John was still unconscious by morning. Sherlock knew that wasn't normal, and kept pestering the nurses and doctors. Not annoying, just pestering. Completely different.

They took John away around lunch for a CT scan, and returned him unchanged. They said the results would be back by supper, and Sherlock was irked he even had to wait that long.

The short wait times were a constant reminded of Mycroft's omnipotence. However irritating that may be.

Sherlock left to use the loo and stretch his legs, and when he came back, a group of doctors and nurses were standing around John's bed, discussing his case.

"... and as you can see by the negative doll's eyes..." he trailed off as a student elbowed him.

"What does that mean?" Sherlock demanded.

"Ah, you must be Mr Holmes. We've just come to look over Doctor Watson's case, and we'll be able to give you an update shortly, if you could just step out."

"No, I will not just step out," he snapped. "I demand to know what is going on!"

"Nigel, if you could perhaps escort Mr Holmes to the family room," the doctor said quietly, speaking to the young man who had elbowed him earlier.

Nigel nodded, but Sherlock stood firm. The man was small, and Sherlock knew he could hurt him if he had to.

"No," he said loudly. Poor Nigel jumped. "I'm sure you're all well aware of me as well as my family's influence. If you desire keeping your jobs, we will talk now."

The doctor scanned Sherlock with a measured glance, then wearily nodded.

"If you can just stay off to the side, we're just finishing up."

Sherlock watched anxiously as they examined a printout coming from a series of wires attached to John's head. Like Mycroft, the doctor had mastered the fine art of his poker face. The medical students, not so much, but they mostly displayed confusion rather then a negative or positive emotion.

The doctor nodded to the med students. "We'll finish this discussion later," he said, dismissing them. They trailed out, muttering amongst themselves.

"Please, sit down Mr Holmes." The man gestured to a chair.

Sherlock stared at him, but sunk into the plastic chair he'd spent most of the night and morning in. Sitting down for news was never good.

"Sherlock," he muttered, remembering what John had taught him. "Call me Sherlock. And call him John," he added, looking longingly at the bed, wishing John could be the one to handle people, as he did so often in lieu of Sherlock. Things tended to go smoother that way.

"Alright Sherlock. We've done a number of tests on John, including a CT scan and an EEG, not to mention the various bedside tests we were doing when you came in."

"The doll's eyes," Sherlock noted.

"Yes, exactly. The tests show that John suffered from a brain bleed, likely as a complication from the explosion he was involved in."

"A brain bleed," Sherlock echoed.

"Yes, a cerebral hemorrhage. That's what the CT scan showed."

"And the other tests?" Sherlock asked, looking the man in the eye ever so briefly before he looked away. Another not good sign.

"The EEG measures brain activity, and the doll's eye test is to look at brain stem function. In John's case, the doll's eye test was negative, and the EEG showed very minimal brain activity, indicating that he is brain dead. I'm very sorry."

Sherlock stared at his shoes. What was this man trying to tell him? His words weren't making sense. Sherlock understood them all, but once they were strung into sentences, they lost all meaning, becoming loud nonsense.

"He can't be kept alive indefinitely. The brain stem controls many processes that we won't be able to regulate, like heart rate and temperature. Eventually his organs will fail and he will die. I'm very sorry," he said kindly, "but has he ever mentioned organ donation?"

Sherlock's head snapped up at that.

"No," he said slowly.

"John never mentioned being an organ donor?"

"No. No. No..."

The man looked confused. "Sorry?"

"No, no, no," Sherlock repeated.

Because organ donation meant dead, and dead meant not coming back, and that meant John was dead dead dead, and that wasn't alright, because he was just talking to him yesterday, and he told Sherlock, exactly those words, "I'll be fine." And if John was dead that meant he lied and John didn't lie, and nothing about this was alright, and...

"Sherlock?" The doctor's voice was soft, and his hand was resting on Sherlock's shoulder.

"Don't touch me," he bellowed, throwing the chair backwards in an effort to get away. "Get out," he ordered, his voice wavering, but staying relatively calm.

"Sherlock-"

"Get. Out."

The doctor hesitated, but heard the rage in Sherlock's voice, and must have taken to heart what Sherlock had said earlier about keeping his job.

"I'll be back later this evening," he said, bowing out and scurrying off.

Sherlock pulled the tipped chair back to John's bedside and sank into it.

"John," he whispered, trailing the length of his arm. It was warm. Dead people weren't warm. John was warm. Therefore he wasn't dead. Somehow, that logic statement wasn't making sense to him, but he didn't care. Because everything hurt and nothing was alright.

"John," he whispered again, his hand resting in his friend's and his gaze stopping on John's face.

He looked like he was sleeping, just like he had since coming from surgery, just like he had before, any time Sherlock had seen him drugged, or even just sleeping.

But he wasn't.

"I'll be back," he told John, and left to wander the halls.

And that was how Sherlock found himself on the floor in one of the waiting rooms, not really sure how he ended up there, but there nonetheless.

Still curled up in a ball, Sherlock realized he was alone in the room, and that the weeping noise was coming from him.

Well.