AN: I love you all. All you readers and reviewers and alerters and favouriters. All of you. And I am so incredibly sorry that I have not updated for so long, but school keeps getting in the way of writing, and then when I actually had time to write I had the most horrendous case of writers' block ever. Which explains the shortness and somewhat rubbishness of this chapter. But anyway (CONCENTRATE, Sarah! (just read the Hound of the Baskervilles introduction – can you tell? (ughh I love him even more now and I didn't think that was possible))) enjoy the thing. And I will love you even more if you review.

And I will update as soon as I can. I swear it to you on fish fingers and custard.

Sherlock woke up, his joints aching from having spent too long in an awkward position in an uncomfortable chair. He stretched – and looked sharply over at John.

No change.

Still unconscious. Still empty.

But still breathing.

Just.

Sherlock sighed deeply, a great whooshing exhale of breath and his head fell into his hands. He kneaded his forehead and then ran his heads through his hair, trying to wake himself up. He was still a little bleary and he could not afford to be so.

He felt so guilty. If it weren't for him, John would not be like this. He cursed himself for not having thought his plan through more thoroughly – he should have known this would happen (idiot, idiot, not thinking it through, not going through all the consequences). And on top of the guilt about John, there was this guilt about how he had treated Mycroft. He knew Mycroft had cared for John in his own way – it must be hard for him too, to have this happen. Sherlock wouldn't normally care about Mycroft or his feelings: but he felt that he had overstepped the line somewhat. It had just been so much easier to blame Mycroft than to do anything else.

But how was he supposed to do anything else? His best friend – his only friend – was hospitalised and it was all his fault. Sherlock needed John to live. When he had been doing The Work, the only thing keeping him going had been the thought that John was alive and safe. Except he wasn't. He hadn't been.

Sherlock's head stayed in his hands.

But then - a rustle of sheets.

A sigh.

The mattress creaking.

Sherlock's eyes flew open and his head snapped up.

"John?"

John's eyelids fluttered.

"John?"

John's head rolled over and his brow furrowed. He sighed weakly.

"John, wake up!"

Sherlock had leant forwards eagerly at the first sign of movement, and now his head was only inches away from John's. John's eyes drifted open and found Sherlock's face. His eyes widened.

"No..."

"What the hell were you thinking?!" All Sherlock's fury at the world, at himself suddenly exploded. He tried to remember that John most definitely was not the cause of it (although he supposed it partially was John's fault for having tried this, but it was Sherlock's fault that it was his fault...) and that he was sending the anger in the wrong direction, but he just felt so confused.

John's face had lost what little colour it had had before.

"You're dead..."

Sherlock's anger melted away as suddenly as it had come. "No. I'm not. I... I am sorry, John."

John shook his head.

Gently, Sherlock reached out and touched John. "I feel real enough, don't I?"

John closed his eyes, his head sinking back into his pillow. "You aren't real. You can't be real. You just can't be."

Sherlock gripped a little more firmly. "I am real, John."

John shook his head.

"You always were painfully ignorant to the obvious," Sherlock snapped, his anger bubbling up again.

John's eyes flew open. "None of my hallucinations have been that much of a prick before..."

Sherlock sighed and, again, tried to remember that he wasn't supposed to be angry at John. "I faked my death, John. It had to be convincing. You had to believe I was dead. You would have been killed otherwise. I couldn't just have you die. Not because of me." His voice became harsher. "But it turned out that I killed you anyway." He clutched at the front of John's hospital gown at the end of this sentence, as it he needed to reassure himself that John was still there, that he wasn't dead.

John looked down at the hand clinging to him and then back up into Sherlock's face. When he met his gaze, something seemed to fall into place. His eyes widened still further. He muttered "Oh, God," and then his eyes rolled back into his head and he was unconscious.

Sherlock froze, unsure. Should he get a nurse? Then he reasoned that he knew much more than any of the hospital staff, and decided to act on his judgement alone. Waiting for John to come round of his own accord was the best course of action to present itself. He was about to settle back into his chair, more relaxed now that he knew John was going to be okay, when suddenly he leapt out of it. Water. John would want water when he woke up. He swept out of the room and headed down the hall to find some for him. John would be fine on his own for a few minutes.

After all, he thought, they were in a hospital.