John only remembered the most important part of the fight. He and Sherlock, well, only John had been yelling the whole five minutes the fight had been going on.
"Fuck this, Sherlock!" John had shouted in frustration. He was tired of Sherlock's attitude, the multiple experiments, his lack of social etiquette, and his overall Sherlock-ness.
"It is not my fault, John," Sherlock simply stated while keeping his eyes on the microscope. John seethed.
"Fucking freak!" John spat the words before storming out of the flat and down the stairs to hail a cab. What he did not get to see in his haste was the way Sherlock's body tightened and went taught.
Sherlock cringed and froze on the spot at John's words, his eyes going impeccably wide and his mouth opening in a soft gasp. Real pain shot though him and he lowered his head, leaning to rest against the back of the chair. He felt numb and devoid of emotions as the pain left him as quick as it came.
That was when he started drinking and spiraling down into a dark abyss. Sherlock did not care as he popped the top of an older bottle of whiskey and chugged from the bottle. Another one rested next to him, waiting to be re-opened. It practically begged to be swallowed, so Sherlock did just that. He polished off the first in record time and went on to the next.
By the time the second bottle was polished, Sherlock's walls were crumbling and the alcohol sloshed onto the floor. He was intoxicated to the point of throwing up all over himself. His vision was blurred and his head spun. All he could see were cloudy images and bright bursts of color.
His mouth could not form words correctly and he spoke in broken syllables and slurred letters. He had moved position from the kitchen to the couch and then onto the floor, where he sat when John found him. When he had first heard John stomping up the steps, he had rolled over towards the door and knocked over the bottles. He had cried, "Joh… John!" and that is what lead the two into the ER.
Back to the present, Mycroft shifted around in his seat. "As you should be," he dully responded to John's apology. That only made John feel worse. He knew he had screwed things up for good this time. Sherlock would likely never let him back in after everything.
John's thoughts blurred together as he tucked himself up into the chair. Soon enough a restless sleep washed over him and he shut his eyes, falling away into his own thoughts.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*Break*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
John snapped awake at a shake on his shoulder. A young, blonde nurse was shaking his shoulder and holding a cup of coffee for him to take. John took it gratefully and swallowed a long sip before waking up completely.
"Mr. M Holmes told me to wake you," the nurse informed him with a dainty smile, "he says you may stay in Mr. S Holmes room now, so if you would follow me," the nurse, whose name John saw was Ali, walked to the door of the room. She paused and waited for John to get up and follow.
John pulled himself from the uncomfortable plastic chair and limped towards her. His PSTD was acting up once more. He followed Ali through the corridors and past dozens of other rooms before she stopped at the door to Sherlock's room.
Sherlock's room was in a more secluded part of the hospital away from the other patients, thanks to Mycroft. Ali walked away and left John to go in by himself. Taking a breath, John bashfully entered the room, his eyes zoning in on the detective's persona.
Sherlock's skin was still pallid and sickly looking. His eyes housed heavy bags under them which contrasted darkly with his skin. His curls were limp and greasy after having not been cleaned in so long. An IV stuck out from his hand and medication was slowly being pumped into his veins. A breathing tube jutted out from his mouth and the sound of the oxygen pump was the loudest sound in the room.
John, being a doctor, knew that some patients could hear what was going on around them even in their unconscious state. John silently prayed that this would be the case with Sherlock. After having lived with him long enough, John had come to understand some of Sherlock's feelings and thought process. He sighed and sat on the very edge of the hospital bed.
"Hey," John started quietly, taking Sherlock's hand into his own. "I know you must hate me now after everything, but I want you to know I am sorry," John continued on, watching for any sign of Sherlock responding. He did not receive one and went back to speaking.
"Sorry does not even begin to explain how I feel about what I said and did," John's voice cracked lamely and he cleared his throat. "If you can not hear me right now, I am going to repeat everything again when you can hear. Hell, I might even do that regardless of you hearing me or not. I do not," John paused, contemplating his next words before rambling on again, "I do not think you are a freak. That is something you will never be. You are amazing, brilliant, and fantastic even. But even then, you are so much more," At this point in his little speech, Mycroft was outside of the room and standing at the door to listen.
"Sherlock, you are the greatest person I have ever met in my life. You may not be the most social person, but you shine in a crowd. You speak out when no one else will, and I do not even care if what you say is rude. That is who you are, and that is the person I… love," John choked on the word, feeling tears sting at his eyes again.
"Remember when I would always argue that I was not gay? Well, I'm not. But you are something special and changed my eyes to see a different light. You are the only one Sherlock, and right now I am almost hoping you can't hear me. I guess through this I realized that I care," John squeezed Sherlock's hand tighter in his own, "I wish you felt the same. It sounds stupid, but give me a sign. Anything to tell me that you don't hate me and care too. Please," John broke off and hunched forward, letting the tears fall down. Little did he know, Sherlock could indeed hear his words.
"John…" Sherlock's thoughts were clouded and fuzzy, but he could feel distinct warmth on his hand. Sherlock tried to open his eyes, yet they remained shut as if by an invisible force. Focusing on the sounds of the room, he immediately picked up on John's voice.
"Oh, John, silly John," Sherlock thought and felt his own chest ache. What John had said to him had torn a whole into his heart, but not one that could never be mended. Sherlock was too mature to let something so little follow him the rest of his life. "But he hurt you," Sherlock contemplated, "he dealt the lowest blow he could… but look at how you acted," Sherlock internally winced at his method of coping. The excessive drinking was not John's fault. It was a habit from his past high school years, but even in his comatose state he knew he had taken it too far. "But he can hurt you again," one of the many voices in Sherlock's head called out.
"Or he could not," another part of Sherlock argued back. Voices of his shouted back and forth until they came to a sudden halt at hearing the word 'love' fall from John's lips. "Love?" he thought to himself, turning the word over carefully in his mind. Love, meaning an intense feeling of deep affection or to feel a deep romantic or sexual attachment to someone. Is that what he felt for John?
"Yes!" a voice inside of him shouted, louder than all the rest. Then the hand, John's hand, tightened around his own and he heard the man's plea. The plea to give John a sign to show he does not hate him and cares the same. Such a strong bond had grown between them, and Sherlock realized that he would be damned if he let it fall apart. By giving in to the plea, he understood that it would still take plenty more healing for John to fix what he had broken. Willing his hand to squeeze John's back, he twitched his fingers ever so slightly before being able to grip onto John's own. Sherlock clutched tightly to John's hand and never wanted to let go of it again as the foreign feelings of love swam through him.