Sherlock paced the living room floor. His bare feet were chilled on the floor and his mind whirled. He knew he should go back to sleep but he knew that was out of the question for quite some time now. Back and forth, back and forth…John didn't have to storm out of here like a child, he should have stayed. Why does he have to be so immature, so irrational, so emotional….

Sherlock knew that he must have upset John; that was why he had run out of the house, why he had called him names. He hadn't meant to upset John, really he hadn't. He never intentionally tried to upset John. It did seem that he made John upset a lot these days but he wasn't doing it on purpose. John was just so …..emotional.

He didn't know what to make of what John had said; that he had been so bothered by Sherlock's leaving that he stopped eating, caring for himself and had taken up drinking. Why did he care so much? He had noticed in the past that John seemed to care an awful lot about things that he shouldn't; things that other people did and said to him bothered John deeply and he couldn't figure out why. They weren't saying anything about him, so why was he upset? And while he had assumed that John would be affected by his absence he had no idea that John would seem to fall apart at the seams because of it. He really didn't understand it.

He wasn't going to say anything to John about any of it. Obviously, he wasn't going to bring it up. Feelings were so….messy, unpredictable. But John wouldn't leave him alone after he'd found him having a …..nightmare.

Sherlock stopped pacing and plopped down heavily on the couch. He pulled his legs up to his chest and stared at the chair across from him, John's chair. Nightmares, they were ridiculous things. He didn't have nightmares, well, at least he hadn't until a few months ago. When he slept, nothing happened. Dreams were for ordinary people; it helped their slow minds muddle through the events of the day. Since Sherlock's mind was not slow, he didn't need that. Except that it was starting to. Even worse was that in his sleeping state he was starting to not only relive things, but he was starting to relive…..unpleasant events. The events that had occurred after Moriarty were done with now and so he had no idea why he kept dreaming of them. It didn't do any good; in fact it caused him to think about these things during waking hours which was unacceptable. That part of his life was gone now; he was ready to move on. His subconscious, it seemed, was not, and that was extremely frustrating.

He hadn't wanted to snap at John but he just wouldn't leave it alone. He had guessed correctly that he was having a nightmare and had even accused him of calling out his name in his sleep. He'd felt very uncomfortable at that thought; his ears had felt hot and he hadn't wanted to look at John. It was not a pleasant feeling and he wanted to get away from it. Which, he would have been able to do had John simply dropped the subject. But he hadn't; he kept pressing the issue and that uncomfortable feeling had increased until he started talking and once he had stopped talking John was looking at him in that horrible way. It wasn't a look that Sherlock had ever seen on John's face.

As Sherlock thought about this, he heard a small buzzing sound on the table and found John's phone. John had left it behind in his haste and now someone was calling him. Strange, most people didn't call others at 4 am, usually only if it was an….

Sherlock picked up the phone and answered it right before it stopped ringing. " Hello?"

"Hello, is this John Watson's residence?" asked a quiet female voice on the other end of the line. Receptionist, single, early twenties….Sherlock forced himself away from his deductions to answer " Yes, this is his phone. He left it at his flat. Who is this?"

Only Sherlock didn't have to ask who it was. The woman's voice and the background noise on the other end of the line, the late call, was enough to tell Sherlock all he needed to know. " I'm looking for an emergency contact for Mr. Watson. He doesn't seem to have one listed in our records but this is his only phone number listed. Who am I speaking to?"

"Emergency?" Sherlock felt funny. Suddenly it was hard to get enough air. " What emergency?"

"Sir, who am I speaking to? I can't just give out personal information to anyone"

"I'm Sherlock his f-…..his brother" Sherlock felt it was hard to think correctly at this moment but he had enough foresight to know that the hospital wasn't going to tell him anything if they knew he was just his friend. "Please, tell me what's happened. Is John okay?"

"Sir, if you are his brother why does he not have you listed on his information?"

Sherlock pulled at his hair with his free hand. This woman was infuriating; couldn't she see the severity of this? " I was missing for several years and he thought I was dead. I've only recently come back into his life." He knew that it sounded made up but his mind was not working at its full mental capacity right now. He couldn't think of anything more likely. " Please, ma'am I'm….the only family he's got."

He heard a long pause on the other end of the phone but what he said must have worked for the woman said, " Mr. Watson has been in an accident. He's in critical condition."

That feeling of difficult breathing was getting worse. It felt as if a car was on top of his chest. " What…..What happened?" he managed to croak out through the quick breathes.

" He was hit by a cab" the woman said, " the cab driver said he seemed distracted and walked out into the street just in front of him. He didn't have time to stop."

"I'll…..I'll, be there….very soon. Do tell him please" Sherlock said.

"Sir, he's not awake. He's in surgery right now. But it would be good for you to be here when he wakes. He….."

But Sherlock didn't hear anymore….all he heard was the sound of the blood in his own ears and the sound of the phone as it hit the floor.

…

The cab ride was taking infuriatingly long. Sherlock felt the need to be up and moving and the back seat of the cab was entirely too constricting. He drummed his fingers on his knees, he shifted his legs, but he simply couldn't get comfortable. His body desired to be moving; even his heart seemed to be not moving fast enough. Sherlock prodded the cabbie to go faster but after receiving a very rude reply, he simply sat back and tried to manage through the long ride.

John was injured, very badly injured. He had been hit by a car and was now in surgery. Those were the facts, and that was all that he knew right now. It was not nearly enough information to satisfy him.

The drive was much too long….too much time to sit and think about things that he didn't know to be fact. What was worse he kept getting this nagging thought that wouldn't leave; the thought that John shouldn't have even been in the street, shouldn't have been taking a walk that late at night, he should have been asleep in his bed safely only he wasn't because…..

Because of Sherlock.

Because he had awoken him.

Because they had an argument and Sherlock had insulted him.

If he hadn't insulted John he wouldn't have run out of the flat the way that he had. And if he hadn't run out of the flat upset like he had, he wouldn't have been in the street. He wouldn't have been hit by the car. He wouldn't be in the hospital now.

Sherlock's stomach twisted and churned. He felt either the strong urge for the toilet or to be sick, he wasn't sure which. His palms were sweating and his heart beat against his chest with strong force. John wouldn't be hurt now if they hadn't argued. It was….his fault that John was hurt. That he might be…..

No. Sherlock refused to let his mind go down that route. He didn't have the facts and until he did he couldn't make such strong judgments. John was alive; until he had proof otherwise. To think otherwise was….too much.

After what seemed like an eternity the cab pulled up next to the hospital. Sherlock quickly paid the cabbie and rushed into the hospital doors. Once he got inside his body did all sorts of other odd things. The strange feeling in is stomach increased and his sweaty palms turned into sweaty everything; his coat suddenly felt suffocating. His legs felt kind of shaky, like he couldn't stand properly. What was happening to him? He couldn't deal with all this right now; John needed him.

A woman at the front desk took notice of his distracted state and said, " Sir, can I help you?"

Sherlock turned around and looked at the woman. He walked to the desk on his shaky legs and said, " Um, yes….I'm looking for John Watson. They called me earlier and said he was in an accident and that he was in surgery."

"And you are?"

"Sherlock, his brother" When Sherlock had told the woman on the phone, he had been making a conscious effort to lie. This time it just slipped out easily.

The woman tapped on her key board for a few moments and then looked up at Sherlock. " He's in intensive care. They've just brought him out of surgery" She gave Sherlock his room number and directions on how to get there. Sherlock's legs couldn't carry him fast enough through the maze of the hospital.

Normally Sherlock detested the atmosphere of hospitals. They were hard to maneuver around, they full of contagious sick people, everyone was depressed, full of feelings. They were dull places. But now he didn't even notice these things. strangely, he hardly noticed anything except his need to get to John's room.

When he reached the correct door he burst in without a thought to what he would find. If he had known, he might have waited a moment before coming in. He wasn't prepared for the sight of John. His flat mate was hardly recognizable. He lay in the bed, surrounded by all manner of machines, tubes going into his arms, his mouth. The machines were breathing for him, he realized in horror. He couldn't even breathe for himself. His leg was elevated and in a cast, as well as one of his arms. But what appeared to be the worst was his head. However John had been hit, it had obviously been mostly on the right side of his face. It was covered in ghastly bruises, a mess of purple and blue. All of his hair had been shaved off and a scar ran up the side of his head.

In the next few hours several doctors talked to him. What they had had to say was not good and though he could tell from his deductions that they knew what they were talking about, he didn't want to believe them. John had had surgery on his brain of all things. His head had taken most of the impact of the hit and hit had caused a fractured skull and bleeding on the brain. They had done all they could (so they said) but John was in a coma. They didn't know if he would wake up, and if he did, they couldn't say what state his mind would be in.

It was all so much information, so much dark information. And so many different people kept coming in and out and they wouldn't leave him alone. Every time he tried to lean in to get a closer look at John, some nurse would come in to check something and shoo him away. After about two hours of these charades, Sherlock couldn't take it anymore.

"Cant you do this later!?" he snapped at a young nurse when she came in to check John's vitals. " You've been in here bloody 6 times!"

The woman was visibly taken aback. Sherlock observed she was young, 23 at most, likely just out of nursing school. She had a soft personality and was offended easily. Her face fell quickly, " Sorry sir, but he must have his vitals checked often. It's imperative that they are checked often to monitor his condition." But Sherlock noticed that she checked much quicker this time and when she left she closed the door behind her, muttering a "Sorry"

When she closed the door, Sherlock rushed over to John. It didn't even look like John. Sure he would always be able to tell no matter what John looked like, but to the casual observer they wouldn't be able to tell it was John anymore. His face was so bruised and swollen. The scar on his head seemed very large and Sherlock wondered how competent his surgeon had been. After all, they said that John might not wake up.

With no warning, Sherlock's legs buckled out from under him and crashed to floor heavily on his backside. He could try to get up again, and probably should. But he didn't, he just sat there. His body, which had seemed stifling hot before, now shivered and he pulled his coat closer around him. He pulled his collar up around his face; perhaps he could get lost in his coat and forget where he was. His stomach hurt like it never had before but it wasn't like he needed to the restroom; it was more like just a searing, burning, awful pain that nothing could fix. As he sat on the floor he pulled his legs up and rested his face on his knees.

Now he had the facts and he didn't want them. John was hurt, seriously. John was in a coma. He might not wake up; if he did wake up he might not even be the same. There was a good chance that he could die. He was here because he had been stupidly running around throughout the night. He had been stupidly running around because he was mad at Sherlock. It was Sherlock's fault he was here.

And with that the wave of facts crashed down on Sherlock. When they hit his mind fully, he could feel his eyes prickle and could feel his lip quiver in response. He bit down on it to keep it still; he was not going to do this. He bit his lip until it hurt and clenched his eyes shut. He was in control and he was not going to choose to cry. He was in control, he was in control…..

Only he wasn't in control. There were no facts that would help John. He could perform no experiment or test to help him. He couldn't study the facts and come up with a solution that would heal John. He could do….nothing. Nothing. Nothing he could do would be able to help John. He was…..helpless.

Sherlock's breath came out quickly and he realized that he had been holding it as he bit his lip. When he let go his lip quivered again and he didn't try to stop it. The burning in his eyes became unbearable and despite clenching his eyes shut, moisture finally managed to make its way out.