John was sitting on the edge of the hospital bed with his folded hands between his knees. Tears were rolling down his face. He had gone through the body-shaking, heaving sobs already and now he was sitting passively letting the drops fall onto his trousers. Of course, there had been a time at the beginning when he hadn't been able to cry at all.

That day he had been in the surgery, just doing his job, thinking about what he and Sherlock would order in for dinner that night. he was finishing with a patient when he heard his name over the intercom.

"Doctor Watson, please come to the third floor nurse's station as soon as possible." He said good by to his patient and ran out of the examining room, full tilt up the stairs. It wasn't an emergency center, so he rarely got paged like that. He had no idea what it could be.

When he got to the desk, there was already a doctor there, someone he didn't know.

"John Watson?"

"Yes. What can I help you with?"

"We found your, uh, well your friend was brought in and he had your name on his emergency contact paperwork."

"My friend?"

"Yes, a man named Holmes. Sherlock Holmes?"

John's brows furrowed and he stared at this strange new doctor, not quite hearing what the man was saying.

"Wait, what? You have Sherlock?"

"Yes. He's a friend then?"

"He's my husband." The doctor's face fell. John knew this look; it was the one he gave patients when they were about to hear something life-changing, earth-shattering. "Where is he? What's happened?" A nurse reached out and touched John's arm.

"John, you need to stay calm. Dr. Robertson will take you to him now." John wrenched his arm out of her grasp and turned to face her.

"I'll do whatever I damn well please and I damn sure want to see my husband now!" He knew that yelling wouldn't make the people do what he wanted, but it made him feel better. He reached over the counter grabbing at files, searching for the right one.

"John! John!" The nurse grabbed both his wrists in her small, but surprisingly strong hands and stared right in his eyes. "He just got here! There's no file yet. You have to talk to Dr. Robertson." John stared back at her, every muscle in his body tense. He pulled himself out of her hold and turned, straightening his shirt and standing to face the other doctor.

"I want to see my husband and I want you to tell me what's wrong with him. Now." He was no longer yelling, but commanding. John didn't get this worked up often—only with Sherlock—so everyone around him started hurrying to make sure he got what he wanted. Dr. Robertson didn't respond so quickly. He put his head down for a moment then lifted it and spoke to John in the same steely tone.

"I will take you to see him, but you are going to need to hold yourself together. You can't upset him. Understood?" John nodded. "Now, your husband was in an accident." John looked in the doctor's face with concern and confusion. What kind of accident could he have gotten into? He was so careful. Well, not all the time.

"What kind of accident?"

"It was an explosion. The initial reports say it was a gas main, but the police are investigating."

Of course they're investigating, John thought, someone's gone and blown up their number one resource.

"And what's his condition?"

"He was in a cab and the nose of the car was right over the blast. The car flipped into the air and fell hood-down onto the pavement. The explosion started a fire, but somehow Sherlock scrambled out of the car before it hit the gas tank. The cabbie wasn't so lucky."

"Dead?"

"Yes. And Sherlock's on his way." John felt like his heart was gone. Not stopped, not dead, simply disappeared leaving a large and useless hole in his chest. He gripped Dr. Robertson's shoulder and leaned over, breathing heavily.

But there were no tears. There was no realization, so how could there be tears? After a few moments, John collected himself and stood, not bothering to straighten his shirt this time.

"I want to see him." Dr. Robertson nodded and turned, indicating that John should follow. He did.

They walked down the hall, but passed only a few doors. Sherlock must have been in a serious condition to be kept so close to the nurse's station. When they walked into the room, John saw that he was right.

Sherlock was lying on a hospital bed, almost every bit of his skin wrapped in bandages. His left leg stuck out in a splint and even his face was covered in a thin layer of gauze. John dropped to his knees next to his husband's bed and put his forehead to the blanket.

"Be careful not to touch him, Dr. Watson."

"John." There was a pause. "If you're going to stand there and tell me my husband is dying, you're going to call me John." He turned to look the other doctor in the eye.

"Of course. John." The doctor's voice was heavy. He knew what it was to tell a doctor that someone he loved was dying and nothing could be done. The man would be feeling lost and utterly helpless, his only lifeline snatched away.

John had turned back to Sherlock, lying there still and silent—making no deductions, cracking no jokes.

"He has burns over about forty percent of his body, that's what we're most worried about now."

"That's high. Unservivable?"

"It is high. We don't know. It's usually fatal, but we're doing everything we can." John nodded.

"Where can I touch him?"

"His right side is more burned than his left, so you can hold his left hand if you want." John stood and walked around to the other side of the bed. He peeled back the blanket to see Sherlock's left hand, lying lifeless on the sheet. John wrapped his hand around it and kissed the palm. The skin was ragged, but pink. Not burned.

"You can't leave me, Sherlock." John whispered fiercely into his lover's palm. "You know that. You can't leave me." Dr. Robertson coughed to get John's attention and he looked up from Sherlock's scraped palm.

"His left leg is broken and we think there was some organ failure, but we can't operate—"

"Because of the burns."

"Yes."

"So now we wait?"

"We wait."

"Will he wake up?"

"He shouldn't. He'd be in a lot of pain. He was awake for a few moments at the scene, but then he lapsed into unconsciousness. We're monitoring him and we're prepared to sedate him if he wakes up."

"So we wait."

"That's all we can do." John looked at Sherlock's lips and eyelids, the only parts of his face visible through the bandages. "For now."

"Yes. Do you think I could, I could have a minute alone? With my husband?"

"Of course. I'll be down at the nurse's station if you need anything." John nodded as the doctor walked out of the room. As soon as he was alone, looking into Sherlock's damaged face, the tears began to fall fast and think from his eyes.

"Why, Sherlock? Why do you always have to go around and make all these enemies? Why can't you be a normal person and just have friends?" He buried his face in the blankets. "I don't even know who I was. I was lost and if you go and leave me alone I'll just be lost again. Sherlock." He rested his cheek on the outstretched palm. "Sherlock, you can't die. Not first. Not without me. I won't let you."