Sherlock had seen dead people more times than he could count, but he had only seen someone physically die once. That was the cabbie from his and John's fist case; he was a murderer. He deserved it. Watching your best friend bleed to death, a hole in his chest, is a completely different ball game. Don't react. Don't cry. Don't give him what he wants, don't give him results...

"You're very unaffected by your best friend's death, Patient H. I wonder, was he really your friend at all, if you can so easily watch him die?"

Sherlock ignored the doctor and stared blankly at the shards of glass that had inelegantly fallen to the polished floor. He would look at anything but John's face. "Why? He didn't deserve to die so that you could get your...results."

Smith shrugged. "Collateral damage."

"Cold blooded murder."

"Collateral cold blooded murder, then. What's the difference? He's dead either way."

Sherlock stared at Smith's pristine lab coat, polished shoes, dark trousers. There was nothing to deduce about him, no way to trace him. His dark hair was in a sensible, unremarkable style, his accent wasn't specific to any region or country, his glasses weren't even marked with the brand. Slim, though not remarkably so. He looked perhaps forty, forty five, although Sherlock was sure that he was older than he looked. "What is your name?"

"You don't need to know that, Patient H."

"I know nothing about you."

"Exactly."

"It seems that your friend is in an overactive ASCN." said the neurologist, removing the headgear from Sherlock. "There's nothing further to monitor. He's in a stable state, although there's still no indication as to when he will wake up, if ever."

"ASC...is it harmless?"

"As far as we know."

John nodded. He tried to listen to what the neurologist said as he continued to talk about the details of ASC, but he couldn't concentrate. Perhaps he was paranoid, bu he had a sickening feeling that whatever was happening in his best friend's head, it involved him.

This isn't real. This isn't real, Sherlock, don't let him mess with your mind...

Sherlock was back in the orchard; Smith had vacated his brain, thankfully. He wandered through a straight clearing between two lines of apple trees, hating himself, hating he doctor, hating the beautiful mind palace.

Is John really dead? No, he can't be. But what other explanation is there? This could just be a simulation, as always, a nightmare. Or he could be dead. I shouldn't think like that, I should stay positive, hopeful...but then, I am, have been, always will be a realist. Why stop now? I need fact and logic more than ever...

Sherlock pulled the blackberry out of his pocket; should he text someone, call someone maybe? Who was there to call? He found himself dialing John's number, for no apparent reason. The phone rang exactly seventeen times, before John's answer tone played.

Hello, this is John Watson. I can't answer the phone at the minute because I've been shot in the chest. And to think my best friend didn't do anything, didn't try to stop it happening, didn't-

Sherlock hurled his phone at the nearest tree, his resolution to keep calm and logical completely breaking down. He sat under a large apple tree, his head in his hands. A bit not good.

Sorry if this was a bit confusing...basically, Sherlock isn't sure whether John is dead or not, but he isn't. Yeh. Sorry for the feels...think I know how Moffat feels now xD
Anyway, pretty please leave a review xD I like to know what people think :)