John recoiled from the scalding tea that his all-too-eager tongue had the misfortune of becoming acquainted with. The heated was messed up so all he had the strength to do was drink his tea in the cold temperature of autumnal Britain. Life was beginning to settle down again until…

Briiiiiiiiiiiing. Briiiiiiiiiiiiiing.

"Hello, John Watson speaking?"

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Bumping into 3 people on the way, John tore through the thinning crowds of the 10 PM ICU. Bursting through the narrow corridor like a cannonball, he literally crashed into the sawdust smelling body of Greg Lestrade.

"John, come quick." Practically dragging the smaller man, Lestrade wrapped his arm around John's wrist and bolted towards one of the private rooms. Upon entering, John rubbed his eyes wearily as he saw Sherlock's exhausted figure hooked up to hundreds of machines.

He looked even worse than when he was first admitted. His forehead was glistening with sweat and his eyes were framed with the black crescents of exhaustion John had never seen so severe. Every vein was pronounced in his spectral arms. Most of his face was obscured by a heavy duty oxygen mask but the jagged precipices of his cheekbones were painfully visible. It was hard to imagine that this was the same man who only 2 weeks before could be found sprinting after taxis and tackling serial killers.

"W-what's going on?"

"Sir" the small nurse from a week before piped up. "I'm afraid Mr. Holmes' condition has gone downhill rapidly since yesterday and he's slipped into a coma. It's unlikely that he has long to live…"

John inhaled sharply and closed his eyes, begging for this all to be a dream. Pleading and pleading to be woken up in 221b Baker Street. Imploring to duck under the blue police tape and to marvel at the world's only consulting detective's intellectual prowess. Urged for his Sherlock back.

"H-how? How c-c-could t-this happen in o-o-one day-y?" murmured John under his breath.

The slow hum of the ventilator and the fearfully sparse beeps of the heart rate monitor accompanied the almost audible dread that bled from every surface.

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Curled up on the chair, John stared into the abyss waiting for the nightmare to end; he could feel Greg's gaze upon him soaking with pity. He didn't care.

The long whine of the machinery pierced the army doctor's abdomen like a gunshot. His flat line!

Knocking his chair over, John leaped to his feet and ran over to his friend, a deep cello plucking in between his ears muffling every other sound in this world.

"Sherlock! Sherlock!" he barked. "Don't you dare. Don't you bloody dare!" He pushed the assistance button by his bedside with trembling hands. The doctors burst in and charged the defibrillators. Lestrade turned John away from the devastating scene. His weak body malleable in Lestrade's bear hug.

"I'm sorry—", the doctor started.

"NO! Please just… Just do something! Please!" he tore away from Lestrade. The doctors headed out of the room. John fell to his knees, a frail mess. He enveloped the detective's large but skeletal hand in his own, tears dropping onto the entwined extremities.

"Sherlock…" He mewed softly.

Beep.

All heads snapped towards Sherlock.

"Don't move your hand!"

Beep… Beep… Beep…

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Sherlock looked up at the bleeding sky, oranges and purples and blacks and blues dripping into one another. Trees loomed over him, almost obscuring the sky completely. Rolling onto his front, he realised that he couldn't move his legs. But… What's that?

A strange apparition appeared. A translucent, white deer bounded about 20 metres in front of him. He didn't know why but his heart yearned for this deer. But I can't move my legs… How can I get it?

He crawled. The mud stung under his fingernails and he could feel the skin scraping off of his knees. I don't care. I only care about one thing… The deer turned its strong, graceful neck towards him, cocking its head to the side. Its quiet dignity and strong determination and elegance made his heart soar.

The deer wasn't 3 metres away now, he could feel himself bleeding all over his body and his arms collapsed underneath him. Not… Far… Now… J-just… A… little…

He rolled onto his side, sweating profusely and tasting blood on his lips. His eyelids were closing. His heart was slowing.

"Sherlock…." The voice called out causing Sherlock to open his eyes in confusion. From his blurred vision all he could make out was a ghostly white hand being proffered before him.

With all the strength he could muster he slid his bruised and grazed hand into the open palm let the wind take him forwards.

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A sharp gasp illuminated the room and Sherlock opened his eyes. He was surprised to see everyone staring at him.

"Oh my god…" exhaled John who had only just noticed that he'd been holding his breath as he dove into Sherlock wrapping him in his arms.

Sherlock rested his nose on top of John's head, inhaling the intoxicating scent. John raised his head so that their foreheads were touching. Both their noses reddened with bashfulness in unison and John giggled at the warm hue diffusing over Sherlock's cheeks.

Their gaze dropped at each other's mouths and sensing the shared desire, Sherlock tilted his head slightly to his left. John repeated and they moved forwards, their tension that had been building up for four years was slowly evaporating.

Their lips locked and John sighed in ecstasy as the tall brunet nibbled at his lower lip.

"Well fucking finally! Only took FOUR YEARS! Ha-ha… I'll leave you two to it then." Lestrade declared jokingly before leaving them be.

And Sherlock and John were left alone…