despite how heavy and tired they felt. When John swore it was always with real emotion and there was always a reason. There was the panicked sound of John shuffling, shoving shoes and a coat on hurriedly.

"What are you doing?"

"Coming to get you. I might hate your guts right now, but I'm not going to let you die, just because I'm being stubborn."

"Why bother? By the time you get to me, I will be dead. You will have to stare at my broken body again. Wouldn't want to bother you."

"Dammit Sherlock, I have to try. Don't you understand that? I have to try and save you. I couldn't before, but I'll be damned if I don't try now. You've go to stay awake, OK? What are your injuries?"

"Stabbed, in the gut. John, there's a lot of blood. I don't know what to do. Oh God. I just don't know."

"Hey, hey, stay calm. Sherlock Holmes doesn't get scared."

John is wrong. I am scared. But not of what he thinks. I'm not scared of death - I would embrace that any day. I'm scared I've lost him for good.

"What do I do?" Sherlock asked, faking calmness in the tone of his voice. Inside he felt like screaming.

"You need to stop the blood loss. If you lose too much blood then you run a risk of going in to Hypovolemic Shock."

"I'm guessing that that's a bit not good."

"More than a bit not good. If that happens then your heart will begin pumping too fast, you won't have a sufficient amount of oxygen to breathe, and essentially you'll…"

"Die. Yes, thanks. I get the picture. How do I stop it? I don't have anything with me. I'm not medically equipped."

"You have your scarf, don't you? Press it to the wound nice and hard. It's going to hurt, a lot, not going to lie, but the pain is much better than excessive blood loss, trust me."

Ah, yes. The blasted thing seemed a bit tight around his neck actually. He tugged at it and dragged it down, bunching it in his fist and pressing it against the gaping hole in his lower stomach. He let out a startled sob. Oh god, that hurt. The blue material quickly began to soak in the liquid, turning a dirty crimson.

"Sherlock? Sherlock? Are you OK?"

"OK."Sherlock confirmed through gritted teeth. "Now what?"

"Now you sit tight and I'll be right there."

Sherlock's brow creased with worry. "You don't even know my location."

"I've been working on that bit. You have a smartphone-"

Sherlock was about to question John when the line cut out. The phone battery had died. "Dammit!" He screamed, tossing the useless object out into the alleyway.

It landed with an awful clatter. There was no hope for John to find him now. All that breath wasted. Instead of asking John how to live, he could have told him how he felt. How he loved John Watson. How he had always loved him and even death would not stop him feeling that. Both his hands clenched around his scarf. It was beginning to stick to him, bits of the tassels sticking in his wound.

Sherlock was tired, so exhausted by trying to stay alive, and his eyes were beckoning him to sleep. A few seconds of kip wouldn't hurt, might make the process a little less painful even. His eyes fluttered shut and his entire body fell limp, pale fingers uncoiling around the useless material of his scarf.

The hands were unexpected and made him gasp and splutter. At first, he thought that Billy had returned to finish him off, but no - the hands on his face were kind and gentle. They rubbed against his cheek almost… affectionately. John.

His eyes widened and he tried to speak, but he could barely breathe, let alone get the right words out. John traced a finger along the curve of Sherlock's cupid bow and shushed him gently. "It's OK. Save your breath. You're going to need it. I called an ambulance. They'll be here any minute now."

John looked like he'd been crying, eyes wet and bright. Sherlock wondered silently whether he had a minute left to spare. His felt like death barely warmed over.

"Cold," he whispered hoarsely.

John frowned. "Yeh, that would be the blood loss, and the fact you've been sat in the bloody rain bleeding out for the past god knows how long."

John shrugged off his jacket. It was the same one he'd worn on their first case together, albeit battered and worn with age now. Much like the man himself. As gently as he could, so not to jostle the him to badly, the coat was placed over Sherlock's damp and bloody body.

"How did you find me?"

"Like I said before the phone cut off , your smartphone. Our first case, remember? The GPS system that helped track down the killer. I thought that it would lead me to you and it did. I found you and you scared me so much. I thought you were already dead."

"Sorry to disappoint you. I'm not quite there yet." A dry humourless sound slipped over Sherlock's lips.

"Don't say that. Don't say it like I want you dead. I don't." John wrapped his arms around Sherlock gently, his thumbs rubbing patterns along the back of the great Belfast coat, not caring that Sherlock's blood was staining his clothes, not caring about anything other than getting as close to the injured man as possible.

Sherlock was overcome with desperation to be close to John. Inhaling his scent thick and fast, as he buried his overgrown curls against a warm and familiar shoulder. "John," he said with a definite finality. "I want you to know something,"

"Nope." John said sternly. "We are not doing this here, not in a bloody alleyway. We wait until the ambulance gets here and we get you patched up. Maybe then, and only then, we can talk about this."

The ambulance sirens were closing in now, but Sherlock was fading fast. He could feel his heart beating too fast, his lungs constricting in on themselves because there wasn't enough oxygen circulating around his long, thin body. His grip tightened on John, pulling him closer. "No time for that, I'm afraid." His breath was hot and sharp against John's ear. "John, I love you."

John shook his head. Pulled back. The tears were running freely now. "Don't you bloody dare say those words then leave me. Please. Just this once, don't be the bastard that breaks my heart."

Sherlock groaned and slumped forwards. John's screams echoed against his eardrums, faint and fading away.

The ambulance arrived. At last.

"Finally!" John spat. "You took your time."

The crew rushed forwards, armed with a stretcher. They pushed John out of the way, and he was forced to watch hopelessly as they dragged the lifeless body of his best friend onto it. They managed to control the bleeding with a pressure against the wound. It would have to do for now. As soon as Sherlock got to the hospital, John knew they would have to operate on him.

John had advised them of the blood loss that had taken place the moment he'd made the call, and so they were prepared. They hooked him up to a large bag of blood. There was a moment where John had to hold his breath because they couldn't find a good vein, and the needle wasn't making an impact. But at last one of the older men on duty managed to get it in and the blood started to drip into the Sherlock's body.

An oxygen mask was placed carefully over his pasty grey face. John had never seen Sherlock so colourless… even the corpse used in the faked suicide seemed to have held more life than Sherlock in that very moment. John felt his gut drop.

What if Sherlock died that night? For real this time. Sherlock hd attempted to call him three times. He wondered what state Sherlock would have been if only he'd picked up his mobile a little damned faster, and hadn't hung up on him the second time. Would they be at the hospital by now?

He rode with Sherlock that night, clutching his beloved friends hand as though his own life depended on it. Were they friends anymore? John didn't even know. The whole dynamic of their relationship had changed so drastically. John had really thought that he'd hated Sherlock. For days he'd tossed and turned in bed despising the man. But now… Sherlock had told him that he loved him…had actually said those words.

John knew that Sherlock was better than all that sentimental business; so those words were either a lie or a truth brought to light because the man was dying. Either way, it didn't seem to matter anymore. John leant over Sherlock and pressed his lips against the man's sweaty forehead in a somewhat kiss.

"I love you too, you great idiot." John prayed that Sherlock would live. He would have loved to kiss Sherlock, hold him close, take in his scent for one final time. He wanted to do all those things and more. He just wanted the chance to love Sherlock and to let the man know that he was loved dearly.

The night stretched on. It was tense. Sherlock's heart stopped, that's what they told John when he asked them how the surgery had gone. Sherlock had died. For real. And then he'd been dragged back to life, almost like the universes sick joke. The doctor's worked on him into the early hours of the next morning. All John could do was pace and wait for news. Good or bad.

He ignored his phone when it bleeped. Mary asking him where he was. Sarah rebuking him for not being at work and for once again failing to be there for his patients. John did not care. Mary could wait until this nightmare was over. Sarah would just have to deal with one more day without him. Right now Sherlock was the only patient that John could bring himself to care about.

Mycroft turned up five hours into the surgery. He looked as pristine as ever, not a hair out of place. How could the man look so bloody put together, when his baby brother was laid out on the surgery table, possibly dying? He did look a bit pale though, as though he hadn't slept properly, like he'd left whatever secretive business he'd been up to in a hurry.

"John," he nodded curtly, staring with an almost vacant expression at his blasted umbrella.

John glanced up at the Elder Holmes. He was still angry at Mycroft. It had been his plan, after all, for Sherlock to jump and fool the world into thinking he was dead. To fool him. But, the trouble was, John just didn't have the heart to yell at him. Mycroft was fragile right now and John could see right through him like he was a fucking icicle - he was hurting - possibly even scared that his brother was going to die in the night.

"How -"

"How is he?" John said snappily. "I found him bleeding to death, stabbed in the gut, outside a drugs den. How do you think he is?" Mycroft dabbed at his forehead, wiping off a sheen of sweat. He looked upset - troubled - and that made John instantly regret his words. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snap. I'm just worried about Sherlock."

"I am… concerned." Mycroft said after a moment. "I had not been anticipating this. I could not see the obvious, and therefore I was blind sighted into thinking Sherlock was safe."

"The obvious?"

Mycroft looked directly at him. "You. I could not see you."

"Me?"

"Yes. I had hoped that my brother's ridiculous infatuation with you would have faded by now. Love is dangerous for a man like Sherlock, especially when it is not returned. Unrequited love, now that is positively devastating."

"What are you talking about?" John swallowed. He was fairly sure that he knew what Mycroft was saying, but a part of him still required further clarification.

"Sherlock Holmes is heartbroken, John. Surely that much is clear. Heartbroken over you. Did you not wonder why he was near a drugs den so soon after you rejecting him? You might as well have been the one to stab him. Kill him." That smug grin - oh how he hated that grin - how perfectly it curled and snarled beneath that beaked nose.

He launched to his feet and stalked over to the red haired man. Mycroft was an intimidating man but John was a soldier and was not a bit scared of him. "I want you to go,"

"No,"

"No?"

John's fists clenched by his side. "Why? Why are you doing this? Sherlock has been in hospital plenty of times. You never showed up. You never cared before. Why now? Why after all those times are you here?"

"Things are different now. Sherlock has been through a lot. He's…fragile. And," Mycroft licked his lips slowly, as if trying to process his own words. "I think that his loss may just break my heart."

John blinked. Mycroft had never been so open and honest about his emotions. For a moment there John had forgotten that Mycroft wasn't a heartless devil in a suit. He'd totally skipped over the fact that Mycroft Holmes felt things… that he had a heart. Well, John supposed, of course he did. Both the Holmes brothers were human, and had the ability to love. They just had a bloody ridiculous way of showing it.

"I'm sorry," John apologised. He'd been so close to hitting the man. "I didn't think. I didn't realise… yeh…you probably have more right to be here than me."

"I am not the one he will want when he wakes up,"

"If," John corrected. "No, when. He will wake up. I am sure that neither of us have seen the backside of Sherlock Holmes yet." John huffed a broken, tired laugh.

"That day would be something to see."

"The whole of England might just stop." Mycroft was smiling now. Well as close to a smile as the pompous prick could manage, John supposed.

The two men were interrupted by the sound of the door to the surgery room opening. A weary, but pleased surgeon walked out, pulling off his gloves with satisfaction written across his face. "I think he's going to be OK gentlemen. He survived the major surgery. We'll keep him hooked up to some blood until I'm satisfied his blood volumes are back to normal, and he's not allowed to move for quite some time, less those stitches tear."

"He's going to be OK?" John questioned in disbelief. He couldn't believe it. His heart felt ready to burst from its cage with joy and his legs threatened to collapse beneath his as he tried to process the feelings of shock - concern - elated happiness.

The surgeon grinned, nodding. "Mr Sherlock Holmes is a very lucky man."

"Can we see him?"

"He's still groggy from the surgery. Probably isn't making sense. But sure…I don't see why not."

"I should, um, attend to some important government business." Mycroft nodded affirmatively and began to spin on his heel.

"Ah, no." John actually had the bravery to grab Mycroft's sleeve and drag him back. "You are going to see your baby brother and be perfectly civilised, aren't you Mycroft?"

" I really must insist on leaving-" Mycroft gazed at John, conflicted and trying to search for a way he could get out of having to face his brother.

John shook his head. " If you go now, I don't think he'll ever forgive you."

Mycroft's resolve seemed to crumble. "Very well, if you insist."

"I do. Now, am I going to have to drag you by your cuffs? Or will you come quietly."

Mycroft's lips twitched. "There's no need for that."

"Good."

John took the lead, pushing past the surgeon and into the dim hospital room. He was instantly aware of the steady bleep, bleep of Sherlock's heart being monitored. He'd never been so relieved in his life. He took his seat my the younger Holmes's bedside and took a hold of one of his hands, squeezing it tight.

"Gave us quite a scare back there."

"Us?" Sherlock asked, looking at John with bleary eyes. John grinned and nodded at the doorway.

With a slight tilt of his head, Sherlock caught a glimpse of his older brother standing awkwardly in the doorway.

"Oh." Sherlock said, voice quiet.

"Hello brother dearest." Mycroft took a seat on the opposite side of Sherlock's bed. He was more hesitant about touching Sherlock than John, but gradually he reached out for Sherlock's spare hand - the one the good doctor wasn't clutching - and he tenderly soothed his brother for the first time since their childhood.

John Watson and Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock's personal angels perched at each corner of his bed. Both smiling because of the same reason; Sherlock was very much alive.