Credit goes to VickyWinchester for the prompt.

*Have you done it? -SH*

*I'm waiting for your cup.*

Sherlock tapped his foot impatiently and glared at the time on the phone.

*It's been a good twenty minutes. Hurry up. -SH*

*It's a busy day. The café is packed.*

*On my way back. Sorry that took so long.*

Sherlock laid his phone down on the arm of the chair with a sigh. It really shouldn't have taken John that long to order two cups of coffee, and the lack of caffeine was starting to irk him. Nevertheless, he steepled his hands and closed his eyes in an attempt to exercise some patience. But God it was hard.

It was not long before his concentration was interrupted by the grating sound of screeching tires and screams. He rolled his eyes. Someone struck a pedestrian. Dull.

Before he could resume his meditation, Mrs. Hudson ran through the door, tears streaming down her cheeks. Sherlock was immediately alert.

"Oh Sherlock," the landlady sobbed, "John..."

Sherlock needed no more. He bolted down the stairs and out into the street, his eyes darting every which way. A crowd was huddled around a body on the street, obviously waiting for an ambulance. As Sherlock approached the group, he saw something that made his stomach drop: A spilt takeout cup of coffee with his name on it.

"John," he said, the name barely a whisper on his lips. "Move, move! He's my friend!"

He elbowed his way through the crowd, ignoring the startled grunts from the people he was pushing past; he was too caught up in irrationally hoping that John wasn't the one lying there. But he knew it didn't matter how hard he wished, for it didn't change the fact that a bloodied John Watson lay mangled on the ground, coffee and blood seeping through his lovely, white jumper.

Sherlock kneeled next to his companion, frantically rolling him onto his back and placing two fingers on his neck. He felt how slow and strained John's pulse was.

"Oh John..."

John cracked his eyes open and looked at Sherlock with a pained expression.

"Sherl..."

"Quiet, John. It's alright," Sherlock said, grabbing his hand. "The ambulance will arrive shortly."

John nodded and winced, gritting his teeth in pain.

"Hold still, John." Sherlock said, trying to hide his panic.

He scanned John's body, trying to catalogue his injuries. This was a fruitless task, as Sherlock could hardly concentrate, what with the worried thoughts rushing about in his head faster than light itself. All he could deduce were broken ribs, and that was entirely due to John's struggle to breathe properly.

"Hang on, John," Sherlock commanded. "Just hang on."

"I can't... breathe..."

Sherlock stroked John's hair out of his face.

"Hold on, John. You'll be alright." He looked up and saw the EMTs rushing over to where he and John were positioned. "See John? It's going to be alright. Help is here." He looked back at John.

His eyes were closed.

"John?" Sherlock felt for a pulse, relieved when he felt a weak beat beneath his fingertips.

"Sir, please step aside."

Sherlock looked at the woman staring at him, a frown on her face.

"We need room, sir."

Sherlock nodded and removed his fingers from John's neck, but he dared not let go of his hand. As John was wheeled over to the ambulance, Sherlock trailed along, keeping a firm grip on the doctor's hand.

He promised to stay hooked onto his friend. His life depended on it.

Sherlock burst into Lestrade's office.

"WHERE IS HE?!" he bellowed.

Lestrade gave him a confused sort of look.

"Excuse me?"

"You aren't fooling me with your cluelessness. You know very well to whom I am referring."

Lestrade sighed.

"We've got him in custody, Sherlock."

"Great. Wonderful. Brilliant. Let's celebrate with cake, why don't we?" Sherlock slammed his fist on the table. "My question wasn't, 'Has he been arrested?'. My question was, 'Where is he?'. Now answer my question."

"If I tell you, what are you going to do?"

Sherlock went silent.

"Look, Sherlock, I'm just as pissed at the guy as you are. John is my friend too. But what happened was an accident. And I don't think an accident warrants the murder of the drunk who caused it."

"What makes you think I'd kill this man?"

Lestrade narrowed his eyes.

"You nearly killed that American after he barely touched Mrs. H. And I already know what you'd do for John."

Sherlock scratched the back of his head out of frustration.

"I simply wanted to deliver a message to him."

The DI raised an eyebrow.

"And what might that message be, exactly?"

"Just tell him that the next time he consumes a bottle of alcohol, he had better watch his useless head if he dares to place himself behind the wheel of an automobile."

Lestrade nodded with a sigh.

"I'll be sure to tell him that."

"Wonderful. And make sure you reiterate to him how serious I am." He straightened his shirt. "Now if you'll excuse me, there is an injured man who is in need of my company."

Before Sherlock stepped out the door, Lestrade had a firm grasp on his arm.

"How is John, Sherlock?"

Sherlock's tense frame softened.

"They are not sure when and if he's going to wake up."

"Jesus. Do you need me to come with you?"

"No. I want to be alone with him."

Lestrade nodded.

"Okay, mate. I mean, if you're sure."

Sherlock nodded.

"Of course I'm sure."

Sherlock was caught by a nurse as soon as he walked into the hospital lobby.

"Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock's face drained of all color.

"What happened?"

The nurse smiled.

"Nothing bad. He just woke up, is all. He's been asking for you."

Sherlock immediately began running down the hall, the blood pounding in his head. He slid into the doorway of John's room, and he felt just about weightless when he saw John quite awake.

The nurse walked in behind him.

"We were just as shocked as you are, Mr. Holmes. We weren't expecting him to wake for a long while. But I suppose Dr. Watson here is quite a resilient man."

Sherlock smiled.

"Indeed."

John smiled weakly at him.

"Well." the nurse said quite jovially, "I suppose I ought to leave you two to chat. You gave your friend here quite a scare, Dr. Watson."

She then walked out of the room to leave the two men alone.

"A scare?" John said with a bit of a smirk.

Sherlock cleared his throat.

"Yes, well... one could say I was... concerned."

"I hope you didn't do anything rash."

"I left the man who hit you a message."

John frowned.

"And what might that message be?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"If you're asking if I harmed the man in any way, no. Lestrade refused me to disclose the bastard's location."

John sighed.

"It was a simple case of drunk driving."

"He nearly killed you, John."

John shrugged, suppressing a wince.

"Yeah, well; accidents happen."

"But they aren't supposed to happen to you."

"C'mere," John said, motioning the detective over.

Sherlock strode over to John's bedside.

"Sit down, Sherlock."

Sherlock hesitantly pulled over a chair and sat down in it. John reached out and took Sherlock's hand in his own, despite the pain from his fractured wrist.

"Look at me," John said.

Sherlock stared into John's eyes, making his distress quite clear to the doctor.

"I'm alright. Okay? Yeah, I'm on some pretty heavy painkillers, but for the most part, I'm fine."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Have you looked in the mirror lately? You look an awful wreck, what with the multitude of bandages covering various locations on your body. And not to mention the casts on your wrist and leg."

John smiled.

"Hey; it could have been a lot worse."

Sherlock frowned.

"You were unconscious for a good twenty four hours."

"Yeah. Like I said: Could've been a lot worse."

"You could hardly breathe yesterday."

"I was trying not to disturb my cracked ribs."

"From the looks of you, you seemed to be suffering from a multitude of broken ones."

"Nope. Only one broken. Did I really look that bad?"

"Yes. You really, really did."

"Oh. Well... that's a bit not good." He scratched his nose. "Sorry about the coffee, by the way."

"What?" Sherlock said, furrowing his brow. "You've only recently been hit by a bloody car, barely escaping with your life, and you're worried about coffee?"

"I know how badly you wanted it..."

"Can't you just think of yourself for once, John?" Sherlock said, almost bellowing.

John's lips tightened and he looked down at the sheets.

"I mean... I don't know."

"John..." Sherlock sighed, "I'm sorry."

"No, it's alright. It's fine. I just- ooh, Jesus, okay..." John put a hand to his ribcage.

"John? Are you alright?"

John nodded quickly and pressed the call button. Almost instantly, the nurse was in, helping John to some morphine.

"There you go, Dr. Watson," she said once she had finished.

John smiled.

"Thanks, Anna. I think I'm going to grab a nap. I'm feeling exhausted."

Anna nodded.

"Do you want me to send your friend out?"

"I will stay right here. No one shall move me," Sherlock said with the defiance of a child.

John rolled his eyes.

"He gets like that sometimes. He'll

be fine in here."

Anna shrugged and went out the door, closing it behind her.

"Sorry I'm nodding off on you," John said.

"You need your rest, John. I have no objection to your decision."

John smiled and shut his eyes.

"Are you really going to stay here?"

"Of course, John. Once you reawaken, perhaps I'll run out for some coffee."

John chuckled.

"Sure. After all, I hardly even got to drink mine yesterday."