A/N: Another chapter already? Whew! You should feel lucky, I usually never update this fast. I am not a consistent updater either. Life tends to get in the way. Anyways, enjoy!

Sherlock sat and watched John sleep, and sighed to himself.

"Oh, John. How could you do this to yourself?" Sherlock still couldn't believe that John had so totally destroyed himself. Sherlock knew all about John's need for danger, but he had never thought that Sherlock's absence could... No matter. Sherlock had no choice. John could have died!

Sherlock rose and looked down at John. He looked so small in the bed sheets, almost like a child. Sherlock's mind started to deduct all about John's life after the fall.

Hasn't been eating properly, maybe couldn't keep anything down? Hasn't been sleeping well either. He feels guilty, obviously, from what he said on the roof.

Sherlock sighed again, and went into the kitchen. John would need to eat when he woke up. Sherlock had no experience with cooking, so he made tea and toast. John wouldn't be able to stomach anything more anyways.

Once Sherlock was done, he laid his head against the cool wood of one of the cupboards, finally giving in to his guilt. Why had he not checked on John himself? How could he have missed his condition? Why hadn't Mycroft told him? Sherlock was so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he didn't hear John wake up and go to the bathroom...

SHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJW SHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJW

John woke up and groaned, trying to remember what had happened. He went through his memories of the last few hours.

Oh. OH! John remembered Sherlock on the roof of St. Barts. But no. That was impossible. It must have been a dream. That was it. John was amazed at the vividness of his dream. He could have sworn that Sherlock had been there. John wished more than anything that it had been real. John could feel the tears coming, he always cried when he thought about Sherlock. John let himself weep for a few minutes, before rising from the bed and making his way into the bathroom. He knew what would help numb the pain. No matter how self-destructive it might be, it was the only thing that helped. John walked into the bathroom, and pulled out a razor blade. He sunk onto the white tiled floor, and let the blade rest against his wrist. John sighed. Maybe this time, no one would find him. He let the blade run across his wrist, opening up another cut to match the old ones that decorated his skin.

John watched the blood run down his arm and drip onto the tile in dull fascination. Red on white. In a way, it reminded him of Sherlock's fall. The bright crimson blood on his face, and the pool of it on his own hands. Black spots begin to cloud his vision, and just before he passed out, he saw Sherlock at the bathroom door, a look of shock on his face. Sherlock's horrified yell of "JOHN!" followed him into the darkness.

SHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJW SHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJW

Sherlock recovered himself, and walked out of the kitchen and back to John's room. When he walked into the room, he saw, to his horror, that the bed was empty.

Did I miss one of Moriarty's henchmen? What happened to John?

Sherlock looked around the room again, and saw no signs of a struggle.

Maybe he just woke up?

Sherlock walked out of the room and to the bathroom, hoping to find John there. The bathroom door is open and the light is on, which strikes Sherlock as odd. Wouldn't John have closed the door? A queer sense of foreboding came over Sherlock, and he quickened his pace. He looked into the bathroom, and was met with a sight that would haunt him for years to come. John was sitting on the floor of the bathroom, with a blade to his wrist, and blood everywhere.

"JOHN!" There is so much blood, too much. To Sherlock's horror, John has fallen unconscious from blood loss. Sherlock rushes to John's side, grabbing the bath towel. He falls to his knees, and tries to stop the blood. He looks down, and notes absently that his hands are shaking.

After what seems like forever, the blood slows and Sherlock feels like he can get the first-aid kit. He finds it, and practically runs back to the bathroom. He gets the needle and thread from the kit, and stitches up the gash on John's wrist, thanking a God he doesn't believe in that the cut was horizontal, and not vertical. He ties off the last stitch and wraps John's wrist in bandaging. He lifts John again, cringing inwardly at how little he weighs.

Sherlock walks back to bedroom, and settles John on the bed again, vowing not to leave his side until he wakes again. Now that John is safe again, Sherlock allows himself to go over his memory, focusing on the other scars that were on John's arms. None of them were older than a couple years old. Sherlock would be willing to bet that John had started to self-harm after Sherlock's faked death. And Sherlock is suddenly afraid of what else he will find.

SHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJW SHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJW

Hours later, John is finally waking up. Sherlock reaches over, and grasps one of John's hands between his own. John freezes, and then opens his eyes. He suddenly recoils.

"No. You were dead! You aren't here. I'm just hallucinating." John's voice is quiet, and broken, and Sherlock wishes he would shout and scream. He doesn't. He sounds lost, and confused, and so unlike the regular John that Sherlock himself begins to feel hopeless himself.

"John, please. I AM here. I faked it." Sherlock doesn't know what to say. "Please, John, listen to me!"

John, responding perhaps to Sherlock's tone, or maybe the naked pleading in his face, nods. Sherlock explains how he faked his death, and why, and John listens. And slowly, Sherlock can see John start to believe. Once Sherlock is finished, John stares at him for a few more minutes.

"John?"

"Sherlock…did you find me in the bathroom?" Sherlock nods.

"John, you could have died! Why would you do that to yourself?"

"Sherlock, you don't understand. I did die. My heart stopped when I saw you fall. I fell in love with you without realizing it, and I couldn't stop blaming myself for not having told you. I couldn't stop thinking that maybe, if I had said something, you wouldn't have jumped."

"John! Stop it! It isn't your fault. It was my plan, and I'm sorry I hurt you." Sherlock can't stand hearing John talk anymore, hearing John blame himself.

"Sherlock, promise me something?"

"Hmm?"

"No matter what, don't send me to a hospital. I know that you are hear, but there are some…emotional side effects that may take some time. Just… no hospitals. Do you promise?"

Sherlock is warring with himself, and John must see it, because he reaches out and grabs Sherlock's arm.

"Promise me!"

Sherlock has no choice. "I promise. I will be here, and I will take care of you, but no hospitals."

A/N: I hope you enjoyed that! Please review, they mean the world to me!