So, here we go!
John woke up, not caring to open his eyes. He could tell from the smell that he was in hospital. He made a tiny gap with his eyelids and looked through it. Hospital, yes. Even with the small view he got from his tiny gap, all the white made his head ache, and he closed his eyes again. Something moved beside him, and a low, nervous voice was heard.
"John?" The voice was so familiar, and yet unknown. He'd never heard that particular voice so tiny, so nervous and so desperate.
'Oh bloody hell, it's still there,' he thought to himself, wishing he could press a painkiller button, but realized there was no such thing connected to him.
"John, it's me. It really is. I'm so indescribable sorry." John dared to open his eyes. On the left side of the bed sat a tall, dark man. He was as pale as when John'd seen him in the bathroom, and his eyes even more red. At a closer look, he was also much skinnier than John'd ever seen him. He wanted to scream. It hurt so much, looking at something that couldn't be real.
He stretched out an arm, trying to touch him. Sherlock laid willingly his hand under his, and John shivered when he felt the touch. He snapped his hand back like he'd gotten burned.
"John…" Sherlock started, his eyes filling up with tears, but John didn't see it. He'd closed his eyes, thinking that this was a dream, or death.
"Look at me, John. Please, just look at me. I'm real. I never died. I faked my death to keep you safe. John… I love you." The words came stuttering out, filled with pain and sorrow, and John smiled to himself. If this was death, he could live with it.
"LOOK AT ME, JOHN!" The voice wasn't low anymore. It was desperate and high, and John came to his senses with a shock. He sat up, turning towards the figure beside him. Then he gaped.
"Sherlock…" the name was barely hearable, a trying whisper, a wish. Then the voice raised and he got out of bed.
"Sherlock! You made me believe you were…" he didn't finish the sentence. He was angry beyond what he'd thought was possible. He threw himself at the person in the chair, hitting all he had. All the pain, anger and abandonment he had built up inside since Sherlock jumped, flew out of his fists. He hit until he heard a low squeak of pain coming from the person below him, and he realized what he'd done. He got up, staring in disbelief at the man on the floor. He had a bandage on his shoulder, and his lips were cracked. His left eye was swollen and fast turning blue, blood ran from his nose. Despite that, Sherlock hadn't made a move to defend himself.
John took a few steps back, speechless over what he'd just done.
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
" It's nothing to apologize for," Sherlock croaked. "I deserved it. John… I love you. Do you hear me?" Then he closed his eyes, unconscious.
Okay, I admit it. This is only because of my need for angst. I also have to say the chapters probably won't be longer than this.
