Author's Note
This is my first fanfic for Sherlock so go easy on me. ^^'
Apologies if I've messed up the character personalities and such.
Any comments and whatnot would be welcomed.
Obviously.
Thanks for reading!

edit: Oh and I've corrected a few typos and the odd bit that didn't make sense.
Sorry 'bout that!

University had been running pretty smoothly. After having been there for five months, things had begun to fall into an almost monotonous habit. John's classes were going well; he'd befriended a few class mates and had even chatted up the odd girl on occasion. He was excelling in his studies and everything seemed to be going pretty damn dandy. Well, it would be if it wasn't for his room mate who, whenever he spotted John talking to a girl, would appear over his shoulder like some damn vulture and proceed to give the shorter man the poor girl's life story and dietary habits.
"I'm merely looking out for you, John," Sherlock had said when the girl – who on this instance was Katelyn Walsh, who Sherlock had just loudly announced had chronic IBS to the entire class – had scampered off to the toilets, practically in tears.
John had only proceeded to glare at the taller man with annoyance. "By loudly announcing her bowel movements and deficiencies? Really, Sherlock?"
As usual, Sherlock looked unfazed. "You can't have a proper relationship, John, with someone that doesn't appreciate your favourite foods."
"Since when have you cared about food? You hardly ever eat," John said, resting his hip against the desk and folding his arms over his chest.
Twisting one of the dials on the microscope, Sherlock barely hesitated a second. "Since I started taking you to restaurants every Saturday night," he explained, "and I know that you most enjoy Thai, Italian or Vietnamese food. Miss Walsh would not be a fitting candidate for a partner as she is pretty much 'allergic' to every form of food you find joy in. Though, since you're too polite to say otherwise, you will eat anything put in front of you." Lifting his head up from the microscope, Sherlock proceeded to smile wryly at John.
"Why do you do that?" John asked, shaking his head a little.
Sherlock frowned. "Do what?"
"Whenever I'm angry at you, you always make a little list of deductions that you know will impress me so that I don't stay angry at you, why?"
"You just answered you're own question," Sherlock replied dryly, the word 'idiot' heavily implied, as he returned to his microscope. Silence settled over the two of them again and John had been busying himself with dissecting a lung when the quiet sound of Sherlock's muttering broke his concentration. "She also gets terrible flatulence after every meal-"
"Sherlock!"

Safe to say, most of those girls never spoke to either of them ever again and proceeded to look at Sherlock with looks of varying degrees of fright and disgust. When he had said that he wasn't an easy person to befriend, John now saw where he got the idea. On their first meeting, Sherlock had pre-warned John about all of his little habits; of how he went hours without talking, of how he sometimes tended to play his violin at four in the morning and wake him up in the middle of the night to ask ridiculous questions.

John had thought little of it at the time, but after five months of being woken up at three in morning to be asked whether he preferred linen or wool or what his opinion on cannibalism was as well as having practically every interaction with anyone interrupted by Sherlock, it did start to grate on a man's nerves. Despite that, did John want to change room mates? Had it ever crossed his mind? Not ever. As annoying and ridiculous as everything about Sherlock was, John couldn't see himself sharing a room with anyone else. Nor did he want to.

Hands tapping frantically away on his laptop as John typed up the beginning parts of an essay on Lymphocytes and Platelets, he attempted to the irritating sense that there was a face hovering over his shoulder and the soft brushes of Sherlock's breath in his ear as the man watched everything he typed. John hit the full-stop key with a relish before randomly declaring, "I have a date tonight."

At first John was met by pure silence and he swore Sherlock had stopped breathing for a moment. However, the curt voice of the languid figure eventually broke the silence, sounding further away. "A date?" he repeated, "Again? Who with?" Before John could reply, Sherlock had flung himself onto John's bed in an over-dramatic manner. "Oh God it's not Katelyn, is it? Are you really that desperate-"
"No, Sherlock," John cut in sharply, still facing his laptop, "it's someone else."
"You must have a closet full of these girls. You seem to bring another one out every evening." There was a slight bitterness to Sherlock's tone that had John glancing over at the man only to roll his eyes as Sherlock shuffled further up John's neatly-made bed. The trainee-doctor had to stop himself from batting the man away. "Who is it? Have I met them? Why haven't I met them?"
"Because," John cut in, drawing the word out, "I don't want you to scare her away. Her name's Annie, if you must know."
"Annie who?"
"I'm not going to tell you."
"Why not?"
"Because you'll only try and find out everything about her and ruin this for me."
After a beat of silence that was filled with a few taps of keys, Sherlock then replied, "Is it not better to be prepared for failure? Surely you'll want to know before hand if she's anaemic or a vegetarian or has hygiene issues?"

Snapping his laptop shut, John sighed heavily and looked over at the dark-haired man now sat inches away from him. The look on Sherlock's face was entirely innocent as he stared back at him. There was nothing on the other man's face that spoke of the true inner turmoil he was feeling at John going on yet another date with yet another girl. To John, he just looked like a ball of energy, his shoulders tense and ever so slightly hunched forwards. He reminded him of a hyperactive child, actually. What with his startling blue eyes and the ever-present knowing look on his face that practically screamed mischief.

A smile appeared on John's lips for a moment as he then shook his head, uttering, "As much as I appreciate the concern, I'll be fine, Sherlock. I'm a big boy." Slipping the laptop into a drawer in his desk, John ignored Sherlock's scoff and then got to his feet, moving towards the door. He could feel Sherlock's eyes following him every step of the way and, as he paused at the door with his jacket in hand, he glanced back at him.

For a brief moment, John had sworn that he'd seen another expression aside from quiet amusement on Sherlock's face. But he couldn't for the life of him decipher what it was. Pain, perhaps? Anger? Defeat? It was gone before John could read anything more into it, replaced by the same placid mask the man always wore.

Sighing softly, John slipped on his jacket. "I'll be back by midnight at the latest," he explained as he moved to open the door before pausing again. "Surely you can entertain yourself till then?"
"Of course I can," Sherlock responded in a haughty manner, folding his arms over his chest. "I'll be doing far more stimulating things than ogling at a lactose intolerant female all evening and attempting meaningless conversation about meaningless things in an attempt to work towards a meaningless relationship that will never happen..." An almost sulking expression appeared on Sherlock's face as he added, "No wonder your mind is so placid."

With a final 'See you later, Sherlock', and an expression that John hoped wasn't too condescending, John then stepped into the corridor and closed the door over behind him, leaving Sherlock alone.

As had been predicted by his lunatic of a room mate, John's date had been meaningless. He had taken her to a restaurant – the Thai restaurant he and Sherlock usually tended to go to on an almost ritualistic basis – and things had all been going swimmingly actually. They'd been getting along brilliantly – and it also turned out she was indeed lactose intolerant as Sherlock had stated – until Boonliang, the owner of the restaurant, sauntered up to the table and recognised him. The moment the stout, Thai gentleman appeared at his table, John almost wanted to put his head in his hands at the conversation that ensued.

Everyone had it burrowed into their minds that he and Sherlock were a couple purely because they were practically always seen together. Wherever John went Sherlock was sure to follow and vice versa. It was an act of habit. Even Annie had mentioned it at one point but John had laughed it off. However, Boonliang's asking of where Sherlock was then acted as a catalyst of how John and Sherlock always came to the restaurant on a weekly basis, of how the pair always sat at the same table and how Sherlock always paid. To cut a long story very short; John ended up receiving a sympathetic 'it's okay, John' from Annie as well as a 'you two look great together' before she headed out of the restaurant.

John's walk back to his dorm room had been less than delightful. It was only half past ten and Sherlock was likely to reel off another list of deductions about how the date had gone – his own way of saying 'I told you so' – and John would have to endure it for days afterwards. It was the usual routine that these things went through.

However, the moment John reached his dorm room and opened the door, he frowned at the darkness and silence inside. "Sherlock?" he called, closing the door behind him before flicking on the light. The room was empty. Frowning, John stood in the middle of the room and looked about himself as if he expected for Sherlock to just materialise in front of him or crawl out from under the bed. To be honest, John had returned back his room to find worse conditions. On one occasion, he'd returned from class one evening to find Sherlock interrogating an Italian in the middle of the room who had apparently been seen selling drugs on the university campus. 'Lestrade needed some help' had been his excuse as he sent a fist into the side of the man's face.

John preferred coming back to his dorm to that, however, than to emptiness. Sherlock tended to disappear on occasion, he knew that, but something just felt... wrong. Biting his lip, John dug out his phone from his pocket and attempted to call Sherlock's mobile. After trying twice, both times being directed to voice mail, John had given up, deciding to text him instead.
Date didn't go to plan.
Boonliang let slip he thought we were dating again.
Came home early.
Where r u?
JW

Perching on his bed, John waited for a response. And he waited. And he waited. After almost half an hour of waiting, John bit his lip and decided to send another.
We could go for a drink?
U were right about her being lactose intolerant, btw.
JW

Again, there was no reply. It was odd. Sherlock always normally at least answered his texts. Just as he was about to give up, his phone suddenly lit up with an incoming call. "Lestrade?" John muttered before answering and putting the phone to his ear.
"Is that John?" asked the voice on the other end of the line. There was an edge to his voice that unsettled John greatly.
"Yes, it is. Do you know where Sherlock is? He'd not answering my texts."
"That's what I'm calling you about," Lestrade answered and there was a long pause. It was an emotion-filled pause and John felt his muscles tense in response.
"Lestrade," John began warily, faintly hearing what sounded like a car engine in the background, "what's happened? Where's Sherlock?"
"He's in hospital, John," Lestrade said finally.
Not hesitating a moment, John was up on his feet and heading out of the dorm room. "Where is he? Which hospital? I'm coming down whether you like it or not."
"St. Thomas'," Lestrade explained, as John charged down two flights of stairs and burst out of the lobby area. "There's a car already waiting for you," he added just as John approached the waiting police car with the elder man seated inside, a grim expression on his face.

The ride to the hospital had been anything but relaxing. Lestrade filled John in on everything they knew about what had happened; Sherlock had been found in an alley near Westminster about an hour ago, unconscious, after having overdosed on what had now been determined as cocaine. John had been entirely numb throughout the explanation, nodding on occasion to show he was listening. Lestrade had said that he had been barely breathing when the paramedics showed up and that he was having his stomach pumped as they spoke. The numbness continued as he had clambered out of the car upon reaching the hospital, hastily following Lestrade as he led the way through the endless corridors and stair ways to Sherlock's room.

After having a brief chat with the doctor – who had declared Sherlock now stable enough to receive visitors – John then found himself alone at Sherlock's bedside. Lestrade had allowed him some time to be alone, for which John was incredibly grateful for. Sherlock looked awful, doubly so with the ventilation mask on his face and the tubes on his arms.

Despite having been learning about such things and having seen such things before, it felt different this time, much more painful. This was personal. This was Sherlock. The invincible man he'd grown to both find greatly infuriating and admire tremendously. The supposed 'invincible man' was now so pale that his skin appeared painfully thin, the veins on his forehead standing out starkly in the unflattering hospital lights. There was a sheen of sweat on his smooth, porcelain brow too and John bit his lip to stop himself from tearing up.

John wasn't used to seeing Sherlock so... broken. Sherlock was always so strong, always fighting something. But alongside that, John knew he was always hiding something. Sherlock was definitely a man of mystery and even after five months, John knew he didn't know every nook and cranny of the man's past. Not in detail at least. He knew Sherlock was likely hiding a great deal from him and, before now, it hadn't mattered, before now, Sherlock's life hadn't been in danger...

"You're such an idiot," John found himself muttering, his voice sounding strained from repressed tears.
"You're... not so brilliant... yourself," replied a weary voice and John started for a moment, watching as Sherlock's lids flickered wearily before opening. It took a few tries but eventually Sherlock's gaze met with John's and a weak twitch of his pale lips tugged them into a small, momentary smile.

However, John gradually began to look more and more livid by the second. Even with the man in his current position, John wasn't going to go easy on him.
"What in the hell were you thinking, Sherlock?" he hissed angrily.
Sherlock attempted to rolled his eyes but failed, settling on closing them instead. "A lot of things, actually," he responded, the 'unlike some' being the underlying message. Hell, even when he was at death's door, Sherlock still managed to sound like a twat.
"Stop it. Just, stop it. Can you actually answer the bloody question for once? I thought you'd gotten over drugs, Sherlock. You said that they were degrading and disgusting-"
"I never said they weren't," Sherlock replied, his voice still sounding fierce despite the hoarseness to it. John watched as he moved the ventilation mask out of the way, turning his head to look at John properly. "John..." he began, before pausing, his mouth working for a few moments. "I'm sorry, John."
"You're sorry?!" John almost yelled before he calmed himself down, glancing up at the door where he could still see Lestrade hovering around outside, before looking back at Sherlock. "Sherlock, I was going out of my mind."
"You were busy with Annie," Sherlock uttered wearily, eyes closing again.
John sighed heavily. "Annie? You're still going on about my damn date?! Sherlock, I didn't know where the hell you had gone. I was worried about you-"
"You were worried?" Sherlock cut in, looking up at John through heavy-lidded eyes.
Rolling his eyes, John continued in an exasperated tone, "Yes, Sherlock, I was bloody worried. Actually, I was going insane. Coming home to find you missing, as much of a common occurrence as it is, terrified me. It just felt wrong and I couldn't pin-point the reason why..." John trailed off, noting as he stared down at his palms that Sherlock was avidly watching him. "If you must know," John continued, still talking to his hands, "the date went wrong and thanks to Boonliang, Annie can now be added to the lengthy list of people who think we're dating."
"There's a list?"
"Are you going to question everything I say?" John piped back and the two of them actually found themselves smiling, if not only for a brief moment. "Jesus, Sherlock..." he sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair, causing it to jut up at awkward angles. "You nearly died. Why did you do this to yourself-"
"Because," Sherlock began, his words sounding strained, almost thick. It was odd seeing Sherlock so flustered, unable to put his thoughts into words. As he spoke, he took on the rapid speech he used whenever he was deducing something, clearly attempting to sound nonchalant but failing terribly, "because I couldn't... I can't... I just hated seeing you go off on these dates and, each time you would come back more defeated than the last. Each time I wanted to tell you that you didn't need to keep searching, that you didn't need someone else to complete you, but each time you kept bouncing back. You didn't need to be consoled. You're stronger than you- than I give you credit for. Stronger than me, than anyone. You don't need me-"
"Sherlock-"
"But I need you." John stared down at the man in the bed, his mouth ever so slightly ajar. "I need you, John," Sherlock repeated, a hint of desperation in his voice. "I need you and I hate it. I've never needed anyone before, never wanted to need anyone before. Everything else is just baggage, weighing me down... but you... you've been one huge confusion from the start."
"Is this supposed to make me feel better?" John said quietly, a small smile on his lips.
"I could never tell you how I felt," Sherlock continued with eyes staring up at the ceiling, as if John hadn't spoken, "I was too much of a coward to ever pluck up the courage to say it. And when you said that you were going on another date..." Sherlock paused, wincing as if this brought him physical pain. "I didn't know what else to do. I-I was too afraid of the consequences of telling you to even hint at the way I felt." John had now become almost rock solid, barely breathing as he listened to Sherlock's confession. "I've battled with what I am for years. It wasn't easy. Nothing ever is. I'd finally come to terms with it not long before meeting you and then you just messed everything up."

John remained silent, watching as Sherlock lifted a shaking hand to run it through his unruly dark brown curls. Actually, the shorter man swore that Sherlock's eyes were watering and his breaths were hitching in his throat. After several long moments of silence, Sherlock slowly lifted his attention to John. His glacial blue eyes were shimmering with tears and it took John a few moments to realise that the blurring at the edges of his own vision were from tears too. "I love you, John..." Sherlock began around quivering lips, "And I'm sorry, so sorry, for hurting you. I'm sorry for ruining everything for you. I'm sorry for putting you through hell. I'm sorry for-"
"Sherlock, stop," John cut in abruptly, surprised by the firmness of his voice before it softened again as he spoke. "Stop apologising. You don't need to apologise." Pausing to glance down at where Sherlock's slender hand was rested above the covers, John began, "I've often wondered why my relationships never work out, why it always felt as if I were flogging a dead horse. Even tonight with Annie... None of it felt quite right. Through pretty much the entire evening, all I thought about was you. About what you were doing, if you were okay, about how I'd have much preferred to have been sitting across the table from you rather than some air-headed bimbo."

Lifting a hand to rub at a few tears in his eyes that were concealing his vision, John continued, "And after tonight... After everything you've said..." The ashy-blond lowered his hand with a sigh before slipping it through Sherlock's, instantly feeling him respond to his hold by gripping tightly a-hold of his hand as if John were the one thing keeping him grounded. "Now... I know why," he said, voice barely above a whisper as he lifted his gaze from Sherlock's hand to meet the intelligent, bright blue eyes that were staring up at him.
"Why?" Sherlock couldn't resist. He had to hear it; he had to hear those words come from John. Even if this was the first and last time he heard them, he had to hear them.
"Because... I love you too, Sherlock," he responded softly and Sherlock felt any remaining tears in his eyes fall immediately as a relieved smile appeared upon his face, an expression mirrored by John who instantaneously lowered his head down to Sherlock's and planted a gentle, cautious kiss on his lips. Sherlock's grip on his hand intensified.
"Please don't do anything like this. Ever again," John whispered quietly, forehead now resting against Sherlock's as he used his free hand to gently run it through those errant curls – something he'd secretly longed to do for quite some time. "Promise me you won't."
"I promise, John," Sherlock uttered back, voice breaking, as his own free hand tightly gripped the back John's neck, "I won't."