Hello lovlies, sorry that Karu and I haven't been updating as quickly as we should've been. I was in a writing comp. and we had finals, so the story took a trip to the back burner. Here's the next three chapyies, though. So here… Ta

Chapter 3: I'll be at your side, like I always am

St. Bart's Hospital ICU

Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers sat in the hospital, it wasn't in his office or by a patient or their family, but it was by his best mate's side. Sherlock was strapped with wires and IVs, and did absolutely nothing. It was haunting to see the detective, a man who abhors stillness as much as others did rodents, merely laying in a hospital bed, barely breathing, completely separated from the rest of the world.

John sat straight tense in the uncomfortable chair, his feet planted flat on the linoleum tiles, his hands clenched so tightly on his knees the knuckles were white. His dark blue eyes never left Sherlock's pale, unanimated face. The scene before him was so surreal he couldn't bring himself to disturb it by touching the soft skin or the rough cotton blankets. Were he to touch Sherlock, to try and connect with his comatose friend, it would cement the reality of the situation, and right now, John did not need any more certainty to it's reality. He wouldn't be able to handle it.

John heard the words before he recognised them as his own.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. It's all my fault; I should have realized something was wrong earlier when you—"the final part of the statement died on his tongue, drowned by dry sobs that threated to crawl out of his throat.

"I can't imagine in those 12 hours for you. What it was like, your thoughts… I can't; but, if you get PTSD or can't work anymore, or…something, I won't be able to live with myself for not be fast enough, smart enough. I just can't."

John's posture crumbled the way ruins do; his shoulders slumped and his head fell forward as hot, silent tears slid down his cheeks. He was supposed to protect Sherlock, and he'd failed. He reached out with shaking fingers and touched the edge of Sherlock's upturned palm with the callous tips. With the hesitancy of remorse his life-saving, and taking, fingers expanded their reach across Sherlock's hand and let the sobs moved passed the doctor's throat and into the air. That was all right. They were safe in this room. No prying eyes and wagging tongues could reach them here, could judge.

After a while, the tears ceased their flow and the sobs echoed away, but his remained remained on Sherlock's. His eyes once again fixed on Sherlock, watching his breath come and go at a snail's pace. He found himself breathing with Sherlock. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. His eyes felt heavy with the salt residue, his head felt filled with lead. His grief, anger and despairing hope weighed on him as much as the wounded men he'd carried to safety under that hot desert sun. John shook his blond head and sat up straight once more. Must keep watch. Mustn't sleep.

"John." John jumped and turned to see Mycroft standing by the door, as usual, in his impeccable brown suit with his umbrella on his arm. John was shocked to see sadness, concern and understanding in the Iceman's stoic face.

"How long have you been here?" John asked as he tried to wipe the evidence of his private watch from his red eyes. It was a futile effort he knew, but the raw feeling from the friction may help him wake up. Mycroft gave a small, cordial smile. It was the smile he gave when he indulged his brother.

"Long enough. I waited outside for you to finish… Have you been here for the last few days, John?" he asked in an unusually gentle tone. It was a shocking revelation that Mycroft could be tender towards anyone, and here he was being so with John.

It was then that John remembered Mycroft was Sherlock's brother and, despite the childish feud, the repressed emotions, and the cruel words; Mycroft did love his baby brother. He cared for his brother, and he now had absolute proof John did too, so he was being gentle. Caring was a disadvantage, yes. Yet, only so if someone caught you doing it.

"Go home, John. You need rest, and you've done more than enough already. I will watch over him." Mycroft said and made his way towards John at a sedate pace. He placed a warm, soft hand on John's shoulder; willing him to go home and sleep. John looked back at Sherlock and rubbed his roughened fingers on Sherlock's palm once more, a promise of returning to continue his vigil.

John walked down the sterile hallways of the hospital with a distinct lack of emotion on his face. He'd given a statement to Donovan, and Lestrade had probably talked with Mycroft, or would soon. Still, the pitying looks of the constables, the doctors, everyone—it was too much. He wanted to get away, to get home; but it wasn't home without Sherlock, he'd discovered that in the two year "death" of his friend.

He didn't know how he'd managed it, but he found himself in front of 221B Baker Street. Mrs Hudson was helping him up the stairs, a purple-sleeved arm wrapped around him in comfort. She was telling him how Sherlock was going to be fine, all the antics he got up to, it was the first real comfort John had had in seventy-two hours. He tried to smile, and he nearly managed it, Mrs Hudson patted his back as she helped him into the flat and said good-bye.

He climbed the stairs and stumbled into his bed without changing. It wasn't long before the exhaustion overtook the doctor…

John opened his eyes to find himself lying on his front in moss and dead leaves. He heaved himself off the ground and looked around. He was standing in a dark forest clearing; there was no light from the sky because of the foliage. John rooted about in his pockets for his phone or a penlight, something to illuminate his way. He found nothing. Sighing, John squinted his eyes and began walking. It did not take long before he was lost. He wandered aimlessly through the dark forest using the trees around him as a sort of guide but after a while, he looked around and found himself once again in the same clearing as before. Through out his aimless walk, he'd held the distinct impression that he knew this forest. He'd been here before, but also…

John moved towards the nearest tree. When he touched it preparing to sit down, he felt a shock go up and down his spine. He withdrew his hand.

"What in the bloody—" He touched the tree again and felt warmth spread from his fingertips this time. "Sherlock…"

"How can it be—" before he could finish, there was a familiar growling from behind him. John turned slowly and found himself faced with something that could only come from Sherlock's nightmares: the Hound. The big beast truly was terrifying; its yellow eyes almost glowed in a sickening hue, foam dripped from its mouth and its paws had razors for claws. This is what Sherlock had seen on the moors, and it was terrifying.

It began moving towards him in a predatory fashion and slowly circled its way closer to John. John backed into the tree and felt its fear along with his own. Some rotten fruit fell from the branch nearest the Hound and hit it on the snout. The Hound stopped in confusion and looked around. He knew this was his only chance, so John ran as fast as he could in one direction.

He heard the pounding paws of the Hound following him, but he dare not turn around to see it chasing him. He just kept running, putting one foot in front of the other and praying that he wouldn't trip. Where the hell was he? Why did the forest feel like Sherlock and at the same time feel familiar too? Why was the Hound there? Suddenly, the hound leapt forward as John tripped and the only sound that ripped from his throat was; "SHERLOCK!"

John sat upright in his bed and gasped for air. His clothes stank of no shower, no shave and a terrible dream. He looked around and found he was in his bed in Baker Street.

"It was just a dream. There wasn't a Hound, John." John said and tried the calming techniques he learned from his therapist. Fat lot of good they did. He swung his legs across the bed and stood up. Perhaps a good cuppa will do the trick.

Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix

"Why is it taking so long? They should have the results by now." Molly Weasley said as she paced at the head of the table. It had been near a week since the Ministry incident, and St. Mungo's was still running tests on Harry.

"Molly. I'm sure Harry will be—"

"Tonks, don't you dare say fine or I swear I will curse that tongue right out of your mouth!"

"Molly!" Arthur said to her.

The rest of the table merely observed the argument in silence. No one had anything to say. Their one bargaining chip, their ray of hope has diminished extensively. Without the boy-who-lived, how on earth would they win against Lord Voldemort? Sure, he had been destroyed and everyone was celebrating, but everyone in the Order knew that it wasn't over; at least that's what Dumbledore said. If he came back before, he would try again. When that happens, they'd need Harry to stop it.

"Sorry, I'm just nervous." Molly said quietly. Suddenly there was a knock at the Grimmauld Place door. Molly went and after a minute, returned followed by none other than Severus Snape and Minerva McGonagall.

"Boys, Ginny, Hermione, upstairs now." Mrs Weasley said.

"We need to know what happened to Harry, too." Ron said and the others nodded emphatically. Mrs Weasley looked to her husband who, after a very obvious inner war, nodded.

"What are the results, if you please, then." Remus said the table, Tonks nodded.

"The Dark lord, according to what the healers could theorise, severely damaged Harry's mindscape," said McGonagall as she sank onto a bench. She and Poppy had debated what to say to Dumbledore, eventually opting for a blunt, direct report. He'd then had a talk with Snape who was sent to the healers to assist.

"A mindscape is a part of the mind organised for any number of purposes; it takes a lot of power to create even a small space, and Potter structured his entire mind into one. Although I admit it's impressive, it has led to some unsavoury consequences," Snape interjected.

"What do you mean, Snape?" asked Molly.

"The Dark lord appears to have destroyed much of Harry's mindscape, meaning that he's also damaged much of Harry himself. Several of Harry's body functions are shutting down or running solely on magic," the deputy headmistress said. There were small gasps.

"You keep saying it appears that way? Why professor?" Hermione asked. Snape looked at her. His expression soft but grave.

"The Dark lord destroyed Potter's connection to the outside world, he doesn't respond to anything that happens outside of head. Since nearly all healing of the mind requires such a connection, we can't heal Harry. He's dying and there's nothing we can do. Soon his magic will run out, and he will die. His magical core wasn't even measured, we've no idea how large it is and so we don't even know when he's likely to die," the potions master said. Only Hermione and Remus noticed Snape use Harry's given name.

"He could die tomorrow, a week from now, a month, years for Merlin's sake!" Minerva said and put her head in her hands. She couldn't believe her lion was beyond help or hope. There was silence.

Molly shuddered and began to sob openly. Tears were streaming down Hermione and Ginny's faces silently and the rest of the table sat stony-eyed at the news. Within an unknown time, Harry Potter, saviour of the Wizarding world, would be no more and then; they would be at the mercy of Lord Voldemort—whenever he reappeared.