This idea popped into my head the moment I finished TGG. Enjoy!

WARNING: In future chapters, I am planning on things happening that involve a teenager. This is just a warning. I don't know what sort of things yet, but I just thought you should know. If you don't think you can handle that, then please go back to the archive.


Comatose [koh-muh-tohs] – adj. Of or in a state of deep unconsciousness for a prolonged or indefinite period, esp. as a result of severe injury or illness.


John woke up dazed and confused.

The first thing he noticed was the smell. It smelled strongly of anti-bacterial and death. A hospital, obviously. There was a doctor standing at the end of his bed, scribbling things down on a clipboard. He hadn't gotten a good look at him, for as soon as he opened his eyes he had to shut them again due to the fluorescent lighting.

The doctor had noticed that he was awake, and said his name. John, already feeling exhausted, cracked his eyes open. The doctor said it was a miracle that he had even survived the explosion, having been so close to it. John didn't understand. What was he doing in a hospital? Had he been shipped back from Afghanistan already? Bandages, so white they hurt the eyes even more, were wrapped tediously around his arms and torso. How badly was he hit? Reaching up to his face, John was relieved to not feel the scratchy fabric. The doctor, who had noticed, chuckled and said that he must have turned away from the fire.

The soldier in him was still confused. Upon questioning his bafflement, the doctor took on a worried expression. He strode over and shone a light in John's already aching eyes.

"John," he had said steadily, "you were in an explosion. Remember?" John had nodded, stuttering over how obvious that was. He mentioned Afghanistan, and how he didn't understand why he wasn't in the clinic there. "John," the doctor's voice was sympathetic, "you haven't been in Afghanistan for a very long time. This explosion happened here, in London. At the pool center."

The memories rushed back with a wave of vertigo, and the doctor's hand was on his shoulder as the room spun. Moriarty, the pool, having a bomb strapped to his chest, Sherlock pointing the gun-

He gasped. "Sherlock! Where's Sherlock, is he alright?" The questions came tumbling, never-ending, from his mouth. The doctor chuckled again –although John was confused as to why he thought his partner's well-being was a laughing matter- and patted his shoulder.

"He's fine. No fatal injuries." The smirk disappeared. "However, I fear that he may have fallen into a coma." John felt his heart in his throat. No, no. No. Sherlock was tough. He wasn't supposed to fall into comas! He hadn't thought that Sherlock could become that injured at all.

"Can...Can I go see him?" The doctor –Doctor Thornton, judging from his name tag- looked him over with a hum.

"I think that you should rest for tonight, and then go see him tomorrow. How does that sound?" John scrunched his face, but nodded anyway. "Alright. I'll be back in a few hours to check on you." The doctor gently patted his shoulder again. "You should feel lucky. None of you should've survived that explosion." With that, Doctor Thornton turned on his heel and clicked out of the room, closing the door behind him.

John looked lazily around his room. Just as bland as any other hospital room. Only there were several vases of colorful flowers scattered around, making the doctor wonder how long he'd been unconscious. Glancing outside, he noted how it was nighttime. He shouldn't be expecting any visitors, seeing as the appropriate hours for visitation were long gone. John groaned and let his head fall back against the pillow. Sherlock. In a coma.

Well that's just bloody brilliant.


Many people visited him the next morning. Mrs. Hudson, of course, with a vase full of bright yellow sunflowers. She had placed them on the windowsill and hugged him, gently but lovingly. God, John had forgotten how much he appreciated his landlady.

Mycroft was next, with a "Get Well Soon" card and a chocolate bar from the vending machine. Harry, who had been clean for the three months John was unconscious (seems as though he had a coma of his own), visited with Clara. His sister looked close to tears.

"I hate seeing you like this, John," she had whispered into his good shoulder. "I just hate it." Clara had smiled sadly.

"Oh John," she had chuckled, "always getting yourself into some sort of trouble." John gave her a half-smile.

Greg Lestrade and, to John's surprise, Sally Donovan stopped by next. Sally was carrying a couple of daisies while Greg had his own hand-made card.

"My niece made it for you," he explained shortly, rocking back and forth on his heels. John had met Zoey, Greg's niece, only once, but the girl had seemed to be infatuated with him. John smiled at the stick figure drawing of himself and the poor, but legible, handwriting, and thanked Greg. He left shortly after. Sally, however, lingered behind.

"Hopefully you've learned your lesson," she reprimanded, but her departing smile was kind and gentle.

It was almost midday by the time John had been able to leave his bed. Doctor Thornton had told him Sherlock's room number, 212, and sent him on his way. John still couldn't leave the hospital itself, but at least he could move around.

Approaching his friend's room, he could hear a voice drifting out of the cracked-open door. A girl's voice, young-sounding, yet very gentle and soft.

"-shouldn't have told my Algebra teacher to bugger off, but I'm sure you know how Algebra teachers can be..." The sentence was left hanging, and there was a sigh. John took that chance to gently crack open the door a little more.

There was a teenage girl sitting at Sherlock's bedside. He couldn't see her face, but from what he could tell she was pale, with dark brown hair in a set of twin braids. Her jumper looked dark blue from the back, and her Chucks appeared worn out. He could see that she was just barely holding his bandaged hand, lightly stroking the back of it with her thumb.

"I wish you weren't in a coma," she whispered, her tone sad, "maybe then we could have a real conversation." She laughed quietly. "You stupid man. What have you done this time?" John chose this moment to make himself known, opening the door all the way. She stood quickly, turning to face him. Her stance was guarded, like she was ready for a fight. "Who the bloody hell are you?" she demanded, her voice nice and strong now.

"I should ask you the same question," he replied calmly. "I would also like to know why you're holding my friend's hand." Her stance relaxed, and she straightened a little.

"You...you're friends with him?" He nodded and she blushed, scratching the back of her head sheepishly. "Blimey, mate, sorry. For, you know, cussing at you."

"That's not really cursing, compared to what I've heard." She smiled and seemed to fully relax. "I'm John, John Watson." He held out his hand and she took it, shaking his hand.

"Emily. But call me Emma. Or Millie. Or, you know, whatever else you can think of." John mentally settled on Emma. It fit better. "I'm this stupid bloke's," she jabbed a thumb over her shoulder at comatose Sherlock, "loving daughter." John's eyebrows shot up high on his forehead.

"Sherlock has a daughter?" She smiled a little.

"Yeah. He doesn't like to talk about me much. Not let people know he actually has a heart. Knocked up my mum back in uni, he did, then left us because he 'wasn't ready'." She shrugged with an eye roll. "I don't let it get to me." He noticed that she did have resemblance to Sherlock. The sharp, angular features and arrogant air about her that could only belong to a Holmes. Her eyes were what startled him. One was a baby blue, while the other was the same bright green as Sherlock's.

She had obviously noticed his shocked expression, because she giggled. "Heterochromia. It's s'posed to be genetic, but I guess it skipped my mum's generation." Emma glanced over her shoulder at Sherlock, her expression softening. "How long do you think he'll be out for?" John blew air from his mouth as he thought.

"Could be a while, really. I was out for three months." Her happy expression cracked a bit. Her smile twitched, and the color in her eyes dulled slightly. "But that's just me. Sherlock's strong. He'll be up in no time, I'm sure." Emma nodded, but she didn't look very convinced. She sat down in the chair, staring at his peaceful expression.

"I think that this is the most calm I've ever seen him," she murmured. "At least his face isn't all scrunched up, like usual." John watched as she took his bandaged hand, staring at the fabric as she ran her thumb over it. "The doctor said that he must have blocked his face with his hands. You know, to keep away the fire." Her lower lip trembled as she reached forward and brushed a lock of black hair from his eyes. "He could've died," she whispered, her voice sounding so broken. It was then John realized that Emma really could be Sherlock's daughter. It was obvious she cared for him.

"Yes, but he didn't," John replied, dragging a chair and sitting next to her. "I have a very firm belief that he'll be okay." Emma looked up at him with a small smile. "I'm starving, aren't you?" He stood abruptly. "Come along; help an injured old man to the cafeteria." Emma's smile grew and she stood as well, taking the arm he was holding out.

"I'm sure you aren't that old, John," she replied as they wandered out of Sherlock's room towards the elevator. Soon enough they were entering the cafeteria and Emma was buying them both turkey sandwiches. "Don't even start with me," she began as John opened his mouth to protest, "I'm not going to let an 'injured old man' pay for his own food." John found himself genuinely smiling for the first time since he woke up.

Sitting down at a table, John noticed that Emma seemed increasingly impatient. "If you want to go back up to Sherlock, I assure you I'll be fine." She chuckled softly.

"It's not that, don't worry." She fidgeted for a moment. "I'm just...waiting."

"For what?" Before Emma could answer, they heard a booming voice.

"Mr. Watson, there you are!" John turned to look at Doctor Thornton. "The nurse was worried where you'd gone." He noticed Emma and smiled. "Hello Miss Holmes."

"Doctor," she replied tersely. The smile faded and Doctor Thornton turned back to look at John.

"Are you feeling well?" John nodded.

"Quite so, thank you." The doctor nodded as well, plastering on a smile.

"Wonderful! I must be off, please call me or the nurses if you need anything." He didn't give John a chance to respond as he turned and walked off.

"Bastard," he heard Emma mutter, and she blushed at the reprimanding look that he gave her. "I don't like doctors. Never have."

"I'm a doctor." Emma smiled over at him.

"Then I guess you're an exception, aren't you?" John felt himself smiling. She looked down at her watch. "Bollocks! I have to go! I'm late for practice!" She grabbed her messenger bag and her jacket. "We'll be seeing much more of each other." She winked in a very Sherlock fashion. "That I can promise you." Then, with a flourish of her scarf, she was gone, already turning the corner of the cafeteria exit. John sat back in his chair, staring after her in slight shock.

He knew she was telling the truth. They would definitely be seeing more of each other.


To be honest, I have no idea what to think of this chapter. Some parts I hate, some parts I just love, etc.

However, it all comes down to the lovely readers! Please let me know what you think, so that I can improve!

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