DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own Sherlock, nor any of it's characters.

BACKGROUND INFO THAT YOU SHOULD KNOW: The 'Car Crash' in this fanfiction happens as the Reichenbach Fall's replacement. Moriarty, instead of dying at the Reichenbach Fall, was 'killed' earlier, before the car crash happened.


Author Note:

I know I've been fairly inactive lately, this is mainly because I got caught up in school and anime/manga and such...

Anyways.

This is my newest fanfic, and I literally have no idea whatsoever on how long it will be. I'll write it like it's a OneShot, and if it's popular, I guess I'll continue it. :)

Hope you enjoy~! This one's looking like one of the more depressing stories I've written... sorry if it breaks any of your feels.

I'll give you fair warning now, I AM a JohnLock shipper, and so there will be at the very least hints at JohnXSherlock in this story (Gay ships are yay ships, right?)

Please please PLEASE leave reviews, I can always use the feedback, and it's really helpful to see how popular my stories are so I can choose which ones to update next/the quickest.

And as always...

Love chu all~ Keep Reading :)

~Scar

Prologue:

Blackness, terrible, swirling, never ending black. That was all he could see. That, and the light, the light that glimmered so hopelessly out of reach, so far above him. He contemplated the situation, what was happening? Who was he? Why was he here? Voices called to him, swirling and mixing into each other until they became a disgusting muddle of color. He tried to move, but was pulled down. Something stronger than gravity, his own weakness; and it was crippling, shockingly terrifying. This, and the realization that he was alone. Alone? Hadn't he always been? Who was there for him to feel lonely in the absence of? There had never been anybody. And yet, something still hurt within him; could this be emotion? He tried to open his weary eyes, staring up into the blazing light of what he could only imagine was the sun. It blinded him, he flinched away from it. That was when the voices started again. Procedure... Low probability. Life... uncertain. He could only pick out a few words, and each of these didn't seem to connect in any way other than one. They were in English. It was a start, a weak one, but seeing as he was trapped in his own weakness, a weak start seemed fitting. English, that meant that he was most likely in America, or England, although there were other countries that were possible, they seemed too unlikely to consider. America? No. The accents weren't fitting. England, I'm in England. But who am I? I know I'm alone, and I know that I'm weak. But that's all I can remember... The man, by now, had forced his eyes open, and was staring up at the barely visible ceiling. The ceiling was a white panel, interrupted with regularly occurring lines of black, that crisscrossed into a grid. Tile. Everything was swimming, his eyes rolled to the side, and he caught a glimpse of a uniform, light green, pressed neatly. Medical. Judging by this and the light splashes of bleach where the wearer of the uniform no doubt had to bleach out the blood of his patients. The number of these discolored splotches, and their locations thereof highly indicates surgeon. His eyelids, against his own will, were closing again, and he lost sight of his puzzle once more.

What do I know? I'm in England, in a room with a tiled ceiling, with a... man judging by build, who is wearing a medical uniform which highly suggests surgeon. Conclusion, I am in the hospital, likely being operated on at this very moment. This hypothesis was further backed by the incessant beep of a heart monitor, and the bite of a plastic oxygen mask against his face. He heard one of the voices from earlier, it seemed to drift to the top of his mind with an odd clarity.

"Sedate him, he's regaining consciousness!"

And then there was the delightful swirl of the drugs in his bloodstream.

And it was back to the blackness.

And the weakness.

And the terrifying loneliness.


Meanwhile, throughout this whole ordeal, a freshly dressed middle-aged man sat, just outside of the doors of the neurosurgical wing of Barnet General Hospital. Although his appearance was altogether rather ordinary, his face showed that he had been through his own set of trials. His eyes were hollow with grief, watery with tears that couldn't seem to fall; his lips were thin, pressed into a tight line, as though he was biting back the sobs. He rested back against the uncomfortable plastic seating in the waiting room, anxiously hoping that his particular patient, the one he had come to see, would make it through. His best friend in the entire world. The rest of the waiting room was filled with rather mundane people, a mother and father that were sobbing over the almost certain loss of their child, an older looking woman who kept a straight face, although she had just recently become a widow, without her even knowing it. The entire room seemed to stink with fear, the terrible fear of death that made even the most strong fall to their knees. The middle-aged man looked down, at the white and black tiled floor, with a blank look in his eyes. And gravity pulled, at the tears that couldn't seem to fall before.

And so the man, who was still looking down, watched as his tears fell; and didn't utter a single sound. Nothing.

The doors of the operating room swung open then, and the dead eyes of each of the four residents of the room turned expectantly towards them, hope glimmering in each pair, every pair except for the elderly woman. She stood, and walked across the horrible tiled floor with a slight limp in her left leg, without even being called up.

"I'm very sorry for your loss, Miss," The young surgeon murmured, his eyes tracing the lines of her face. The woman just nodded slowly, and turned, before leaving.

And the middle aged man, was left to his tears. And his own weakness.

And his own terrifying loneliness.