Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes, nor any of the characters from that TV series or books mentioned.

John woke up with a gasp and pushed his slightly damp hair off his forehead. Staggering up from his bed, he stumbled out into the hallway, squinting at the bright lights of the kitchen. The first time he walked by Sherlock, he didn't even notice the slumped figure. He began boiling water for tea and hopped up onto a counter to sit and wait. It was then that his eyes scanned the sitting room and spotted the detective. "Oh, God, Sherlock," John muttered as he sprinted across the two rooms, vaulting his own armchair.

Lifting Sherlock's head, he opened one of his eyes and checked his pulse. The pupils were small and the pulse faint. "Shit," John muttered, grabbing his mobile from his desk and dialed 999. "Yeah, hello? I think we've got an overdose at 221 B Baker Street. Faint pulse, small pupils, and I'm not sure if he's breathing." John frantically listed symptoms at the emergency services operator. He knew he should be calm, he faces death on a regular basis, but when it was Sherlock's life on the line, things were different. He barely heard the words the operator was saying, but the sirens outside woke him out of his reverie.

John rode in the back of the ambulance, phoning Mycroft the moment he'd entered. Their phone conversation was quick and concise, containing only the words "Overdose" and "Bart's." Mycroft didn't sound pleased, but neither was John. Next, John phoned Molly, who required more words than Mycroft. Their conversation was too long for John's liking; by the time they finished, the ambulance was pulling up to Bart's Hospital.

John sat in the waiting room, watching Mycroft rush in, all coat and umbrella. Only family was allowed, no matter how much John protested. He had only agreed to sit in the waiting room after the nurse had promised to fetch him at any change. So John just sat, nervously bouncing his leg. The elderly lady next to him struck up a conversation. She was there because her grandson had swallowed a Lego and they were x-raying him to see if it was stuck. But John, usually so social and friendly, was fairly rude and didn't respond with more than a nod.

Mycroft Holmes didn't spare his brother's flatmate a glance, but simply brushed by him. He appreciated the call, but blamed John for being careless and not watching him. Mycroft also blamed himself, but he wouldn't admit that. They should have observed Sherlock and noticed something, anything, a sign. This scene was far too familiar to Mycroft. The white sheets, pale face, and incessant beeping of different machines seemed like something out of a bad movie.

The first time Sherlock had overdosed, he had been 16. Mycroft had been 23 and had come home from university just to wait by his bed all night, even after his parents went home. Sherlock had woken up and told his older brother what an idiot he was for coming home when he was obviously fine. Mycroft had been slightly hurt but left the day after, leaving his phone number to the nurses in case his little brother came in again. The second time had been 3 weeks later and he had not been happy to receive that call.

Mycroft waited outside the room as doctors rushed in and out, each thinking that they had better things to do than care for some 30 year old junkie at 4 in the morning. Eventually a nurse stepped out. "His condition is stable. We will call you if there is any change, Mr…?"

"Holmes."

The nurse's eyes widened with recognition and her mouth formed an "o" shape. Mycroft groaned inwardly and silently cursed his brother's wide-spread reputation. Not wanting to hear any ramblings about the amazing things Sherlock can do, he turned around and walked briskly away, leaving the slightly stunned nurse to do her job and take care of the great detective.

John rose to his feet as Mycroft entered. His eyes asked the question for him, and the older man responded with a shrug. John sat down again, not sure of what to do. Mycroft sighed and felt a little bad for the confused doctor. He walked over and placed a hand on John's shoulder, surprising John. The Holmes boys weren't usually prone to physical contact, especially when it involved emotion. "You should go home, John. There's nothing you can do from this waiting room and they will call us with any change. Just try to get some sleep." John nodded absentmindedly and Mycroft left, knowing that John would stay in that hospital until Sherlock woke or died.

The elderly woman turned to John again and tried to talk to him, but John stopped her with a finger. "I'm really sorry, but I've got to go see my friend." He pushed himself up and walked over to the desk to try to plead with them one more time.

The nurse on duty glanced up and asked, "Watson?" John was surprised, but nodded. "You can go in, Room 27." John followed the nurse's directions and found the room with ease. The door was ajar and John leaned against the door frame, watching Sherlock's machines beep. The detective looked so small against the stark white of the hospital pillows, his dark curls standing out against the purity. John had seen so many bodies in his lifetime, he didn't know what he would do if he had to see Sherlock's.

He stepped into the room, the floor creaking. He cringed for a moment, but Sherlock didn't stir. Of course he didn't, you bloody idiot, John berated himself, he's unconscious. John eased himself into the uncomfortable white plastic chair, running his hand through his hair and rubbing his eyes. Given that he didn't often sleep, and when he did, it was restless, his exhaustion made sense but still Watson forced his eyes open, the ever vigilant soldier. He watched the blips on the heart monitor, feeling his own heart thump just slightly off time with Sherlock's.

John must have fallen asleep at some point that night because he was woken rather abruptly by a fit of coughing. His hand flew to his waistband where his gun was usually tucked. "You can't bring your gun to a hospital, that much should be obvious," a weak voice croaked from the bed. John shot to his feet, ignoring sharp pain in his leg, and stepped next to Sherlock's bed. He was awake, but still looking weak.

"You. Utter. Cock." John swore, slamming his hand down on one of the rails next to the bed. "What were you thinking? You could have died, Sherlock, died!" Sherlock looked mildly perturbed at the sudden movement.

"Relax, John, I was fine."

"Fine? No, Sherlock, you were not fine. You were nearly dead when I found you. I would know, I am a doctor. So I don't think you were fine." John's voice grew in volume and intensity. His grip tightened on the side of the hospital bed. Sherlock tried to respond, but it came out gravely and turned into another bout of coughing.

"Sherlock, I can't do this. I can't watch you decline like this." John shook his head, biting his lower lip.

"What does that mean?" Sherlock asked, propping himself up on his elbows.

"It means you have to find yourself a new blogger." John said, his voice steady and quiet for the first time since Sherlock had woken up. "I was 12 feet away, you could have come to me for help if you felt like using again, but you didn't. I can't help you if you refuse help. So I have to leave because I can't watch this. God knows how Mycroft does it time after time."

Sherlock looked like he had been slapped. "John. What are you saying?"

"Christ, Sherlock, can't you hear? I'm going." John sighed and took a step away from Sherlock's bed.

"Going where?"

"I'm just going Sherlock. I'm just going." John looked more tired than Sherlock had ever seen him. His eyes were sunken and his cheeks looked hollow. "I've got to go."

Sherlock grew angry. "What, you aren't even going to try to help me? You're just going to leave and abandon me? You're just like the rest of them, John Watson! You're just like all of the others who left! I was wrong about you, you will always be another heartless soldier!"

John bent his head as Sherlock threw his words at him. "I'm sorry you think that, Sherlock." He turned and walked towards the door.

"COWARD!" Sherlock shouted after him, chucking his pillow at the slightly hunched back. "Coward…" Sherlock whispered as his only friend left him. He repeated it over and over until the mutterings turned into tears and quiet sobs. The nurse fetched him a new pillow.