Saturday 24

He could not say how this had happened or what had brought this about; the only thought that crossed his mind when his mobile fell was that's it then. And I don't want to be alone. Which was what everything boiled down to these days. Not being alone. He could not be sure about when this infatuation had started. He had always preferred his own company to that of other people. But then, John wasn't other people, was he?

He felt the pressure to the knuckles of his right hand and held tight to the edge, tried to remember why things had taken this turn, because you're an idiot, found he couldn't, only knew there were three stories below. Chances were he would break a limb in the fall. The pressure subsided and he looked up at the other man who smiled mischievously and replaced his foot more ferociously than before. On instinct, Sherlock withdrew his right hand and lost grip of the roof, falling.

Where the hell's he gone now? John shook his head in disbelief and put down the boxes. Sherlock had promised to help him pack. His being out was yet so typical. With a deep sigh, John grabbed one of the boxes and started folding it. There wasn't much to pack anyway. Most of the stuff in their flat belonged to Sherlock. The man had a bloody library! And armchairs, damn comfortable ones, too, John realized sadly. He had loved sitting by the fireplace, reading or typing into his computer while the genius mastermind got carried away in the craziest of detections. He must have-

No, John shook his head, he would not change his mind. Comfortable though this had been, he had to move on eventually. Sarah was good for him. Sharing with a woman would be a welcome change. Boring. John ignored the mocking voice inside his head. Relationships weren't boring. They were lovely and comforting. John picked up a stack of magazines when a psychedelic postcard fell to the ground. He fished for it and read the promising invitation to the trip of a lifetime. This was so Sherlock, he thought, noticing the doodles. 24. Wasn't that today's date? Sherlock wasn't about to embark on this magical mystery tour, or was he? Anger filled John's chest and for a split second did he wonder if he should just ignore the card. But then things had never been that obvious with Sherlock, so this probably wasn't about magic mushrooms. Oh god, yes, living with Sarah would make a change. From Sherlock's mad universe…

When Sherlock came to, his head hurt and he vaguely remembered banging it on something solid before hitting the ground. How long had he been out? He tried to move and felt every inch of his body ache. Lifting his head did not do any good either. His vision was blurred, the street started spinning and he felt sick. Best keep his head down. Assess the damage. Now, head hurts. Not good. Doesn't stop me from thinking though, so no brain damage. Troubled vision. Obvious. Possibly concussion. Immobility. Now that was a tricky one. Spinal injuries wouldn't have allowed him to raise his head. Pain all over meant that his nervous system was intact. So pain was good. Very good. Nausea. Feeling sick. Concussion-related. His right hand hurt terribly, so did his left shoulder. Fractured, he guessed. His face felt warm, though not from within, so it was probably blood from his head injury warming the throbbing skin. How long would it take for him to bleed out? Long enough to chances being they would find him before he did. Couldn't assess possible internal bleeding. A sudden panic floated through him. Trying to level his breathing, he thought of texting John, knew he couldn't. Find me. If the other knew where to look.

"I always know, don't I?" Familiar voice, concern mingled with mock. Sherlock opened his eyes again to strange patterns of colours and light. He could make out a smiling face. Blond hair. Staring down at him.

"John-" He heard his whispered voice crack.

"You shut up," the doctor said smiling, yet in a worried tone.

"What-"

"-happened? I suppose you fell. Well, someone helped, obviously. Nasty head wound, severe concussion, possible fractures," John sounded clinical. Sherlock did not like that.

"I'm fine."

"I think you've seen better days."

"No, seriously-," Sherlock tried to sit up and immediately recognized his mistake. Grabbing John's sleeve, he fell back and wished to die. He closed his eyes against the light which he knew wasn't really there. It was late, long after dark, and still there seemed to be shades of white dancing before his eyes.

"Sherlock," the voice came from very far away, "Sherlock, open your eyes, can you hear me?" John.

He tried to look, wanted to see his friend, still he was unable to focus. He sensed John feeling his pulse. It was odd to know John's fingers on his throat. Carefully, the experienced doctor examined the wound, feeling observed by the concussed detective and knowing the latter was in no fit condition to observe. See, maybe. John avoided the glassy grey eyes staring up at him. He found that under normal circumstances, he would hold Sherlock's penetrating stare. Not now, though. There was nothing sharp in the helpless, near-dead, look. As if all light behind those eyes had been switched off.

John bent down to have a better look at Sherlock's eyes, when the younger man made an untoward move and met him half-way, showing him an enigmatic smile that would not quite reach his eyes. Only later would John realize that he knew then and there what the other one was going to do. And yet he did not back away but allowed Sherlock's lips to brush his own, ever so slightly and still what seemed eternally, before catching his friend once more, supporting him lying back down.

"Don't – leave," his words came as a mere whisper, yet there could be no doubt about the shakiness of Sherlock's voice. John gulped at seeing his dynamic friend so weak and vulnerable. A fragile sociopath.

"Please, John-"

Contemplating the younger man's face, John wondered what was going on. Sherlock looked asleep, but John had learned that his housemate's appearance could deceive.

"Okay, wha-, Sherlock. What was that for then?" No reaction. "Can you hear me? Oh, you bloody well can. You're concussed. We need to get you into hospital!" And with that, practical John took out his mobile and dialled.