Hello reader! Sorry I haven't updated in ages! Apparently CPR doesn't work on your muse.

TIME FOR ANOTHER BIG DECISION MADE BY YOU!

So I have decided that I may possibly write a sequel to this fic. And here the choices are:

If you choose a sequel, Jim will not die (in this story anyway), but there will be an established Sherlock/John relationship. (As you have already voted, and will be 'established' in this chapter.)

If you do not choose a sequel, I will write one or two more chapters, and Jim will die in the finale.

So there are your choices. In my opinion, I would love to write a sequel, I would like to develop this story a little more.

Please send me your decision in either a review or a PM! If you vote for a sequel, I'll put a 'complete' to this story and start writing the sequel, if not I'll write one more chapter, maybe two.

SEQUEL, PLEASE!

And I know there injuries might not fit when they've been in a massive car crash, but I love them too much to hurt them badly!

*Minor SLASH* If you no like, you no read!

Enjoy and review!

A blinding white light pierced his mind.

John Watson opened his eyes.

He stood – as far as he could tell – in an empty park. The grass beneath him was flat and expansive. The sweltering sun weighed down upon the world, the crisp smell of cut grass filling the heavy air.

It had an air of familiarity that he could not place his finger on.

Slowly, he placed one foot in front of the other, any trace of the former pain departed from his world weary body.

Casting a glance around the park, realisation hit him in the chest. He stood in the park of his childhood, his retreat as a child, the meeting place of the children in his childhood village.

Slowly, he picked up his pace until he was passing around the park at a steady walk, hands trailing over the familiar, rusty metal of the swings, slide and climbing frame, all the while a beam spread from ear to ear as he laughed with childish abandonment.

Eventually, he came to ancient oak tree that had shadowed the park since the beginning of time, and he lovingly traced the carvings that centuries of vandalising children had left, John included. His mind filled with happy, care-free memories of the past.

The sun beat down upon his back, and he crept closer to the tree, basking in the cool shade of the branches. Yawning, John knelt down on the lush grass, back resting against the gnarled trunk.

Slowly, ever so slowly, his eyes shut, and the light faded once more, the last of the golden glow filtering through his eyelashes as he surrendered to eternal sleep.

Hospitals are boring. Sherlock lay musing in the white, bland, boring hospital, tucked up in the white, bland, boring sheets, lying on the white, bland, boring bed, looking down at the white, bland, boring floor.

Bored.

It was a shame he couldn't bring his gun to hospital, it would cause quite a stir.

Sherlock let his mind wander. He would call the results of his musings interesting; John preferred 'dangerous.'

John.

He looked over at the sleeping figure of John – or as Sherlock referred to him, 'Sleeping Beauty'. He had not returned to consciousness since the crash, a worrying three days ago. His tanned, crinkled face looked more serene and peaceful than Sherlock had ever seen, usually his face remained permanently contorted in sleeping, his restless mind haunted by nightmares from the war.

Not that Sherlock ever watched John sleep.

Ever.

Sherlock allowed a momentary smug grin to spread across his face, celebrating the small prize gained of him and John sharing a room. It had taken a hell of a long time to persuade Mycroft, and even longer for the nurses and doctors.

Whilst musing dangerously, Sherlock had come to the realization that he did in fact have feelings towards John. The alien word felt strange on his tongue. Of course he hadn't figured out exactly what kind of feelings they were yet, just that they felt damn good. Being a sociopath, he had the emotional range of tea spoon, and had been quite happy that way, thank you very much. Of course there had been the occasional feelings of disdain towards particularly nasty criminals, the ever present mingled feeling of hatred and disdain towards Mycroft, and the utter feeling of loathing towards Moriarty, which sent a shiver up his spine and made his blood boil simultaneously.

But then there was the question of John.

Feelings, Sherlock found, were like the most obscure, cryptic puzzle -impossible to analyse or pull apart.

But Sherlock loved solving puzzles.

When he had seen Moriarty pointing a gun at John, he'd felt an instinctive need to protect John, to knock the gun out of Moriarty's hands, and to hold John and never let him go.

Sherlock had always been selfish as a child.

Next, his stomach had churned and tightened with worry and fear as Moriarty tightened his hold on the gun. What if he had been too late? What if John had died? His mind spun with the vast possibilities, and the nausea sickened him.

Then there had been hazy relief as he vaguely recalled John's seemingly lifeless body out of the wreck of a car, scratched, bleeding and broken, but alive nevertheless. All thoughts of his own wounds had evaporated from his mind as he had slipped into unconsciousness, the cool wave of relief surging through him.

So what emotion did this create when you put them together?

Images flashed through Sherlock's mind, pictures of entwined hands, couples walking down the streets of London, brief snatches of passionate kisses down unlit allies glimpsed whilst running down the dark streets of London.

Love?

Sherlock scoffed at the thought, but it was entirely plausible.

He could possibly be in love with John.

Looking over at the sleeping beauty, Sherlock unconsciously changed the 'possibly' to a 'definitely'.

The mere thought was exhilaratingly terrifying.

'When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth'. His father's immortal words entered his mind.

"Love." He spoke aloud, letting the word roll off his tongue. "I love John. I love John Watson. I am in love with John Hamish Watson."
A startled cough came from John's bed. Sherlock twisted around, startled.

John was staring across at him with wide eyes – and dare he say it – filled with a hint of hope and happiness.

John awoke from his golden dream, but was disappointed, as all around him was a bland, dull, boring sea of white.

Hospital. Why was he in hospital?

As memories of the car crash and the events beforehand returned to him, it all became very clear.

He had survived, by some miraculous power unknown. The pain that had coursed through his veins was numb now, dulled by morphine and painkillers. The monotonous aching of his ribs suggested broken, and despite careful bandaging, his mandatory hospital robe chaffed slightly at his wounds. His head felt woozy, despite the cushioning of the pillows.

But John had survived, and of that much he was grateful.

But what of Sherlock, and Jim?

"I love John. I love John Watson. I am in love with John Hamish Watson."

John coughed, and blinked several times. Elevating his head off the pillows, he turned in surprise to witness Sherlock declaring his love for him – John of all people. A warm glow filled the pit of his stomach at the sight of the man, and he grew giddy with an overwhelming relief.

Had Sherlock seriously just said that?

"Ah, John. I can assure this all a dream. Go back to sleep, and when you wake up everything will be back to normal." If John hadn't known better, he could have sworn Sherlock was trying to hypnotise him.

"Sherlock. This is not a dream."

"Yes it is." Sherlock huffed, crossing his arms.

"Sherlock, I heard everything you just said."

Sherlock remained silent, and John swore later that a faint blush crept across Sherlock alabaster cheeks.

"Sherlock, it's nothing to embarrassed about."

"So are the feelings returned?" Sherlock steadfastly refused to look at John, instead choosing to burn a hole in the sheets with his intense glare.

"Of course you idiot!" John chuckled lovingly.

The expression on Sherlock's face was priceless. A mixture of wounded pride and joyous happiness spread across his face, and it made John's heart burst.

Well what a relief that was.

John wasn't sure for how long he had loved his flatmate, but it was out in the open now, and let Sherlock do with it what he will. The relief that Sherlock returned his feelings was staggering.

"Well that's – good." Sherlock's smooth baritone quavered slightly.

John felt a sudden, intense need to go over and hug Sherlock for all his worth, but in current position he was clearly incapacitated. Sherlock, as if sensing his need, practically jumped out of his bed – ignoring any of his bandaged wounds – sheets flying left, right and centred, swiftly covered the small distance between his and John's bed, and carefully lay down on the edge of John's bed, who moved over to accommodate the lean man.

Sherlock soon made himself comfortable, and carefully placed his arm around John, snuggling his raven curls into the crook of John's neck.

John had never imagined that Sherlock would be this... touchy-feely.

And he liked it.

Soon enough the pair was asleep, curled up on the bed, hands entwined.

John awoke suddenly, pupils quickly expanding in the darkness. The familiar warmth of Sherlock was gone, and he turned to see the man sleeping in his bed, curled in the foetal position.

Turning the look at the foot of the bed, he muffled a yell. A black figure stood there. But before he could cry out, a hand smothered his face, and his nose filled with the smell of chloroform.

And then there was blackness.