Good Morning Sherlockians! (it might be the middle of the night for you, but over here it's morning, so ha!) Sorry about the delay, writing's been a lot slower recently, with school and shiz like that :P Sorry about last time's mini cliffhanger (if you can even call it that) I don't normally do them, it felt so weird :P Feel free to drop in a review, I'd love to ear your opinions :D

Enjoy!
xxx

Sherlock Holmes was terrified.

That was the only explanation. He couldn't quite pinpoint what he was so frightened of, but he had only felt this fear before, with the hound. Sherlock was now acquainted with fear, but still couldn't understand why it had made itself present now. The hospital was a perfectly safe place to be, but what was he fearful of? He had sat in the same chair for exactly one hour and seventeen minutes, on the first floor, waiting for John's surgery to finish. Sherlock looked down, and found his hands tightly knotted together. Most of the blood was gone now, it just appeared as a faint pinkish stain on his flesh, but had crusted in the harder to reach crevices. There had been so much blood, for such a small body.

"Sherlock," John groaned, craning his neck to see the detective. "Give me a hand, would you?"

Sherlock had temporarily frozen on the spot, then burst back into life, he knelt down next to his friend to inspect the damage. John had a deep cut, which had snagged on more flesh when it was pulled out, leaving a deep gash, complete with a steady flow of blood across his abdomen. Sherlock stared in horror as he realised he had no idea how to fix this. He looked to John, not caring what anyone thought of him, and pleaded with the man "What do I do?" he took John's face in both his hands, demanding full attention. John looked blearily at him, processing.

"Right," He finally said, "get me lying down, and then call an ambulance."

Sherlock did just that. He looked to John, not needing to say anything, John could already see it. John pushed himself upright for a moment so he could see the jagged slice across his stomach.

"Ok," He said, moving the pressure he was holding on his stomach only for a second, to replace it under his shirt. "Now, you need to move my clothes from the wound, actually, take it off." He added as an afterthought, and was rewarded with a raised eyebrow from Sherlock. "I need material to try and stop this bleeding, and this one already needs a wash." John lifted the checked shirt where the dirty orange and hazy yellow had been stained by his near-black blood.

Sherlock nodded, then rolled the shirt to around John's middle and left it there. Before John could ask he yanked off his scarf, tied it into a loose ball and pressed it against John's stomach. After John had sighed in exasperation he looked at his friend and explained "That's your favourite shirt, that amount of blood I can wash off, and this material is thicker anyway," he trailed off, until "it can absorb more." was only just audible.

Sherlock pressed down hard on the wound. As if he could push hard enough to force the escaped blood back into John's body, and avoid all that was about to unfold.

"You know, you only need one hand for that."

"And another thing, just, don't let me fall asleep, please."

"How do you suppose I do that?"

"I don't know, shock me or something, I.." He trailed off.

Without looking, Sherlock's hand managed to find John's in the darkness. Both men were shaking, and they stayed silent for a moment.

"You'll be fine," Sherlock's voice shot through the quiet. "You always are, I know you will be because, you're John, you're the safe doctor who'll tell me off at the end of a night of chasing and running and nearly getting myself killed." He rushed, staring directly at John now. "I'm the mad detective who gallivants around London all night and shoots walls all day, you're the blogger who tells me off and keeps everyone around you safe. So you'll be fine, because you always are. That's the way it's supposed to be, and don't question it, because I know."

John looked up at Sherlock. All pretences were gone now, all John could see was a little boy in an oversized coat, waiting for his best friend to get back up, shouting: 'Fooled you!' but John couldn't do that.

"Sherlock," He began, trying to keep himself and his friend calm.

"Stop it." Sherlock spat the words out, as if a firm hand could keep John with him for a few more minutes. "Don't you dare."

John looked up at his detective, neither man really had ever thought, of what would happen after they couldn't live together. It just felt like they'd be with each other for ever, but John was beginning to doubt that. the scarf now had lost its blue colour, now it was a stinking red, moist and moving over John's flesh.

"Sherlock,"

"Please don't-"

"Sherlock!"

The words came out slurred now, Sherlock felt his heart plummet down through his ribcage, and for once, he didn't know what to do.

John whispered, nearly inaudible "I think it's time you had that shock sorted by now," as his body began to sag under Sherlock's hand.

He panicked. He wanted to reverse all that was happening, push the blood back into John, sew up his wounds, and hold him until he was strong enough.

But a shock would do for now.

Without thinking, Sherlock bent down and plunged his mouth onto John's. Maybe if they stayed connected for a tiny bit, Sherlock could breathe some of his life into John. It was a desperate kiss, pulling John back into the alleyway. His eyes shot open for a moment, his soft blue eyes meeting Sherlock's harsh grey. Sherlock pulled away, his eyes never leaving John's. A nervous laugh appeared, from which man they would never know.

It wasn't enough, apparently.

Now John's eyes were closed it was safe for Sherlock to let his own tears fall.

He had held John like that until he could hear the ambulance pulling up next to him. They had taken John away and refused to say anything. Sherlock knew there was still a pulse when John was taken from him. Now he was stuck here, in an uncomfortable chair, surrounded by other worried friends and family who weren't quite as well trained as Sherlock. The screaming and the crying and the breaking down, it was all becoming rather tiresome to Sherlock.

One hour and twenty-two minutes.

He tapped his hand against the arms of the chair, hoping a rhythm would be something to cling to, rather than the dull aches all over his body, letting him know he was still alive. He had tried to see if Louise had been admitted but no one would tell him anything. Even though he had taken his hands away from his chair, the tapping reverberated around his head, making him feel worse.

Half of the time he felt he was floating, drifting away to a place where he could escape all this. Yet the other half felt a loyalty to John, pulling him back to Earth, almost saying 'No, you got him in this mess, you're not switching off now!'

It wasn't fair. Sherlock had unwittingly given half of himself to John, and that half was now somewhere in this hospital possibly bleeding to death. He wasn't a whole person anymore, and couldn't be if John decided to leave him. If John couldn't stay anymore, he would take that part of Sherlock with him. Sherlock wouldn't even to be able to go back to the way it was, being not even a full person. John would be fine somewhere else and Sherlock would be alone.

That was downright selfish.

But it was selfish for Sherlock to have stolen that kiss. That could well be the last thing John ever saw and Sherlock, he, he positively attacked him. He didn't think about it, it just happened, he didn't mean it, it was just a good distraction.

Right?

Sherlock sighed. Wrong. He couldn't quite understand where it came from, or why he did it, but he knew that he had enjoyed it. Which he shouldn't have done. John was in an incredibly vulnerable state and he just acted on his own desire.

When he thought he didn't know anything about the kiss, he was sort of lying. There had been some moments in these few years with John, that he felt, just... content. Sherlock had decided long ago he'd end up spending the rest of his life with John; there was no choice in the matter. If this was how he felt when John was just in hospital, imagine how hollow he would be without his blogger at all.

When Sherlock returned to Earth he found a doctor looking down at him, his face filled with mock sympathy.

"I understand you're John Watson's next of kin?"

Attempting to consider his options, Sherlock replied with "Yes." And pushed himself out of his seat, his mind was bursting with questions, with answers he didn't know. He hated it. Was this how it was like all of the time for other people? Sherlock couldn't stand it.

"Is he..?" Was all he could say before the doctor started his explanation.

"Don't worry, he should be fine." The doctor paused as Sherlock released a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. "But John has lost a fair amount of blood, and we're going to keep him in for a few days, and he shouldn't be expected to work for at couple of weeks." He had a weedy tone, with a hint of patronising.

"Yes, yes, of course," Sherlock rushed, yet still keeping half of his icy demeanour, "but can I see him?"

The doctor sighed and cocked his head slightly, getting more and more tedious by the minute, "Yes, but remember, John may still be a little groggy from the surgery. Try to be gentle with him."

Utterly insulted that he might do anything else, Sherlock pushed past the doctor, unable to stand the man any longer. It didn't take long for him to get to the room. He found John, half sat up in his bed, his face drawn. Sherlock relished in the way it lit up when he entered the room, and pulled a chair next to the bed holding his only friend.

Sherlock silently reached out, carefully taking hold of John's hand, where they sat in silence for a moment.

Only a moment, though.

"Thank you," Sherlock muttered, so quietly John had to strain to hear it.
John gave Sherlock an incredulous look. "Why me?" He asked; his voice full of curiosity. Sherlock looked him in the eye for the first time since sitting down. "For staying alive, I guess." He said, with what was almost a shrug. John noticed a change in his friend; he was more conscientious, he wasn't rushing John, he was gentle. In a way, more human.

John paused, "well," He replied, "thanks for keeping me that way I guess."

Sherlock couldn't keep quiet any longer.

"I'm so sorry about all this," He blurted out, "I'm so sorry that I left you, without thinking everything through, I'm sorry I almost got you killed, I'm sorry about putting Louise – who's technically your responsibility – in this position, and getting you into trouble, I- I-"

"Sherlock!" John stopped him in his tracks. He spoke slowly and calmly, but much more comforting than that doctor. "It's fine, I'm fine. Well, I will be in a week or two. It's not like we don't do this often, I just wasn't careful enough this time. Louise is all right, she's in the hospital, but her dad's there and..." He paused for a breath, "We're not permitted to see her. Which is fair enough." John looked horrified, "She was hurt that bad?"

"I don't think so, she didn't look too bad when I saw her." John said, 'But you never know' would have followed if they both hadn't already thought of it.

Sherlock turned away again, "I need to apologise for one more thing." He said, his grip tightening on John's hand, not enough to hurt, but definitely firm. "Just before you passed out, when I... I'm sorry for what I did. It won't happen again, I promise you." John tilted his head, so he could see his friend better. "What did you do?" He asked, oblivious to Sherlock's minor shock.

"You don't remember?" The detective said.

"Don't remember much from then," John stated, "Just that you were there."

Sherlock attempted to think of an appropriate way of explaining it, when John saved him.

"Don't worry," he said, half smiling at Sherlock, "We can talk about it some other time, when I'm out of here maybe." They shared a smile for a short minute. Sherlock was first to restart the conversation. "Is there anything from the flat I can bring you? Clothes, a book, perhaps?" John thought for a moment, and then gave his instructions. "Oh, and can you smuggle me in a sandwich, too? The ones here are crap."

Sherlock chuckled, and then left for his errands.

John allowed a soft smile to play along his features as Sherlock left, thinking that it was probably easier for now to pretend to have forgotten his kiss. He and Sherlock could discuss it later. It was easy to play the dopey victim for now. But he had most certainly not forgotten.