"Sherlock?" John took his best friend's hand in his own, "Sherlock we're losing you."

No, not this again. He couldn't do this again. He couldn't watch the only person who ever meant something to him die again.

"Please- God-" He choked out, looking down. Deep breaths, it's all fine. "God, don't let him die."

John watched the paramedic rush around in the back of the ambulance, checking Sherlock's pulse again, and again, and again. John already checked it; it was weak. It shouldn't be weak because Sherlock wasn't weak. Sherlock was strong and by God he was going to be okay, John knew it. He knew it.

He knew it yet he was swallowing around the rock in his throat. The tears behind his eyelids burned and he just wanted to let them fall but no, he couldn't. Because what would Sherlock say about him crying? He'd most probably laugh. Make a joke, lay back on the sofa and chuckle. Typical Sherlock.

John smiled weakly to himself, imagining Sherlock laying in a hospital bed and complaining of boredom. John sitting beside him, persuading him to just lie down and shut up. Sherlock sighing and rolling his eyes like a toddler.

Then they would go back to Baker Street and John would care for him, making sure he keeps hydrated and eats (because Mrs. Hudson wouldn't be able to cope with Sherlock's stroppy attitude when someone is caring for his wellbeing). Sherlock would complain and throw a tantrum, especially when John would say no to any experiments so soon after returning from hospital and Sherlock would play the violin terribly just to annoy John.

John would smile at him and keep on reading the newspaper.

And once Sherlock had recovered, John would visit regularly just to make sure Sherlock's still remembering to eat and drink. They'd spend afternoons together, watching crap telly, drinking tea and recollecting their funniest and weirdest cases together.

Sherlock would mention the time he got shot and almost died. He would say he 'planned it' and 'knew exactly what he was doing'

John would snort and shake his head.

Because that's how it always has been and how it always will be. They risk their lives and make each other's lives hell. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson; Dynamic Duo.

John rubbed his neck as he sat in the waiting room. They had arrived at the hospital ten minutes ago and staff had been rushing around, asking John for details about Sherlock, asking if John was family, asking if Sherlock actually had any family. They were asking too many questions. John didn't want to talk, he wanted to sit in an uncomfortable chair, staring down at his hands and imagining life with Sherlock outside of this hospital.

He sighed and leaned forward, now staring at the floor. His hand found his mobile in his pocket which he'd tried calling Mary on a couple of times, but she hadn't answered. Mycroft didn't need to be called; he'd turn up eventually. Maybe John should call Greg and Molly? No. No he didn't need to because they would only fuss and worry, same as Mrs. Hudson. They would panic and there's no need to panic because everything is fine.

Another hour and seventeen minutes of waiting and John was about ready to march to the front desk and demand to know what was going on. A flush of anger rippled through him, these damn hospitals. He was a doctor, so that gave him the right to judge the way a hospital is run.

"John?" Greg's out of breath voice echoed in the empty waiting room. John looked up to see him running a hand through his hair, breathing heavily. He obviously rushed here. Poor bloke, he didn't need to.

"Been here an hour already." John shrugged, looking down. "They haven't said a word."

Greg nodded, sitting down beside John but not fully on the seat. There was a tense silence, evidently neither of them knew what to say exactly. There was nothing to say because John knew that it was all fine. Greg knew it was all fine. They didn't need to worry themselves with mindless chatter.

Christ, I'm starting to sound like Sherlock.

"What happened?" Greg asked. It was an inevitable question, really.

"I don't know." John answered, his voice quiet. Because he didn't know. How on earth could he know? "I- we-" A deep sigh. "Magnussen. We broke into his office - Sherlock's idea - and looked around, then Sherlock ran off. Next thing I know, he's laying on his back, bullet in the chest."

"So, Charles Magnussen did this?" Greg made a move to grab his mobile when John spoke up again.

"No- well, yes. But no. I don't know if he did." John rubbed a hand over his face, "I don't know and I hate not knowing."

'I hate not knowing.' Sherlock's voice rang in his ears. He paused to appreciate the sound of that voice. I might not hear it again.

No. Shut up.

John's heart was beating rapidly at the thought of losing his best friend again. He shouldn't be sitting down, he should be standing. He stood up and paced.

No, that didn't feel right either, he should be in that room with Sherlock, making sure those doctors are doing their damn best. John would happily knock a prick out for slacking.

"John." An hand was softly placed on John's arm. He looked down to see Greg staring up at him. "Sit down, I'll get us some tea, yeah?"

John looked down and nodded, "yeah. Yeah tea sounds great. Thanks." He sat back down in that damn chair.

Greg had disappeared down the corridor and John had stood back up, pacing once more. Something wasn't right, it had been too long. Too, too long. Too much time has been wasted because of those pathetic excuse for doctors taking their fucking time.

What if it's too late? What if John never gets to say goodbye to his best mate because some dickhead handed over the wrong scalpel? What if Sherlock dies? Because this time isn't like last time. Sherlock never planned this.

John remembers his pale face in the ambulance. How once he'd grabbed Sherlock's hand, those glazed blue eyes stared at him. There was so much pain in those eyes. What scared John the most was that he didn't know whether it was physical or emotional pain. There was just so much of it.

A hand on his shoulder caused John to flinch. He looked up to see a nurse, looking a bit startled. John stood up, "sorry, sorry. How is he?"

The nurse's expression changed.

No.

"I am very sorry." She began, "but Sherlock Holmes didn't make it."

John forgot how to breathe. He forgot how to think.

"No." He didn't know he was talking, didn't know how to form any other word. Denial, that was all he could do. Deny. Because they were wrong. All of them, Sherlock isn't dead. Sherlock can't die.

Sherlock can't die. He cannot die.

"I'm very sorry for your loss." The nurse placed a hand on his shoulder again and he let her.

His legs felt weak, his body felt too hot. He was cold but his body was too hot. An explosion of something spread through him; into his arms, legs, his head. Cold, hard shock. His hands shook and suddenly Greg was beside him, trying to sit him down.

No. John pushed Greg away. "No, this is a mistake. Sherlock's done this before, he's faked his death. He's not dead, it's just a trick."

Just a magic trick.

"John, you need to calm down." Greg said quietly. John could hear despair in his voice, he recognised it because that's exactly what was in his voice.

Despair didn't seem to cover it though. It was like a dagger was twisting into him, catching him off guard. There was nothing he could do, nothing he could say and that was terrifying.

I'll never see him again.

Those piercing eyes, that mop of untamed hair, the scent of Sherlock Holmes. John will never see that again.

The rock in his throat was back. The soaring burn around his eyes. His hands still shook as he gripped on to Greg's jacket. This was it.

Greg wrapped an arm around him and that was enough to break him. The cry ripped through him, smashing every piece of dignity in it's path. His vice grip on Greg's jacket never faltered as he cried, feeling everything collapse around him. The world had ended in John's eyes. The battle was finished and he had lost.

He'll never see those eyes. Never seen that smile, never hear that laugh. There was nothing.

A fist had wrapped around his heart and was squeezing, so much that he couldn't breathe.

"It's alright." Greg patted his back.

No. It's not alright. John felt himself being lowered down into a chair and he didn't fight back; there was no strength left in him. There was nothing.

Mary was there, holding his hands, whispering soothing nothings to him. Her voice was distant. He didn't need anyone. He needed Sherlock; he needed that sodding idiot to wrap his arms around John and say something really fucking smart but John would think it was really fucking stupid because Sherlock was so fucking stupid sometimes.

He really fucking needed that smile. That smile that always warmed John up. That smile that always made John chuckle and snort and make stupid noises.

"It's alright." Mary whispered, kissing his hands. "We'll be alright."

A/N: I've been really inactive recently and I apologize profusely. Have this sad fanfiction as a token of apology ;-;