Slowly suffocating between the white-washed walls, my breath was shallow, and I trembled, my hands shaking, and I did nothing to stop them.

This fear that had overtaken me was never-ending, and I could feel it coursing through my veins. I was so numb, and yet I was buzzing, wanting, needing to move, to run.

To find you.

Because it was not really I who was numb – it was you, you, wrapped in crimson sheets that were meant to be the purest white and the freshest clean, not soaked and stained with sorrow.

Will I ever even see you again? I didn't know.

Today had been a plan. My plan. It had just been a tiny prayer to father time, because that's all plans really are, and my plan was for you. For us. To be together, to be happy, to just be.

But my plan was rejected, and my prayer ignored, thrown to the ground with cruel force and no mercy.

My plan was simply to have a perfect day, and that was all. I did not intend a disaster – and this terrible disaster that had struck without warning had happened so suddenly that the images will never wash from my mind. They are burned there, and I hate them.

You. Into the street, crossing, to me. I was so mesmerized by the happy smile as you came to me that I didn't even notice the bus before it was far too late.

And neither did you.

And now here I was, sitting with shaking hands, and where were you?

If this calamity took you away, which the spreading crimson on your bed sheets threatened to do, then I could never be myself, really. Never again.

So now, here, it's just me, crumbling on the inside, for you. Head down, eyes open, mind racing. Counting the stitches on my shoes, the threads and leather bringing it all together, and it makes sense to me, how these shoes go together, and what came to be for these materials, and how the shoes are now here, with me – and I embrace them, because I understand why they are here. I embrace them, because I don't understand why I am here. This can't really be happening. Please, no.

But the stench of stale urine and 409 burns my nostrils, and it's just all too real.

My breath is so quick and so frantic, and I close my mouth and cover my lips with my shaking hands. Why do I do this? You're losing oxygen, so quickly, and I am using more than my share. I've already taken far too much today.

So I try to breathe slower, as if that will aid you, as if my lungs were yours.

If I could replace you, I would have already done it a thousand times over. It should be me on the operating table. It should be me.

Why did it have to be you?

And I'm so afraid for you, because I need you – and I'm so afraid for me, because what will I become if you just leave me? Who will I be?

While I sit here, in this ICU, somewhere else, doctors are frantic, rushing around you, and they are trying. Trying to save you.

But each descending peak on the LCD takes you a little farther away from me, and you are fading.

And I can barely take it, because for now, all I can do is sit, surrounded by vending machines that haven't needed to be refilled in so long, and year-old magazines that I can't even stand to look at.

Because I am sitting in a place where people only say goodbye, and I don't think I could say that to you without breaking down. So I beg, silently, for you to hang on.

What if you were to leave? No, you can't. All I would have left of you is the memories in my own mind, the mental snapshots I've taken of you, and I feel like I've got your face all wrong, and my camera is faulty. I need to see you again. Need to renew. You can't leave me.

But I knew, even if the worst came upon us, that you were a truth that I would rather lose than to have never known at all. Because you mean so much more to me than I had ever thought possible.

Here, in this room, I'm not alone, no – I feel alone, of course, I feel so terribly alone – but I am surrounded, surrounded by other downcast faces, other trembling hands, other eyes glued to the dirty carpet. Other people who ignore the vending machines and magazines, just like I.

I am surrounded, and very alone, and the vending machines grumble, and the TV, receiving attention from no one, entertains itself.

Because there's no comfort in the waiting room – just nervous pacers bracing for bad news.

I think of you, and I think of me, and I think of the other people who would grieve if you were to abandon this world.

I think of Sarah.

She doesn't even know you're here. And she's in this very building, on a different floor, doing her job.

And I think of something she had told me, a few weeks earlier. "Why me?" I had asked.

"Because I thought you could appreciate it," she had replied with a wry smile.

I thought of that now, and I realized it was horribly, terribly, heart-wrenchingly true.

And then I heard the soft padding of feet, and it was the nurse, and she stood and watched while everyone lifted their heads.

And I see her eyes scan the room, looking for that one person she must speak with, and slowly, her gaze falls upon me.

And her eyes are cold and full of fake comfort, and I know she's had to do this many times before.

She's about to call to me, me.

But I already know, and I'm so distracted, because I can already feel the streams down my cheeks, and I'm so distracted, because I'm running, running away, past the nurse, flying past the rooms, and I'm so distracted, because all I can think is words. Five words.

All I can think, as I run, is what Sarah said.

"Love is watching someone die."

And then, I find you, and you're nearly gone. Nearly gone.

The doctors around you watch me solemnly.

Love is watching someone die.

So who's going to watch you die?

I fall to the ground, running my hands over your pale face. I will, John. I will love you.

And the jagged peaks on your LCD grow smaller, and then all at once, they flatten out.

And you're gone.

And I can't hear anything but the whine of the monitor and my own beating heart.

You're gone, but I am here.

I am always, always here.

A/N: It was painful for me to write this. D: Not gonna lie. But I love this song and these characters too much, so it had to be.

I was a little concerned at first, writing from Sherlock's point of view - because everyone knows that's not an easy thing to do - but this idea stuck in my mind and wouldn't leave, so I had to write it up.

If you did like this, please leave a review - I would really appreciate it. :)

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