Sherlock remained unmoving from his spot in the reception area of A&E. He had shifted his eyes from his feet to the door of Hamish's room, just in time to see John, Lestrade, and Molly walking in and closing the door behind them. This is my fault. Sherlock thought, I should have just been better to John. We would have gotten here in time. Now it might be too late. There wasn't much logic in this thought, but he couldn't help but feel responsible. What was worse was he had barely spoken to Hamish since John was let out of hospital. It was clear to him that Hamish liked John better. And who could blame him?

His eyes were still on the door, and he saw Molly reappear in the hallway. She closed the door gently and walked toward Sherlock.

"You alright?" She asked tentatively.

Sherlock tried to answer, he really did. But nothing came out. There was just a massive lump in his throat, and he feared dislodging it and crying in front of Molly.

"Do you want to see him?"

He nodded. She took his hand in her own, and held it tightly. Sherlock took a deep shaky breath and willed his legs to move. They were jelly. They weren't going anywhere.

"Sherlock, you don't have to go in. You can go sit down, I want you to be okay."

He still couldn't reply. He just shook his head, and took slow steps to the door, with Molly holding his hand and stroking his thumb to comfort him. They made their way to the door of Hamish's room slowly, slowly, slowly... until they were standing in front of it. The door had a narrow window, but Sherlock had returned to staring at his feet to avoid looking inside.

"Ready?"

"Mmm." Sherlock grunted in response. That was all he could manage out of fear of breaking down again.

Molly slowly pushed the door open, and she and Sherlock stepped inside.

John was sitting on a chair next to the bed, his hand cupped over Hamish's. Greg was standing behind him with his hand on John's shoulder. Tears fell down both of their faces. Sherlock made eye contact with Greg, who abandoned his post behind John and gave Sherlock the biggest hug he could muster. Sherlock was still trying not to look at Hamish. He knew generally what to be prepared for, he had done extensive research on this topic, being hit by vehicles. It was useful information for a detective. But he never wanted to use it like this. If he looked at Hamish, he'd know the angle at which he was hit, he'd know the extent of his injuries, and he'd be able to picture the entire thing in his head. He didn't want that.

He finally looked. Hamish's black hair was covering part of his face, as usual. He had a massive gash across his cheek, which had been stitched up. He had a cut lip, and various scrapes and scratches around his face. Thankfully, no neck brace, which to Sherlock meant that his injuries couldn't be that bad. Sherlock's eyes moved down his son's body to his chest. There were wires attached, and an IV drip hanging out of his left arm. On his right arm there was a thick white plaster cast, which went from the end of his thumb to his armpit. On his left hand he had two small finger braces, one on his ring finger, and one on his pinky finger. Moving further down, he had another plaster cast on his right leg, this one going from his knee down to his toes. His other leg was badly scraped, but had been cleaned, so it didn't look too bad. As for Hamish himself, he wasn't moving or showing any signs of being conscious. He was just there. Sherlock could now imagine exactly what happened. He watched Hamish's limp body fly across the street, in his mind, over and over and over. And his legs gave way.

He couldn't keep himself together. He was sitting on the floor at Greg's feet, yelling, crying, shaking. This was too much. This was why Sherlock never got attached to people. This happens, this always happens. He couldn't hear anything over his own sobs, but he felt John's hands press against his shoulders as he sat on the floor next to him. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's whole body, hugged him tightly, then helped Sherlock to his feet.

"Come on." John said quietly. He didn't sound like John anymore.

He helped Sherlock out the door where they sat on the chairs outside Hamish's room. Once Sherlock had sat down, he tried to compose himself. He found this very difficult. John took the seat next to him, and put his arm around his husband. Sherlock leaned over and put his head on John's shoulder, as more and more tears fell down his cheeks. John held out his free hand and wrapped it around Sherlock's.

"I wish I knew what to say." John said quietly, his cheek resting in Sherlock's shaggy black hair. His voice was gruff and barren.

Sherlock couldn't answer. He didn't want to cry anymore, but he couldn't stop. He wanted a rewind. He wanted a reset button. After a few moments of composure, his tears finally subsiding slightly, he felt a kiss on the top of his head. John held his lips on Sherlock's crown for a few seconds, before moving back, and resuming position, though slightly closer together. Sherlock's tears streamed even more.

Sherlock slammed the door of 221 B Baker Street behind him as he followed John up the stairs. He was amazed at how calm John managed to be. Sherlock was usually the calm one while John was normally the one kicking chairs over and swearing at people. Sherlock guessed that John knew how to handle pain and loss and death from working in a hospital and being in the army. Sherlock had never suffered loss on this scale. Hamish wasn't dead, but he was deeply in a coma.

When Sherlock reached the top of the stairs, he just walked straight into the bedroom, slammed the door shut, kicking every chair and every table on the way.

He laid down on the bed and buried his head into a pillow. He wasn't going to cry again. He just laid there, unmoving and solitary. He was grateful John didn't try to intervene, but, at the same time, he wanted him there. He found it difficult to believe that just five short hours ago, he and John had been making up for lost time, enjoying themselves more than they had done in months, right where he now lay. The very thought of that made him feel sick. He got angry with himself for even allowing happy thoughts in. He rolled off the bed, opened the drawer in his bedside table, and pulled out three nicotine patches. He put them on his arm, and resumed his position.

An hour later, after Sherlock contemplated his three patch problem, there was a small knock on the door. John came in, not saying anything, holding a tray of tea. He set it down on top of the chest of drawers, then crossed the room to the bed and sat down next to Sherlock. Sherlock stayed where he was. John pulled his legs onto the bed and huddled around Sherlock, who responded by pulling his face out of the pillow and laying on his side instead.

"You alright?" John said, his voice finally returning to normal. Slightly.

"No." Sherlock said. It was the first proper word he'd managed to get out since the cab ride to Bart's, where he told John that he loved him for the first time.

"No. Nor am I." John looked at Sherlock. Not in any particular kind of way, he just looked at him. Sherlock's eyes burned from the crying of the day, and he had a massive headache. He looked back at John and tried to think of what to say. There was nothing to say.

John pushed the dark curls out of Sherlock's face and laid his hand on his cheek. Sherlock breathed in and felt the kind of warm feeling that happens when one is particularly happy. Sherlock wasn't happy. Sherlock was home. He closed his eyes, and just felt John's presence, felt his warmth, felt him. They both slowly drifted off to sleep, and the tea went forgotten.