Wow...I did NOT mean to let this story go so long without updates. It's been, like, a month. But I've had AP tests to deal with, and then I got sick and then I had to catch up in school, and recently personal things have made writing near impossible (also...Attack on Titan is really addictive and epic).

So I'm sorry about the wait and I'm sorry this chapter is so short but I wanted y'all to know I wasn't giving up on this story :l

I spent hours waiting.

Endless, uncomfortable hours.

Waiting for doctors, for Lestrade, for anyone that could tell me how Sherlock was doing.

During that time, I never called Mary.

I couldn't bear to, even though she deserved to know. She still cared about Sherlock, even if she'd never gotten a chance to spend much time with him.

But I couldn't see her, at least not yet.

When I had everything in order again, I could see her. I could call her. I could have her back. But only when things were in order, when I knew that Sherlock okay, or at least what his condition really was.

It would hurt too much to see her if things turned out poorly, if I couldn't be okay again after all this.

So my phone remained silent, but still glued to my hand. Just in case.

And during that time, I tried to stay positive. I tried to think of the best case scenarios, all the things that could be fixed.

I knew Sherlock wouldn't be healthy right away. The drugs would have taken their toll, along with six months spent homeless.

But infections could be dealt with. Weight could be gained back. Malnourishment could be treated. Detoxes could be imposed. Mental states could improve with some help.

It could still turn out okay.

Some time in the hospital would surely be on the agenda, building back up what was probably a thin, weak body.

Then rehab. It would probably be hell, but it would have to happen. I had no doubt it would be hell, actually. He would resist, and he would be angry. He wouldn't want to get better.

But I knew I could help him, convince him I still cared. He wasn't that selfish, he wasn't the sociopath people made him out to be. He would understand what these six months had done to me.

And he would get better.

He would get better because he had to. He just had to.

He would recover and he would be stronger because of it.

Once the drugs were flushed out of his system, once he had proper medication to help him cope, he would be okay.

He could move back to Baker Street. He could take cases again. He could go back to being the great Sherlock Holmes.

And I could be there for him again.

I would never let him go. I'd already lost him twice. I couldn't go through it again.

I wouldn't lose him a third time.

I would do whatever it takes to help him, to save him.

I tried to think positively.

The key word being tried.

Because I couldn't help but think about everything that could go wrong, every issue, every stumbling block in my idyllic visions.

It was one of those times when I wished I could be ignorant, stupid and blind to the horrible reality of this situation.

But I was a doctor, after all. I was trained to expect the worst, then work backwards.

I didn't want to think about all the bad things, so naturally, they were the only things I could think about.

Medical terms floated through my mind. I knew they were all possibilities.

Vitamin deficiencies. Broken bones. Pneumonia. Sepsis. Kidney disfunction. Liver failure. Heart damage. Cracked skulls and concussions. Hemorrhages. Brain damage. Collapsed lungs. Staph infections. Necrosis. Blood borne viruses. HIV. Hepatitis. STIs.

Anything.

He could die in the hospital. Quite easily, actually.

He could be broken forever with irreparable damage and incurable diseases.

I didn't even know why he'd been brought in. He could've been stabbed in a drug deal gone wrong and bled out on the streets or had his skull based in. There could be trauma the doctors could fix.

He could die here and never make it to rehab. He might never be okay.

And even if he survived this, he might just end up hospitalized permanently in a psych ward instead. Straight jackets and padded rooms and dead eyes.

Depression so deep it left him a vegetable. Possible psychosis. Post-acute withdrawal syndrome. Flashbacks and delusions and hallucinations.

No. No, I can't think about it. Not now.

I can't take this anymore.

He could been gone already.

I don't know

And I might never get him back.

I might never get the chance to see him again, to tell him how much he really means to me.

I need him.

And he might be gone.

I run shaking hands through my hair, taking fistfuls of short strands and pulling slightly.

I can't deal with this anymore, this not knowing is killing me.

I need to know.

I need to know if things are going to be alright.

I can't keep torturing myself with my own imagination. Thinking he's fine and thinking he's dead or dying. Both are torturous.

But I need to know how he is.

Again, sorry it's so short :(

Also, in addition to personal drama, Attack on Titan has basically ruined all chances of productivity because awesomeness plus subtitles (which makes it impossible to multitask because I actually have to stare at the screen and read everything because Japanese...) equals nothing ever gets done.

But I hope to be back around a whole lot sooner with a reunion of sorts!