A/N- Welcome to my first Sherlock fic! I decided after rewatching the series that it was high time I actually wrote something for it. However! Please note that the medical conditions (primary arachnoid cyst and blood clot) involved in this fic are very real, very scary complications. I have experienced both, and in fact still have the cyst in my skull (in my case (and Sherlock's case) the cyst is not dangerous, not cancerous, and not a tumor just fyi). All that is here are things I know from personal experience and through my own subjective view. This was written to test out what would happen if something happened to Sherlock's mind, and just how he would deal with the damage. And because I quite frankly love angst c:

If you want to see what the cyst looks like, just search "arachnoid cyst CAT scan" on google (that "CAT scan" part is important if you don't wish to see actual surgery on it, and note that a CAT scan flips in reverse; if it appears to be on the right side, it is actually on the left).

Set after the end of season three, contains spoilers, and does not include romantic JohnLock (slash). It is also not a terminal!fic because with proper treatment, neither conditions are diseases that lead to death, though complications and issues may occur that make them fatal. I do not own Sherlock.

Something was wrong with Sherlock.

In fact, something had been wrong with Sherlock all week. The man was flighty, more flighty than usual, flirting from one area of attention. Sometimes, there seemed to be somewhat of a film over his eyes; John caught him a few times staring blankly at his computer screen, finger poised over the trackpad in anticipation of doing something, but he simply didn't follow through. He hadn't said anything in those moments. After all, who knew what was going on in that brain of his? He didn't think he'd ever figure it out, and so oftentimes he didn't even try.

Mary, though- Mary was smart. She was quick. She was the one that first pointed out the discrepancies to John, had first made him aware of the way he would sometimes stumble over his words or do things twice or tell them he had done something months ago when, in fact, the event had occurred merely days ago.

It wasn't that John wasn't paying attention. It was that he was simply more paying attention to other things. To his unborn child. To the video of Moriarty. To settling into a domestic life once more, only now pockmarked with the cases and murders that both he and Sherlock craved frequently instead of saturated with them as it used to be. As such, Mary was an absolute blessing. She and Sherlock were quite alike, and that combined with the fact that she seemed to just get him like even John sometimes had trouble doing, was enough for concern to finally etch its way into his chest. If Mary was worried, then there was definitely cause for him to feel the same.

Yet against his better judgement, the doctor said nothing. Perhaps Sherlock was coming down with a cold- maybe he was still getting over his ordeal with Magnussen, maybe he was worried about Moriarty, maybe he just wasn't getting enough sleep- anything at all that John could think of to explain this odd, erratic behavior was good enough for him. It meant that he could keep an icy, cold, familiar fist from closing around his heart. It meant that he didn't have to lose his breath and end up gasping and panting at the possibility of something being wrong, really wrong, lose Sherlock a third time wrong.

And so he ignored it.

It wasn't like the detective was going to allow John to check him over anyway. It was best, plain and simply, to let him figure it out for himself. Besides, it didn't appear to be that worrisome. Truly, John was more afraid that the man was going to collapse out of exhaustion or malnutrition before anything else got to the seeming-immortal detective. Anything else out of the ordinary would have been dealt with and taken care of, of that John was certain.

Mary, though, was not so convinced.

"Take him out," she insisted one night, talking over his attempts to help her with dinner, batting his hands away whenever he tried to take control of the meal she had put together that had been insisted on being absolutely fantastic. John didn't exactly view it in the same way. He wasn't very trusting of recipes that called for steak marinated in carbonated drinks. That didn't mean he could refuse whatever Mary and her swollen belly decided was delicious, however, and so he tried not to wrinkle his nose at the strange smell of the platter being carried to the dining table. "You need to take him out and see how he reacts to normal things."

The doctor snorted a bit and shook his head. "So he's a bit tired, what am I supposed to do? Push him like a dog until he finally decides to rest?" He swooped in beside his wife to snatch up the bowl of potatoes on the counter before she could protest. "Sherlock isn't like that. He'll just push himself harder because I'm there." Setting the bowl down, he waited for Mary to join him with a container of warm peas; they were set down and he held her seat for her, pushing her in gently, ever the gentleman.

"Thanks, dear, but-" Mary shook her head quickly. "I know and you know that something isn't right. I don't know what, but it isn't. So take him out for awhile! Call up Greg, see if there's any case you two can get involved in." A small smile quirked up the corners of her mouth. "Besides, it's been nearly a month since the last one. I'm not stupid, John. You'd be just as happy to get a case as he would be."

That was true… "Fine," he groaned out. "Fine, fine, I'll take him out. Just don't be upset with me when I come home to tell you nothing's wrong, okay?"

The smile got a little bit bigger and her warm hands clasped over his. "I won't be."

He gave a little grumble, though the act itself was severely hampered by his sweetness to her (former assassin or not, he still loved the woman). It didn't take long before they both began eating, letting their chatter drift to more conventional, menial topics. John definitely didn't complain. Though when their evening eventually wound down and he was tucked up close to Mary that night, arm gently around her waist as they laid on their sides, he couldn't close his eyes without see Sherlock's face. Somewhere, deep down in his stomach, he knew something was wrong. Had he believed in silly superstitious things, he might have thought about a red string of fate- a connection between Sherlock and him that would always, always, inevitably bring them back to each other, would keep them close. After all, how many times had one of them suddenly showed up in just the nick of time to save the other's life? But John was not superstitious, never had been, and he didn't plan on starting now.

The night dragged on quietly but he still felt his stomach flip over every handful of seconds. It was the same gut wrenching feeling as when Sherlock had been about to take that damned pill with the first case they had ever worked together on; the same nauseating turning in his abdomen as red dots had glowed on a pale face that thrown into shadows from the reflections of a pool, or the sight of a black coat much too close to a gloomy sky, and even the silence in Magnussen's penthouse that had been just too much.

Something was wrong, so wrong, but what?

Suffice to say, John didn't slept well that night.

{...}

Sherlock, despite what John might think, was not totally unaware of what was happening in his body. The week was passing slowly, oh so slowly; how could he not notice things?

He slept and ate more than usual to combat the odd dizziness and fogginess that had descended over him. It was the best he knew to do. If John picked up on it, he was intimately aware of just how protective the man would get; he'd gone absolutely mental the last time Sherlock had a mild cold, not even enough to give him a fever. The detective swore he could still taste the awful soup John had attempted to cook up; while he was usually rather amazing at the culinary arts, somehow the doctor was entirely rubbish as creating soup.

His footsteps were soundless in his flat, bare feet running over a newspaper he'd tossed to the ground, avoided the corner of the coffee table, curled around a pen so that the weight would be off of the damnable plastic and not make his foot ache, among other items. The flat wasn't exactly as… Clean… As it had always been. No, now Sherlock was busy, always too busy, thinking and working and dredging up memories from his two years away from London in futile attempts to make a connection to the horrid video that had sent him careening right back into John's life less than five minutes after he had left it. And seeing how John had always taken care of the meaningless task of straightening up the flat, it wasn't exactly easy for him to get into the routine of it now.

Still, busy as he was, he was taking slightly bit more than minimal care of himself only in attempts to keep whatever was ailing him at bay. It felt like he was functioning properly, yes, but not quickly enough. He moved as through a haze, a thick blanket muffling the world around him and cotton binding up the gears in his mind. Thoughts came and deductions were made but… They were slower. Slower was bad, slower meant moments and minutes lost to the failures of his own capacities, especially the situations in which he couldn't pin the blame on anyone else. The abnormally decreased speed of thought made him feel stupid.

He was not stupid. He was far from it.

...But that didn't mean he didn't make stupid decisions.

Sherlock wouldn't speak of it to John, or Mary, or Molly, or Mycroft, or Greg, or anyone at all. They would worry, he'd be sent to the hospital, and he did not like hospitals. It was too much work to deal with that, especially considering all of the current circumstances. Time off was something the man wasn't willing to spend, even if he could afford it- which he couldn't. Time, he needed time; a hospital in this situation would be worth nothing at all but wasted time. The same went for asking John to check him over. Well, that, and also the fact that he didn't think he'd ever allow his own pride to stoop so low as to admit to his best friend that he wasn't alright unless he absolutely had to.

However, when his phone chimed just before sundown, he plucked it from the coffee table immediately to read a text (though not without rubbing his temple, damn that light pounding at his head, the words looking like they were swimming) from John.

Greg's got a case. A funny one, I think. You up for it? -JW

It was strange how Sherlock's lips twitched up faintly at that question. It amazed him that John was bothering to ask, and even that he still wanted to take cases in general. It was… A good feeling, really, especially after everything that had happened.

Doubt that. But yes. I'm coming with a cab. -SH

I'll be ready. -JW

Yes, this would make things better. Clear his head, get him out of the rut, ignore… whatever was going on with his body. It sounded nice, to solve a mediocre case and John, to see the amazement in his eyes once the murderer had been narrowed down to one person instead of the whole populace of London. John Watson was truly magnificent like that.

Turning abruptly, Sherlock made his way back to the table. His laptop lay open, the frozen image of Moriarty's face staring at him with blank eyes. As far as he could tell, he had gone through the whole thing, picked it apart bit by bit, but had gotten virtually nowhere in terms of progress. Working on a case now could do little but help his slow thought process, likely brought on by lack of sleep or nutrition or some other aspect of his personal wellness that he might have inadvertently neglected. He reached out to close the lid.

He missed.

Sherlock frowned. He took a step forward and reached out again. Missed again. How odd. Perhaps he had had too much coffee… What coffee had to do with motor skills and depth perception to flip down the lid to a computer he wasn't sure, but the the thick, syrupy fog that clung to his thoughts made it too slow to come to any reasonable explanation in any reasonable amount of time. Rather than admitting anything to himself, he simply ran his fingers over the wood of the table, up heated metal, and pressed down until the click of the lid registered awfully slowly through what felt like fur in his ears.

Without further ado, the detective began to get ready, pulling on his shoes and quickly forgetting the strange incident. There was work to be done and a mystery to solve, and that would always be more important than whatever his transport decided to afflict him with. And so he turned his mind from it. Sherlock cleaned off the table of his experiments, pulled down the papers from his old, solved cases from the horrible wallpaper, and generally tidied up the place, if only to appease John in case he was to come over after they visited the crime scene. It would be a treat, Sherlock supposed, as long as John wasn't inclined to inquire if he was going to search for a new roommate. The first- and so far, last- time that had happened, it hadn't exactly gone well.

Sherlock had since replaced the lamp in apology to Mrs. Hudson.

His eyes lingered over the horrid thing, bright cerulean with bright yellow flowers wrapped up the sides. It was definitely not in his taste, but when he had asked his landlady for a color (with no other context) she had said blue; this had been the only one of the right color in the three shops he had searched. John had yet to say anything about it, but it was obvious he always tried to hold back a laugh whenever his gaze drifted to it. At least Mary had liked it the last time she visited. ...It wasn't too awful, he supposed.

Fitting on his scarf and then shrugging into his coat, Sherlock bounded down the stairs and into the slightly chilly early-April air. It filled his lungs sweetly; it felt like only days ago that he had been bed bound, taking his surgeon's advice about resting and not pushing himself after being released from the hospital just to appease John's worry, even though he had been active and on his feet for several months now. He didn't think he'd ever take being able to hail a taxi by himself for granted ever again.

The ride to John's flat was short, very short, the distance small enough he easily could have walked. He didn't know where the case was, though. The both of them would be grateful for speed in the long scheme of things, especially if it happened to be in the other side of the city. It had been a long time since either of them had worked on a case. Not so long as since Magnussen, but long enough that both men were itching to go at it again, eager enough that speed was key. It was no doubt the reason for John's seemingly random proposal.

The detective's fingers tapped against his leg, relaying some rhythm of a new symphony he'd been learning to play on his precious violin. Before the symphony was over, the cab pulled over. Sherlock told the man to wait, then made his way up to the flat that John and Mary shared. His coat billowed out behind him like the mane of some great beast, a character in a movie with a purpose and a goal and a reason to live. Sherlock didn't know about the first two, but he certainly had the last; the reason was written in the bright blue eyes and the locks of graying hair that opened the door to him, a reason that would never go away.

Quirking the faintest of smiles, Sherlock nodded to the doctor. "Hello, John," he said politely. Then, raising his gaze to peer behind him, he gave a short wave. "Hello, Mary."

"Hi to you too, Sherlock," the woman replied before John could, standing just behind the man. "You two run along and have fun then. I do think I'm going to get myself a snack…" The detective tilted his head a bit as he heard a low groan from his long-time partner, glancing between the two with interest. The mini mystery that he didn't bother trying to figure out on his own did not go unsolved for long; Mary quickly continued. "Yes, a big snack, John, so if the skip is still open after you're all finished, I would very much appreciate you stopping by." She grinned. "It's not my fault your baby is a carb junkie."

Sometimes, in moments like these, Sherlock really wondered how John could possibly want to leave it all behind in search of a murder. It was so… So domestic. So normal. The man had preached about wanting to be normal before, in the beginning years, and the detective only had to think back on the timeline of events to see why. Between murders and near-death experiences, there was nothing normal about Sherlock. He didn't blame John for wanting something other than what he could offer. Then again, neither was there anything normal about Mary, but at least she was not-normal in a perfectly sane way.

And yet… Seeing the cautious grin on John's face, the way there was no limp, no shake in his hand, nothing that suggested he ever wanted anything close to normal… He couldn't say he would be happier if the man suddenly left all their old habits behind to live a regular life with his expecting wife.

If he could have seen himself, he would have been irritated by the soft gleam that shone in his eyes. Gratitude? Happiness? Contentment? Whatever it was, it was there, and he had no idea of it.

"Right, well, we better get going." John's voice cut through the thick of his thoughts. "Greg wants to wrap this one up quick; has the potential of spreading fear among the city, y'know, one of those sort of cases."

Sherlock stepped back. He returned down the steps to the porch. "I've got us a taxi." He didn't wait for the doctor to catch up; he could hear footsteps behind him, oh so familiar footsteps, and he didn't need any other reassurances. Once on his usual side of the taxi (the right side) he reached out to grab the handle and… Didn't land it. A string of irritated expletives ran in a stream through his head; he was able to grab it the second time, though. Sleep, yes, he'd have to actually sleep tonight. No use in worrying John by slipping up and letting him see his sudden lack of coordination. It just wouldn't do.

Slipping into his seat, he couldn't help but to lean over towards John once the other man had gotten in and given the address to the cab driver. He expected him to pull out his cell phone and the doctor didn't disappoint, pulling up a series of pictures sent by Lestrade. The effect of it was hampered a bit by the fact he had to squint, the headache pulsing behind his eyes making them sensitive to the electronic light. "Double murder," John said, the pictures showing two bodies at least ten feet apart, enough blood spilled to make pools and rivers and oceans on the cement. A car park, Sherlock recognized, if the rows and the darkness of the scene were anything to go by. "No murder weapon, no DNA currently found, and no sign of the victims' cars."

Sherlock's brow furrowed slightly. It would be easy to solve, he was sure, but it definitely was interesting. "Mm… Glad Lestrade finally has something worth investigating." From the corner of his eye, he watched the doctor sport a little grin, entertained by the comment.

The rest of the drive was a quiet blur. Silence reigned, but not uncomfortably. Sherlock's gaze drew out the window, watching the lights pass by in a brilliant blaze of oncoming evening. They seemed to blur together, make his head pound, but curiously, he continued to look out, almost unaware that it would help to look away.

The vague thought slipped in and out of his mind that yes, he wouldn't mind doing this for the rest of his life. If that was possible, he was absolutely certain that he couldn't come up with any better alternative than sitting beside John with nothing negative between them, always on their way to their next adventure.

The moment the cab rolled to a stop the both of them hopped out, though the detective sported a bit of a stumble as he did so. That was unusual but again, he brushed it right off. They took the lift up to the third floor hardly saying a word, and was immediately greeted by Greg- who had, apparently, been waiting for them.

"You made it," the DI said with what sounded like relief. "Good. This one is bloody strange, I'll be honest there. It's just right over here." They all fell in step and headed to the crime scene; the tape was graciously lifted by one of the police officers to allow the trio in. "Watch where you step. There's… stuff… everywhere."

"John said there's no leads," Sherlock inquired. "At least, not as far as standard procedure."

He was rewarded with a nod. "Yeah, yeah, that's right. And before you go off about it all being simple and we're all buffoons, just know that I've tried absolutely everything I know of to get somewhere with this. Within reason, of course."

"You mean you did what you could without risking getting fired," Sherlock corrected. The DI paused for a moment, then gave a noncommittal shrug.

"...Possibly."

"So you called John, and here we are." He nodded to himself. Stepping over an arm to one of the victims, he situated himself in a small area not affected by the blood, unwilling to get his shoes wet or to spread something that could be crucial evidence. Greg offered a pair of plastic gloves; Sherlock snapped them on and crouched down, beginning a very careful, thorough investigation.

Lestrade shook his head. "No, ah, John called me." Sherlock glanced up for a moment, frowning. That was unusual. But not worth worrying about at the moment. What mattered was getting to work.

His movements were slow and unsteady as he worked his fingers and eyes around the first victim. There was something strange, something different and important about this. Something he needed to figure out. The woman still had her purse. Her careful hairstyle had had havoc wreaked upon it, and a few scratches were on her chin, not too much higher than where the throat has been slit, but not cleanly, as was per normal. There was something about all of this, some conclusion that would remain just out of his grasp until he pieced together the puzzle.

His mind was blank.

A high pitched whine buzzed in his ears, making it hard to concentrate. It didn't fit with the environment. Jerking a hand up, he pressed the heel of his hand into one of them, grinding, trying to rid himself of the dreadful noise. It didn't go away but it did fade into a hum, clinging to the edges of his thoughts.

Sherlock's hand dropped. He teetered forward, reaching out to move a lock of the victim's long, silky blonde hair. Slick, the hair was slick, why was it slick? Blood! No, no. Blood would have been obvious on blonde hair… What was it then? Conditioner? Rain? It was sunny, had been sunny for the past two days, where-?

He couldn't think. The detective lurched to the side in a daze as his balance failed him, though it all seemed slow, much too slow to him. Despite the overwhelming dizziness he didn't fall, using the tips of his fingers to right himself, water from the ground wetting them. Wait, no, that wasn't water, that was blood. How could he have mistaken that?

Bright. It was too bright. White, bright, blinding light…! Bright light shouldn't be in the middle of a multistory car park!

Why not though? Why was that wrong? It. Wasn't. Connecting.

"Sherlock?"

John's voice drifted to him as though through molasses, or perhaps deep waters. Which would distort the sound more? He didn't know, he couldn't remember; he couldn't care less.

"Sherlock, are you alright?"

"What? Oh, uh, yes- yes, my headache is gone."

"Your what?"

"Headache. 'S gone." And it was. He reached up to press one of his temples- his fingers found his chin instead but nonetheless, he let them travel up and up and up until he was fairly certain they were where he wanted them to be and rubbed lightly. He couldn't feel his right hand, the whole limb gone numb but somehow also feeling fat, bloated. As if someone had dosed that side with morphine and then inserted a bike pump just below his shoulder, pushing air straight in, making his skin stretch and his knuckles useless and ballooning the whole length of it. It only felt like that.. That actually scenario would be illogical and impossible.

Wouldn't it be?

Sherlock shook his head and immediately decided that was a bad decision. The light grew until he was absolutely certain someone had smoked about a hundred packs of cigarettes in less than five minutes, the white tendrils making the air hazy, gray, and hard to breathe. Reaching into his coat pocket he seemed to remember that he was staring at a dead body and should be examining it. The little pack of tools he always carried was quickly extracted.

His fingers reached to pull the magnifying glass from one of the compartments. It wasn't working though. They grasped and tugged but even with what felt like an inordinate amount of effort, it didn't slide free. The left corner of Sherlock's lips quirked up. This… This was… Funny. Here he was, knelt in front of a dead body, on a case only he could solve, and he couldn't get his bloody magnifying glass out.

He couldn't stop himself as he let out a noise nothing short of a giggle. "John-" The detective snorted another little laugh, raising the bloated feeling arm to his mouth, trying to stifle the sound. "John, c'mere. Look, look. I can't- I c'n't get it out…!"

A warm body at his side informed him of the doctor's presence. "Sherlock? Sherlock, what in hell's name is wrong with you? What can't you get out?" He was rewarded with another awkward little laugh as Sherlock demonstrated, hand weakly fluttering around the instrument.

It was just so funny here in the bright, foggy, lilting car park. Thinking be damned, it was funny.

"Can't- I can't it, it's so- sh's dead, Joh', dead! Little gol'fis' gotta… Gol'fish is… Dead!"

He was suddenly grasped and tugged upwards. The feeling was rather unpleasant; Sherlock's stomach churned and he swayed something awful, swinging his arms out for something to grab, something to stop him from falling over, even though that would be funny too. A pair of hands were there to grab his shoulders, keeping him upright, and he knew he should have been able to make a connection to who those hands belonged to, but quite frankly didn't give a damn.

The fingers that had pulled him from the ground were suddenly on his face and he found himself looking into John's eyes. Oh, his beautiful eyes. They were his reason, weren't they? His reason for something. Or was his reason another thing instead…?

"Sherlock? Sherlock, look at me. Look at me. Can you smile for me?" Smile? Oh, Sherlock would always smile for John, and more. He laughed again. Did John have four arms? That would be amazing. John was special enough- maybe he was just special in a different way than Sherlock was. "Yeah, yeah, there you go. Just like that. A great big smile, yeah?"

He stretched his lips up until he could barely see out of the squints of his eyes. Only… only it was one eye that was squinting. The other one seemed perfectly normal, as open as ever. It felt odd, but then again, so had everything since he had come out to the case. And when everything was odd, that meant that oddness had to be normal.

Suddenly, John let out a string of expletives, words he knew that he knew, but couldn't make any sort of sense about them. "Lestrade!" John called, and Sherlock rolled his head to the side, intrigued in seeing that that was who was holding him up. What a nice man he was, the detective decided. "Lestrade, get an ambulance! He's- holy shit, I think he's having a stroke!"

"A stroke?!"

"Yes, a stroke! Look at his face! His right side- everything is drooping. No smile over there. He's unbalanced, he- he's slurring his words- get an ambulance!" Sherlock didn't hear if Lestrade said anything else. The warmth left his skin and he found himself swaying once again until John replaced the DI's support.

"Sherlock, I need you to do a couple more things for me, okay? Just a couple more thi- no, no, look at me." Sherlock's gaze had begun to wander, but it quickly snapped back. "There we go. I want you to put your hands out straight in front of you, palms up. Okay? Like this." He stepped back and lifted his arms, palms towards the roof, at even level with each other. "Close your eyes and do it just like this, okay?"

He mumbled something that even he wasn't sure the meaning of. But he did as John asked, always as John asked, hands straight and out and- oh, well, that was funny, wasn't it? Noticing some sort of discrepancy, Sherlock opened his eyes just a little bit, squinting, and saw that his right arm was lower than his left. He couldn't move it up higher. It simply kept drifting down as though a weight had been put on it. Perhaps the pumped air under his skin was not air, but water, or lead, muscles tired and unwilling to hold up the weight of the limb. "Shit!" John cursed again, and he couldn't figure out why.

"Wh's wrong?" he asked, aching to reach up and touch John, to wipe away the worry from between his brows. His right wouldn't cooperate, so he did as he wanted with his left hand, awkwardly patting the army doctor's head, movements heavy and stiff. " 'S funny, Joh', so funny…!"

Something entered the former soldier's eyes that Sherlock couldn't read. It was odd, to not be able to read John. He always had before. Almost always could. But this time it was impossible. There was not much time to wonder about that, though. His right leg gave out under him all of a sudden without his knowledge or consent; John was right there again, holding him up, shifting his weight over on purpose to keep him standing.

"No, Sherlock, this is not funny! You're having a damn stroke!" A few short breaths whistled in between the man's teeth. "Look at me, now. Answer me this. What was the color of the lady in our first case together? What color was she wearing?"

What color? Sherlock wanted to laugh at that. Colors were stupid. You were supposed to pick one and call it 'favorite'- to claim as your own for some strange reason. But a case, yes! A case! Sherlock liked cases, and John did too, didn't he? Weren't they on their way to a case right now? He vaguely wondered when their taxi was going to arrive before trying to focus.

"Ah… many," he finally said. John just blinked and so he continued. "Many, many cases, Joh', s' many c'ses, 's fun…! Wh're's our cab f'r th' case?"

"You didn't answer the question. What was the color? The lady with the suitcase, the one that spelled out 'Rachel', the serial suicides. Don't you remember?"

Sherlock answered with a laugh and the lilting of his body much too far to the side to be anything less than concerning. Luckily, in the distance, the both of them heard the sound of sirens until they came closer and closer, echoing shrill and high off the cement walls of the car park. His hand left John to shove against his ears, the other one following much more slowly, but doing the same. It was loud, too loud, but the headache didn't reappear, either ignored or given up by his brain. He didn't care which.

"Right, come on then, Sherlock," the doctor beside him said. He grasped the detective's arm and guided him over to the shrieking thing, the back doors flying open and a gurney quickly lowered to the ground. "Let me see your coat, you're-" A whine of protest flitted in his throat as warm hands pulled the familiar thick material from his shoulders. "It's alright, I'll give it back. Promise." Soon the scarf was gone too and he was pressed onto the gurney, the suddenly different perspective of the world making him feel upside down instead of laid flat.

Something was wrong. Something was oh so wrong, so awfully, horribly wrong. It wasn't funny anymore. His head turned from side to side, face drooping, eyes glazed and searching.

"Joh'... Jo-ohn…!"

Fingers curled into his and he managed to roll his head to see the man he was looking for. "Don't worry, I'm coming with you," he said, voice weirdly unsteady. "Just- just breathe, okay? It'll be alright, Sherlock. Breathe for me. Breathe."

Perhaps John had said something to the paramedics then, perhaps he didn't need to. Whatever had happened, they both were suddenly in the ambulance and on the move, the doctor's hand holding his, talking to him even as the crew worked to get him stabilized until they arrived at St. Bart's.

The rest was a blur. The ambulance stopped at some point but his movement didn't stop. White, blue, tan- the colors blended together like a freshly painted canvas dropped in water. Some point later he was put onto a very small bed and a machine whirred around him, making his head and neck and chest feel heavy, the giant circular device whining as it worked around him. Then all of a sudden he was out of that bed and into a different one, one with a thin pillow and an IV rod protruding from one corner of the metal framework.

It was at that moment that Sherlock realized the doctor wasn't there anymore. His body seemed to convulse as he tried to sit up. Hands, too many hands, pushed to get him to lay flat down instead. "J-John…!" he cried out, pain in his voice but not in his body- no, his body was numb, the whole side of it, and he couldn't remember if it was supposed to be like that, if he even had a right side to begin with. "John! Jo, J-Joh', plea', need Joh...n!"

And then he was right there, hovering over his face, cool skin pressing to his forehead, catching tendrils of sweaty hair and curling them back. "I'm here, Sherlock, I'm here."

"Wha's 'appenin'?!"

"You're going into surgery. You've got-" Where those tears in John's eyes? He couldn't tell. "You've got a blood clot and a massive bloody cyst in your head! It's not a stroke, but... The doctors, they're- they're going to take care of you, alright?"

"B't you're my doct'r…?"

That had to be a tear, sliding down John's face. Or was it? No, no, his cheek wasn't wet… Trick of the light? Oh, he couldn't deduce like this. Not like this.

"I know. I know. But it's their turn this time. I can't help you. I've got the best people to do it for you, alright? Watson-approved surgeons only." Oh, good. If they were approved by John, then nothing could go wrong. Movement caught his attention and he looked up as something descended towards his mouth; Sherlock's lungs began to work fervently, inhaling and exhaling in a panic. "Sherlock! Sherlock, calm down! It's just an oxygen mask, okay? It'll help, I promise You'll be okay. You'll be just fine." As expected, John's reassurance calmed him, would always calm him, and the mask was slipped on.

The mask was not an oxygen mask, however. The army doctor had been lying. Almost immediately, Sherlock began to feel woozy, mostly oblivious to being wheeled out of the room he was in and down the hall, people clearing the way for them. He couldn't feel John there anymore but he couldn't feel most things now. John had promised though- that everything would be fine. And it would be. It had to be.

He lost consciousness just before the operating room doors opened.

A/N- I hope you all enjoyed, and I would be absolutely thrilled to get some reviews! Thanks!