A/N: Hey guys. Sorry I took so long in updating, I meant to do this waayyy earlier. Today my goal was to get this chapter posted. As in, this equated to productivity for me. sad, right?

Anyway, this chapter is weird. It's pretty much all omniscient third person, hopping around POVs as I am suited, which is quite a lot. Sorry.

And just in case this is a problem for anybody, there's a scene at a bar. With beer, and people drinking it. I doubt anyone cares, but ya know. Just in case.

By the way, you may have noticed that these oneshots, so far, have been very close together, chronologically speaking. So I'm going to start skipping time, to show highlights, instead of the play-by-play I've been doing.

Enjoy!

Like one who takes away a garment on a cold day,
or like vinegar poured on a wound,
is one who sings songs to a heavy heart.

Proverbs 25:20

There's an old saying you've probably heard - 'a friend in need is a friend indeed.' It's a weird little phrase, since most people don't really think about what they're saying. When people say it, they mean 'a friend in need is a person who is truly your friend and you should help them.' As if, somehow, the fact that they need help makes them 'more' your friend. Which makes no sense, for one. What about the person's situation makes them more or less your friend? The whole point of friendship is that you stick together, no matter what happens. It's a counterproductive saying, really.

But people say it anyway, and they usually mean well.

"Hey, I heard about Sherlock," Lestrade said worriedly. John sighed, no doubt creating a ton of feedback.

"Yeah, he's back in the hospital," John replied, his tone empty. He sat back in his chair, glancing at the clock on the wall of his office. A splitting headache was screaming in his temples, and he rubbed them vigourously. It was not fun to work with a hangover. It had been an honest accident; but he wouldn't ever walk into a pub with such a detached attitude ever again.

"He okay?" asked the DI.

"Yeah. He basically bled to death, but they were able to revive him."

There was some swearing, and for some strange reason it pulled up one corner of his mouth.

"Where'd you find him?" Lestrade seemed to have a plethora of questions in his artillery.

"He found me, I guess. Called me," John explained.

"What was he doing?! I swear, sometimes I think I'm way smarter than he is," the inspector exclaimed, and John could imagine a hand running through the grey hair.

"Oh, you know how he is. Just - being Sherlock," John answered, and his voice sounded dead, even to him. Lestrade finally picked up on the fact that something was up.

"Hey mate, you alright?" he asked. The artillery was very well stocked.

"Yeah. Just - tired."

"Sherlock does that to you. Want to go for drinks later?"

"As long as they're not the alcoholic kind," John replied drily. He would say no, but he didn't want to indicate anything was actually wrong. Then he'd get pity, questions, well-meaning meddling. The last thing he needed right now.

Lestrade laughed good-naturedly. "I get it. I can't bail you out if I'm in there with you, huh?" he joked. John flinched at the memory. "I'll call you when I get off," the DI promised.

"Yeah, great," John replied with a detached tone. They both went through their "uh-huh bye" routines and then hung up.

John sat back, and glanced at the clock again. It was only halfway through the day, and he already felt like he'd been working for a week straight. His temples began to throb with renewed vigour, and he just gave in. It didn't take long for him to let the appropriate people know that he wasn't feeling well and was going to leave early.

The image of Sherlock, cold and still in the hospital bed, pressed into his mind, in almost the same way his mild hangover did. He had to go and check on the detective. He'd neglected him for a month and in the space of twenty-four hours after being reunited (in a drug den!), had seen his best friend high as a kite, threatened by a man who was apparently 'the most dangerous man they had ever encountered' (whatever happened to Moriarty, who strapped John to a bomb and forced Sherlock to fake his own suicide?), and then get shot and survive by the skin of his teeth.

No way he would leave him on his own that long ever again.

Sherlock felt - heavy. Or impossibly light. He couldn't decide which.

There was a presence next to him - a good kind, the kind you feel when you fall asleep in the sunshine or when you're home alone and you know there's a dog guarding the house.

Curious, he put forth an effort to pull his eyelids open.

Not enough. He tried harder.

Ah, light.

Blinding light.

He squinted, and after a few seconds his eyes adjusted to the room.

It was midday, and there was a dramatic increase in the amount of flowers and get-well cards in his room. There was even a balloon. He scowled at the balloon.

Then he saw John, who was in the chair next to his bed. Fast asleep, it seemed, his legs and arms crossed, head lolling to the side in a chiropractor-friendly position.

Sherlock tried to move, and his fingertips twitched, and his breathing pace fluctuated, and his head moved ever so slightly to the right.

"J... J... John." he said, weak and faint. The army doctor didn't stir.

"John," he repeated, and cleared his throat, proud of his commanding tone, slightly louder than before.

He felt bad a second later when John flinched in shock, and his eyes snapped open, looking for the source of the sound.

"John," Sherlock said again, this time he utilized his friend's name as a greeting, an amicable and gentle one.

Two pairs of eyes met, and something very strange happened. Because although their situations were radically different, and their souls were afflicted by different wounds, they looked at each other the very same way.

There was guilt, weariness, pity. Affection, worry, sadness. Pain, loneliness. And the effort to hide all of that and appear cheerful. Unscathed.

"You're looking better," John said approvingly, and yawned.

"You're not," Sherlock said bluntly, noticing the exaggerated lines around John's eyes and in between his eyebrows.

There was a moment of silence, and another one of those inexplicable looks.

"I'm fine, just had a bit of a lapse of judgement last night," John replied casually, though he didn't know why he was explaining. Sherlock probably had deduced everything, from the type of beer he had to the bartender's love life from a glance at his shirt collar or something.

"What kind of - lapse in judgement?" Sherlock asked murmured innocently, his eyelids already becoming heavy.

John blinked in surprise. Oh, right, the morphine. That would cause an issue. Bad news for brainwork.

"Rest, Sherlock," he urged, seeing his best friend's struggle to stay awake. "It's okay. Just let go," he said softly, placing his hand over Sherlock's.

Sherlock's eyes eased closed, and his breaths came slower and deeper. Asleep. The elephant in the room had been successfully avoided.

John patted his hand, then stretched, wow he was making a lot of poor decisions concerning his spinal cord lately.

Just then his phone vibrated. Upon a glance he found it was a text from Lestrade, letting him know what pub to meet at. John sighed heavily, he didn't really want to go. But he supposed he owed it to the DI, who had been there for him and Sherlock countless times.

He picked up his coat off the back of the chair and headed to the door, feeling dead on his feet.

Strangely enough, his feet and his heart had something in common.

An army doctor and a detective inspector are sitting at a bar.

The DI says to the army doctor, "Why the long face?"

The army doctor says to the DI, "If you ever say that again, I'm going to do things to you that I won't say in front witnesses."

Lestrade laughed and clapped John on the shoulder. "You've been hanging around Sherlock too long," he joked, and took a drink from his mug.

"Maybe. But not recently," John said quietly, and sipped his glass of water. It hurt his pride to have to ask for water, as if he were a frilly girlfriend or a skittish teenager.

"Yeah, you've been honeymooning," Lestrade replied. "Good thing Sherlock isn't here to tell us what it should be called." It was evident to John that he was trying to be sympathetic. But to be honest, it was just annoying. He stiffened at the word.

"How's the wife? I hear she's expecting," Lestrade said politely. John's face turned to stone.

"Who keeps telling you these things?" he snapped. The inspector blinked in shock before replying.

"Mrs. Hudson," he replied tentatively. He hoped the confession wouldn't get the sweet lady in trouble.

John shook his head disapprovingly, deciding to have a talk with her later.

"You know, I think I'm going to go," John said wearily, and stood. Lestrade watched, knowing John well enough to know there was nothing to be said that could make him stay.

"Alright. I'll see you around," the DI replied, and took another drink of his beer, feeling inadequate. He didn't know how to help John, everthing he said seemed to upset him more. Oddly reminiscent of a teenage girl.

"Yeah," John said ambiguously, and left.

Lestrade sighed, looking at his friend's retreating back. Something had happened, something other than Sherlock being his usual idiot self. John had been fine when he'd dropped by the hospital to see Sherlock to get more blackmail material.

Lestrade made a mental note to do that again later. No need to pass up a perfectly good opportunity. Sherlock showed the world exactly what he wanted them to see, including things other people might consider mortifying, so finding something he wanted to guard closely was pretty rare. But when you did get something good, he gave quite the reaction.

Denial, Bargaining.

Threats of Death.

Lestrade chuckled to himself despite his feeling of foreboding. Like Sherlock ever would, he knew that now. The man no more a sociopath than he was.

Which was, of course, not at all.