Warnings: Hospital fic. In other words: Angst Street, Angstville.

Just something that popped into my head. I actually really love Sherlock/Henry as a pairing, but it's not popular for some reason. Personally I think it makes a lot of sense. (A girl I follow on tumblr and I decided the Sherlock/Henry ship name should be "Sherry".)

Anyway, this takes place a few years after Sherlock returns from the dead. John is working as an A&E doctor at St Bart's when he's not helping with cases.

Fic and chapter titles are from a beautiful feelsy song called World in Flames by In This Moment. I definitely recommend you listen to it.

Sherlock took a deep breath and leaned over the hospital bed as far as he could while still staying seated, carefully dodging the tubes and wires to wrap his arms around Henry's torso for the first time since the ambulance crew had taken Henry's battered body out of his arms at the crime scene. Sherlock buried his face in the hospital gown covering his boyfriend's barely moving chest.

"Henry, I'm so sorry. Please wake up. I didn't mean for you to get hurt, you have to believe me. I would have told you to stay away if I'd known-" he broke off as his voice cracked, tears leaking through his closed eyelids to soak through the papery garment underneath. After a moment he composed himself enough to keep speaking, directing the words into Henry's chest as if his heart could hear them and kick his brain into gear. Sherlock had spent all night doing this, and the words came automatically now, no longer requiring conscious thought to be spoken. "Wake up. Please. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. Please just wake up. I know you can hear me with those ridiculous ears. Come on. Just wake up. Henry, please."

Sherlock glanced up at Henry's face to see if his pleas were working, but his boyfriend's ashen face remained as still as ever. Sherlock bit back a sob, not caring about the fact that showing such emotion was extremely uncharacteristic, and reached a hand up to touch Henry's cheek.

"Please," Sherlock repeated. "Wake up. You have to wake up. I love you, Henry. I love you. Open your eyes. You have to. Please. Please..."

He let his hand drop from Henry's face and slid it back underneath the other man's prone body in as much of a hug as he could manage in such an awkward position and without disturbing the medical equipment. He pressed his face back into Henry's chest, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs. This was his fault. It was all his fault. If he hadn't had plans to meet up with Henry then the other man wouldn't have decided to meet him at the crime scene instead of the restaurant and wouldn't have been injured. Sherlock shouldn't have allowed himself to feel anything for Henry, shouldn't have pursued this relationship at all. Love was a dangerous disadvantage, and all that came from being loved by Sherlock Holmes was injury and potential death. Everyone he loved ended up getting hurt, because of him, while he was always left relatively unscathed and able to do nothing except wait for them to wake up and say they never wanted to see him again.

John took a detour to Henry's room en route to his next set of rounds, and suppressed a sigh as he leant against the doorframe of Henry's room and watched his best friend beg the unconscious man to wake up. He idly thought that Donovan would die of shock if only she could see Sherlock in such a state of emotional despair that he was visibly crying in place where anyone could see him, without giving a thought to his carefully constructed "sociopath" image. There had always been something about Henry Knight that brought out the emotions in Sherlock, from the very first time the detective had met him.

John liked to think that he himself had made Sherlock into a better man, but it was Henry who made him human again. Henry had been the one to teach Sherlock that caring could be an advantage and that love was something that could be used for good, and not just for manipulation. Sherlock had always said that he wasn't capable of love, but a man who couldn't love didn't spend six and a half hours waiting for his boyfriend to come out of emergency surgery, and a further fourteen hours at the bedside of said unconscious boyfriend, using every spare breath to beg him to wake up and barely leaving for long enough to have his own injuries treated. It might not have been the kind of love that Hugh Grant made movies about, but it was love all the same and for the eighteen months that Sherlock and Henry had been properly together, the detective had finally seemed happy and, well, normal.

And now there was a very real chance that all of that would be gone, all because Henry happened to show up at the crime scene where the gang Sherlock was investigating had planted a bomb in an attempt to forever rid London of its only consulting detective. But it was Henry who had been standing closest to the bomb when it went off, not Sherlock, and now Henry was the one in a medically-induced coma with four broken ribs, a punctured lung and numerous shrapnel wounds.

Speaking of...

John wound his stethoscope around his neck and stepped into the room. He gently laid a hand on Sherlock's quivering shoulder.

"Sherlock, I hate to tell you this, but you're not helping him by laying on his chest. I know you don't weigh much but his ribs and lungs aren't in the best shape right now."

Sherlock sniffed and sat up, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his jumper. It had been John's, but it had stretched horrendously out of shape when Sherlock accidentally washed it on the wrong cycle, and was now miles too big on the doctor but fashionably loose on the detective, so Sherlock had claimed it and bought John a new one as an apology. John smiled inwardly at the memory. He had been too delighted that Sherlock had actually tried to do laundry to be angry about his jumper, even if Sherlock hadn't replaced it straight away. The memory faded when the detective's tearstained face turned up to meet his own.

"I never meant for him to get hurt. Everyone I love ends up getting hurt and it's always my fault." Sherlock's eyes suddenly widened and he grabbed John's white medical coat with both hands, worst case scenarios flashing through his head too fast for the detective to even voice them all, although that didn't stop him trying. "What if he leaves me? John, what if he wakes up and decides that I'm not worth it? What if he doesn't remember me? What if he doesn't ever wake up?"

That last thought caused Sherlock's face to crumble again and John barely had time to put his arms around his best friend before he felt the damp warmth of tears soaking through his blue scrubs. "He'll be fine, Sherlock. There's a very good chance that he'll wake up in the next few days and will make a good recovery."

"Can you promise me that? Can you absolutely promise that he'll wake up and get better?"

More than anything, John wanted to make that promise, but he knew he couldn't. However small it was, there was still a chance that Henry might take a turn for the worse and never wake up again. And if that happened...well, Sherlock would be destroyed. If Henry died, Sherlock would most likely go back to the blissfully numb embrace of cocaine, or throw himself off the hospital roof again. For real this time.

John sighed and rubbed the detective's back. "I can't promise, Sherlock. But you know the odds. It's highly unlikely that he'll die. He's strong. He survived twenty years of everyone thinking he was a raving lunatic. He can survive this. But he needs you to be strong for him as well, alright? Keep talking to him. Keep giving him a reason to come back."

"I love him," Sherlock whispered. "God help me, John. I love him."

"I know," the doctor replied. "And he knows. And I know that he loves you too. This isn't your fault. It was an accident," John said when Sherlock opened his mouth to interrupt, "Henry knows that, and he won't blame you. You didn't know there would be a bomb, or that he would cop the brunt of the blast. There was nothing you could do."

Sherlock nodded silently as John used his thumbs to brush the tear tracks off the detective's face.

"Try and get some sleep," John murmured. "You've been awake for five days because of this case and you're a little overwrought. Henry isn't going anywhere and a nap will do you good."

"I don't need sleep."

"Doctor's orders, Sherlock. Don't make me knock you out. Because I will do it if I have to."

Sherlock sighed and gave in, nodding his acquiescence. He wrapped his arms around John's waist and pulled his best friend close for a moment. "Thank you, John," Sherlock said as they pulled apart.

"For what?"

"For saving Henry."

"That's my job."

"No," Sherlock shook his head. "They said he went into cardiac arrest in the operating theatre and that it took so long to revive him that anyone else would have given up on him, but you didn't. So ithank you/i."

"You're welcome, Sherlock." John leant down to kiss the top of Sherlock's head. "I couldn't let you lose him. I've already buried you once, and I knew that if Henry died I'd have to do it again. I didn't want to go through that a second time. Go to sleep," he said before Sherlock could say anything else. "I'll be here all night if you need me. But sleep now, so that you can be awake when Henry regains consciousness."

Sherlock yawned and nodded again, laying his arms on the mattress and his head on his arms. John headed for the door to resume his rounds, but stopped when he heard Sherlock's voice, already soft and heavy with impending sleep.

"Goodnight John."

John turned back and, even though Sherlock was by then in the arms of Morpheus, replied, "Goodnight Sherlock."

To be continued...

There will be a happy ending, I promise :)