A/N: Wow, that was quick! This chapter is short, sorry, but it's very important, I promise! It has Johnangst, for all of you out there who likes that, this is for you!

John wasn't in a coma. That's what the doctor had said. Sherlock hadn't really been listening, though, and didn't have the heart to snap back a witty comment about John speaking for himself when he woke up, which hadn't happened yet.

If he woke up.

The doctor had said that there wasn't serious damage. It had been a clean hit, with a considerable amount of blood but not much to fix save for extracting the bullet and patching up the wound. There was a small transfusion needed, but there wasn't anything else.

That is, until they saw the X-rays.

It couldn't be fixed, the doctors had said. John would have to live a new life now that this had happened. He'd need a lot more help, with everything, even dressing. His job would be more complicated now.

Sherlock didn't listen. John's life was ruined. Nothing would be the same. No jumping from building to building. No races across the city to run from officers. No sitting on the stairs and laughing.

He heard a groan and looked up to see John stirring in the hospital bed. Brown eyes fluttered open and he stared at the ceiling. "...Sherlock?"

"I'm right here, John," the detective swallowed the sudden guilt at having to break the news to his friend. "How, uh...how do you feel?"

"My back hurts...and so does my head and neck." He reached up and touched the bandages around his throat in a delicate manner.

"And the rest of you?"

"No, I'm..." the doctor trailed off. "Sherlock..."

"What is it, John?" He was concerned, even though he knew what was wrong, knew all of the details, had them embedded in his brain, even though he tried to delete them.

"Sherlock," John said,"my legs feel...strange." The doctor stared down at his own legs, realizing that he was wrong. "No- no, they...they don't. I can't-" He looked up at his friend. Fear filled the big brown eyes that Sherlock loved so much.

"Sherlock," John murmured,"I can't feel my legs at all."

So Sherlock took John's hand and told him, his gray eyes on the white hospital blankets covering his friend. "When you were shot, the bullet hit your spine. They were able to give you a blood transfusion and patch it up fine, but..."

John stared at him. "Sherlock?" It came out as a whisper. The detective finally looked up in time to see his friend blink back tears. "I'm never going to walk again, aren't I?"

"The- the doctors said that, in time, maybe you could-"

"Sherlock," John interrupted. His eyes begged Sherlock to give him the blatant truth. The detective finally pursed his lips. "No, John. You're paralyzed from the waist down. You'll have to use a wheelchair. You'll never walk again."

John nodded. "Fine. That's fine." He leaned back against the bed. His friend eyed him. "John? Are you alright?"

"Yes."

"Is there anything I can do for you?" Sherlock asked with the utmost sincerity. He squeezed John's hand, not really realizing it once he had done it.

"Go."

He was taken by surprise. "What?"

"Go. Leave. I need to think." Sherlock presumed that that was John's way of saying that he didn't want Sherlock to see him crying, so he nodded and exited the hospital room.

John waited for Sherlock to leave the room to start thinking. The man could basically read his thoughts by how much of his underwear was showing.

John didn't expect Sherlock to return to his hospital room. He didn't expect the detective to come back to the hospital at all, save for new cases.

Because what use was a doctor who was paralyzed from the waist down?

Sherlock didn't need John. Now that John was actually, physically, unchangeably disabled, what use would the world's only consulting detective for him? The doctor was sure that his friend didn't even need him to blog. Sherlock just thought it was boring. He could write a blog that would bring in five times as many viewers than John's dumb old blog. He just had John doing it for him instead.

John was useless now. Condemned to a life in a wheelchair. Never walking again. Why would Sherlock want him now? He wasn't interesting. He was baseless; he couldn't even take a shower without someone's help.

Why would the brilliant Sherlock Holmes ever want to cross paths with an invalid like John Watson?

That thought was what made John Watson start to cry.

A/N: So this was a bit short