John

Sherlock had been taken into surgery as soon as he reached the hospital, John floated around the ceiling of the room looking down on his friend assessing his condition as the procedure went on. Once he had confirmed he would live John floated up through the roof and a number of rooms to reach the top of . Swearing as he hit the ceiling of the cancer ward, he hadn't quite gotten the hang of staying intangible yet, no matter what, anything human or animal passed through him but not other objects. He had discovered this when he first arrived at the hospital and had tried to stand on the floor only to fall through it into the morgue.

Finally he made it to the roof, hovering over it for a few seconds to make sure he was solid before carefully stepping out onto the concrete. He looked out over the blinking lights of London, he wondered if this was it, was this what happened when you died? Surely not, otherwise there would be other ghosts everywhere, especially here at a hospital.

"Hey! Dead guy!"

That got his attention. He swung around to see a grinning, black haired man with very few teeth smiling at him. The thing that caught the doctors eye however was none of these traits but the fact that the man was floating a few feet off the ground.

"You see me!" John blinked, not really registering how stupid those words sounded.

"Kinda yeah" The man laughed, "I saw an ambulance go in there a while back, was that you?"

"Ummm no, my friend" John replied feeling very strange, "I...died, in an explosion"

"Still having trouble coming to terms with it eh?" The guy chuckled, "Don' worry, everybody is a bit weirded out at first"

"So, is this it?" John asked, shrugging to their surroundings.

"Nah, something more once you cross over I expect" The man sighed looking up at the stars, "We tend to hang around for a while before finding peace and then we just kinda fade away...into the next life"

"Right, well thanks" John smiled nervously feeling a tad uncomfortable, "I think I'll...go see my friend"

"Right you are" The man gave him a nod before floating off the side of the building and flying down onto the street, John shivered. This wasn't some nightmare he was really truly dead and if he was honest, he was scared. Nobody he knew or cared about could even see or talk to him, unless they died of course but John wouldn't wish that on anybody.

He wished Sherlock could talk to him, how was he supposed to 'find peace' and move on if he was so lonely? Watching all his friends mourn, burry and then move on with their lives without him. Sighing he sunk down into the hospital and found the room where Sherlock was sleeping, Lestrade had taken up a post at the detectives side in a stiff looking hospital chair. At least his friend wouldn't be alone when he woke, Lestrade wouldn't leave him. Resigning himself to the fact that he could do nothing, John sank into the other chair and waited.

Sherlock

Slowly Sherlock's thoughts began to bubble to the surface, coming much too slowly. His first thought was that he had no doubt been given a huge dose of morphine which was slowing his brain, something he hated. He tried his best to asses the situation, something that was hard to do when your eyes refused to open. He could tell he was in a bed, not his own. The strong smell of chemicals and the soft beating of a heart monitor told him hospital, he must of been fairly badly injured as there was a mask over his mouth and he could hear the quiet hiss of the oxygen tank as he breathed.

He could hear no footsteps or other equipment which meant, to his utter annoyance, that Mycroft was involved and he was in a private room. He soon grew bored of listening and focused on opening his eyes, after a few minutes he succeeded and the blurry stark white room filled his vision. Blinking a few times to get his eyes to focus he noticed Lestrade sitting a few feet away watching him intently.

"Sherlock? Are you awake?" Sherlock would of rolled his eyes if he had the energy, such a stupid question. Gently Lestrade removed the oxygen mask so he could speak.

"Obviously" He answered, "Were I asleep I wouldn't be talking to you"

"How are you feeling?" Lestrade asked, he was hesitant, there was something he was trying to hide from him, Lestrade should know better than that by now.

"Like somebody filled my brain with too many sedatives" Sherlock replied dryly, "Why did you let them do that?"

"You were blown up Sherlock!" Lestrade exclaimed, "You have a concussion, three broken ribs, two more are fractured, a broken arm and sever bruising to 40% of your body. You need painkillers"

"I need to be able to think" Sherlock argued, twitching the fingers on his left hand, the only part of his lower arm that wasn't incased in plaster.

"You seem to be doing fine" Lestrade sighed, Sherlock narrowed his eyes, by now the inspector would usually of gotten frustrated and left, he just looked, tired. His brain finally catching up with him he realized John wasn't there. John would be here if he could, which meant he was injured as well, he hoped Mycroft had the decency to give him the same private room and service he himself was receiving. He didn't mind Mycroft interfering if it meant John was safer.

"How's John?" He asked wincing a little as he sat up against the pillows and backboard. He saw Lestrade stiffen. That wasn't a good sign, the doctor must of been badly injured. Oh God what if the heat effected his eyes and turned him blind? A hundred different awful scenarios played out in Sherlocks head within a matter of seconds.

"Where's John?" Sherlock asked, louder than he meant to, "How is he?"

"Listen, Sherlock, you really concentrate on getting better, you've only just woken up" Lestrande was fumbling.

"Lestrade tell me!" Sherlock demanded, he was starting to get annoyed. The inspector took a deep breath.

"John...didn't make it" Lestrade said finally, Sherlock's insides froze, he couldn't mean that. Anything but that. John couldn't be...

"He was dead when we found him, it looks like it was over almost instantly from what I saw if that makes you feel better" Lestrade continued, he didn't reply, or he couldn't, he didn't know which.

"John's...dead?" Sherlock finally managed his voice a much higher pitch than he intended, Lestrade swallowed and nodded slowly.

Despite the fact that his legs ached when they moved they some how managed to draw themselves up against his chest and pushed his forehead into his knees. He clawed his fingers into his hair, grabbing it and pulling on it until it hurt, but he didn't care. In the recesses of his mind he was aware of the beeping of his heart monitor going much faster than it should and Lestrade telling him to calm down but he ignored them both.

John couldn't be dead, he just couldn't be dead. He was lying. Lestrade was lying, he had to be lying. Because John couldn't be dead! He gasped for breath, why was his chest so tight all of a sudden? Why couldn't he breath?

An ice cold rush of wind passed through his shoulder making him jump nervously. Since when did his emotions get so out of check? How did John manage being so-John...John was dead. That's why he was like this. John was dead. Gone. Sherlock was alone again. God he didn't want to be alone!

He was so caught up in his grief he didn't even see the nurse rush in, nor did he feel a needle slip under his skin. It was only when the drowsiness came that he realized what had happened and by then he was lying back on his pillows, blinking very slowly before closing his eyes and falling asleep. The last thing he saw was a very pale inspectors face.

Hey, I hope I did the initial reaction justice. Sherlock is always so calm to I imagined him going into shock was more realistic that a huge scream/tear fest. That will come later once he has gotten over the initial shock I imagine.