Nothing is mine, otherwise I'd be rich
The story might go straight to death of JW or worse than death - a comment would help decide

Thanks for reading, sorry for the wait. Braindrain

Ch2

Their sex (if that's what you'd call it) is wild like usual, the room is dark and the smell of blood mixed with sweat fills the air. Sherlock has already reached climax, John hasn't, Sherlock continues his shouting, John continues his silence, Sherlock still cries his heart out to John, John doesn't move.

Sherlock is already tired but, even with nothing left, he still pulls John roughly to shout at his face.

"ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING JOHN!"

But the blonde's eyes are still shut and he doesn't move. John doesn't even twitch.
This wasn't normal.

John would open his kind eyes, place his hands on Sherlock's face and pull him down to the bed to sleep.
Leave the healing and awkward silence for tomorrow, always tomorrow, always away from today, him.

Sherlock is confused but still in his hysteria, he needs his John to comfort him, he needs the others confirmation. To show Sherlock he is not a monster and that an angel like John is there for him. He needs John to look him in the eyes and confirm everything unspoken between them. The love, the joy, the bittersweet truth; they all lie behind John's sweet eyes. Yet today his selfless John is being selfish, hogging it behind closed eyelids.

So Sherlock slaps him, whatever strength he has left to put a final mark and a reminder. The sound is crisp and bounces off the walls, it was painful for Sherlock's palm as it reddened like John's cheek, still John doesn't twitch and his head falls to the side with a hint of blood dripping from his lips.

The scent of blood is thicker now and Sherlock knows it's not from the other's mouth. Despite all the emotions surging in him, his outburst has help calm his mind, calm enough to finally piece that John has a wound somewhere he didn't remember doing. There is a bloody trail flowing down his neck and the blonde hair mixes with red as they clash to take dominance. With the head leaning to the side the blood even drips on to the sheets below.

John's head is bleeding, the scent isn't from the penetration or the scratches, the scent is coming from the back of his head. And by the queen, John's head is bleeding like no tomorrow.

The back of the head with a large open wound where John's sweet blood is both flowing and drying, the back of the head of his most beloved blonde, his gentle and kind angel. It takes him a while to process that it's his sweetly dying angel.

"J-John? John… can you hear me?" Sherlock tentatively asks as he gently puts his blogger head down on to the pillow to face the door and not the curly-haired man, he doesn't know if he can take anymore of the resigned face staring at him with closed eyes. The detective looks over the head and he tries to deny what his mind already knows, his blogger is dying. His blogger is dying in the same bed they make love on; his blogger is dying in his arms, by his hands.

Sherlock screams, no words and just fear. The guilt coming out of his belly and his already dried out tears coming back to life. The reply didn't come from his blonde blogger but the sounds of thundering steps rushing up the stairs to their room. And Sherlock cannot think and only screams, for the first time his mind goes blank but he doesn't enjoy the peace, not for the price he has to pay.

Mrs. Hudson knocks on the door like a jackhammer, continuous and loud, carrying all of her worries through the thumping of the door. And Sherlock snaps to the sound before affirming, this is real and John is dying. He jumps from the bed like it was on fire and stares in horror at his lover. His silent mind is warping, warping to ideas he knows isn't true, simply denial and yet he feels himself losing his grip on to what's really happening. His legs become jelly and he falls on to the floor. He needs something, he needs -

The door opens with a bang as Mrs. Hudson opens the room's lock with her own set of keys. The sight shocks her boneless, she slips down to the floor as she cries her own tears. "Sh-Sherlock". Just like this, the name is starting to feel distorted on her lips, no longer as sweet and relaxed as she used to call him.

Mrs. Hudson's heart breaks at the sight of her tenants face. It affirms Sherlock's love for John and yet it affirms her fears. It pulls her heart in two ways and this is too much for an old lady's body, she shakes in fear. Or is it sadness at seeing such a tragedy, maybe shame for letting it reach this far?

The phone is just in her pocket, she pulls it out with extreme difficulty as her hands continue to shake. The phone isn't particularly large or heavy but her arms feel like she's holding the weight of the world as the phone rings. "…what's your emergency?"

"Y-yes, my tenant… he is bleeding from the b-ba-back of his head, he isn't moving. He has other wo-wounds as well. please… PLEASE send help he isn't moving"

The phone gives her the standard procedure reply, she barely hears it over the thumping of her own ripped heart.
Another phone is ringing, she looks up to see Sherlock with his phone on hand as he approaches the bed, examining it like a crime scene. The old lady couldn't believe her eyes as the detective moves the bed around as if looking for clues, as if he wasn't the one who caused this.

The touches are much more gentler on poor John, even if it's like he is on one of his cases. This shocks the detective like lighting as Sherlock could only think
'Why couldn't I have been like this earlier?'

He moves his hand to the bed, still as gentle as with John, moving it like any of his murder scenes. 'Where did he go wrong, what did I do, how did this happen?' he thinks all at the same time as his hands begin to speed up in to a rush to find a culprit, something else to share the blame.

He finds it in the shape of a broken head board, a shard missing and lodged somewhere it shouldn't be. Lodged in his friends head by his shoves, by his love, lust.
The phone stops ringing and the voice of Mycroft filters through.

"Dear brother, what a-"

"h-help…"

The phone call is silent like the dark and sinister room. There are no further words but it's not necessary, the message is clear.

Sherlock screwed up. Sherlock screwed up and he needs Mycroft. This is never good and the brother on the other line knows it. The British government calls in not-Anthea to ready everything and check the video cameras, whatever happened he needs to know the full truth. By the sound of Sherlock's voice he won't be getting it from his brother, not now at least.

Back in the room, two crying faces stare at the man on the bed, thinking yet too emotionally clouded to think. The sociopath stares at his lover's body he could not bear to see his face. Wound, bruise, rashes, wound, bruise, bites, John's body spout shades of blue, red and black. It makes Sherlock want to hurl and he feels the bile rise, but he pushes it down because this isn't the time or place to vomit. Sherlock stares and stares, hoping that John would suddenly move pronouncing he's awake, that he's okay and back for his Sherlock.

Sherlock is already planning his apologies, how he will tell the words he usually screams in fury and give the love that he truly means. Sherlock will show John how much the other means to him, will finally put things right, as soon as the other moves.

It's when he realizes that the other is not even twitching. That the subtle sound of breathing is coming from only two people in the room while the third is silent, the third is Watson. Mrs. Hudson screams as Sherlock rams his head on to the others chest, worrying that the others emotions is again getting the better of him, about to do something even worse to the already poor angel.

"Shut up! SHUT UP!" the man shouts as he tries to search for his companion's heartbeat.

His hand in the other person's wrist feeling for a pulse, his ear straight to his chest, his eyes closed and waiting. Briefly, he wonder if this position could have shown the same love he shows with his iron grip and biting teeth but no, this position is so much better, if only his lover is awake to feel it as well. More tears prickle in his eyes as he finally hears a quiet beat and a very slow pulse, and he knows that this is John's last few minutes.

"No. No. No no no no. John please, please this is serious, you have to respond. Plea-" At that moment two heart beat stops and Sherlock isn't sure how his heart continues while his blogger's does not.

It didn't take him long before he started pumping at his chest, pumping for his lover's life. A quick dive for a kiss as he shares his breath to him, the first kiss in a long time where they shared something that wasn't the possessive claim or an apology. The kiss starts mechanical as Sherlock tries to breathe for John Watson, the still heart turns the kiss desperate and he can taste the tears sliding down his face. Their faces separate only to meld again, fresh air from one to the other, no longer methodical but not wild either. Mrs. Hudson notices all the feelings in the kiss, all the feelings Sherlock was never able to give, and it broke her heart in two.
'Why is it only now? Oh Sherlock, why now?'

The already open doors let in the sound of rushed feet, of trained professionals running up the apartments stairs. Of the chance to live. But Sherlock is lost in this kiss, in his hopes that his John would wake up and understand everything he is trying to convey. When hands try to pull him away he grips tighter, because he knows if he breaks the kiss now then so would his fantasy of John waking up for Sherlock and he is not sure if he can handle that. He knows not to let his emotion get the better of him, it's a bloody weakness. That if he doesn't let go of John right now, he would need to let go of him forever. Mrs. Hudson sees this, she doesn't want to but she knows her tenants like they are her own children. She needs to-

"Sherlock… please" her quiet voice breaches his imaginary bubble, quieter yet louder than all the noise of the doctors. It pokes holes on his fantasy and thoughts, ripping apart his clouding emotions and this tires him. As if what truly rips out is his heart, maybe it did. He lets go of his beloved to check if his own heart is beating, it beats loud like a drum yet he can't feel it. The doctors take this chance to separate the two as Sherlock tries to feel. All the detective could feel is his sadness, guilt, worry and finally tiredness; swallowing him whole like a shark. Sherlock watches the doctors with blurry vision, they connect John with electrodes and they hold the metals to his heart, "Clear!".

He wonders a lot of things, 'Will he be okay? Should they be shocking his angel? Is John still his angel?', his mind is flooding and he holds his phone in a death grip as his mind reaches to a climax 'Is he-' Sherlock lets go of the mobile and so does his consciousness. Sherlock doesn't know whether to be thankful or to stay awake, but it was not his choice and he finally feels his full exhaustion. It hits him like a bullet train as his vision fades to darkness before one question pops up in his head.

Maybe, maybe he will wake up as well.