Hi everyone!

I'm back with a new story ( sorry if you expected SSHG, but I'm just so into BBC Sherlock right now ), it's just a simple OS. I don't feel ready to write entire fanfictions just yet.

Plot: After the events of The Great Game, Sherlock falls into a coma, leaving John to rethink his entire 'friendship' with the man.

I tried to stay IC but it's not that easy in such a short story. So I apologize in advance if you find them a little OOC.

A/N: I'm not english-speaking.

Disclaimer: I do not own anything. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson rightfully belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the whole inspiration for this story comes from the BBC, Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat.

The silence was oppressive now. I could feel my heart and Sherlock's speed up as if they could sense it could very well be the last time they beat. In one simple nod, I gave Sherlock my consent. I trusted him with my life because, even then, I knew he would treat it as if it were his very own. He had reminded me earlier that day that he didn't need to care about anyone, but I wanted to believe I was the exception to the rule. I held onto that thought as my friend aimed my gun at the jacket lying on the ground, only a few feet away from Moriarty.

"Probably my answer has crossed yours."

I swallowed the lump in my throat and got up. If this was to be my last seconds on this earth, I didn't want to spend them crawling on the ground. Sherlock's eyes never left his target but I could almost feel him staring at me. I comforted myself with the idea that his last thoughts were for me, even if I would probably never know for sure. It didn't really matter at this point.

It only lasted a fraction of a second. Sherlock dove towards me, pushing me in one of the stalls to my left as a single gunfire echoed throughout the swimming-pool. Then, there was chaos.

I woke up in a bed I didn't recognize. My soldier's instincts kicked in and I stood up abruptly, growling when a wave of pain shot through my shoulder. The lights blinded me for a few good seconds before I dared open my eyes again. When I realized where I was my heart dropped in my chest. I was alone in a hospital room, and apparently the explosion had re-opened my army wound. The explosion. Sherlock. Where was he? I got out of my bed in one quick – if not perfectly steady – motion and grabbed my clothes from the closet. I was ready to go when a nurse burst into my room, a disapproving look in her eyes.

"What are you doing out of bed? You're hurt and it is my responsibility to take care of you as well as I can."

"Where is he?" I almost barked, trying to walk past her.

She grabbed me by the sleeve and tried to look down on me. Since I was a bit taller than she was it wasn't that impressive, but I supposed she needed to do all she could to keep me still. "Doctor Watson, you're injured…"

I jerked my arm away from her grasp, ignoring the sting of pain in my shoulder. "Do I look like I give a damn? Now, where is he?"

"There's nothing you can do for your friend. I'm sorry, but you need to rest." She sighed.

I felt my insides twist in a knot. My mouth had gone impossibly dry and by the look on the nurse's face I looked ready to faint. When I finally found the strength to speak again, my voice sounded so raw it sent shivers down my spine:

"Is he…?"

I couldn't bring myself to end the sentence. The last word would mean the end of something I wasn't ready to let go of just yet. What exactly, I wasn't sure. But I knew that every single atom of my being needed Sherlock to be alive.

"Unconscious. He is in room 304." She finally whispered, her shoulders dropping in defeat.

I let out the breath I didn't know I had been holding and rushed out of the room. 152. Wrong floor. Bad news. If Sherlock had only got a minor injury, he would have been on the same floor. I swallowed hard and jumped up the stairs, maintaining my shoulder in place to stop the pain. When I finally burst through the door, I spotted Lestrade chatting with a doctor a few feet away. It took me all I had not to go and pin him to the wall until he swore to me that Sherlock was going to be fine. With all the restraint I could master at this point, I walked towards them, willing my legs not to run.

"John! What are you doing up? You should be resting!" Lestrade said, crossing his arms over his chest. I sent him my best glare but he didn't seem very impressed. "You need to keep still for the next few hours, and then I'll need your statement."

"No Greg. Right now I need to see him, and you need to get the fuck off his door. I really don't want to have to fight you, but I will."

D.I. Lestrade remained unmoved but I could see he was surprised to see me in such a state. He finally sighed and turned to Sherlock's doctor. When I saw him nod, Greg reluctantly moved away, giving me just enough space to enter the detective's room.

"Thank you." I almost hissed before walking in.

Nothing could have prepared me for what I witnessed upon entering my friend's (for lack of a better term) room. The great Sherlock Holmes was lying in a hospital bed, his head wrapped in gauze down to his eyebrows, his chest bare except for the bandages covering what I assumed to be scars. His sheets were blood-stained and I dared not think of the amount of blood he must have lost. His pale features now seemed so ghostly I was afraid he might fade away if I so much as blinked.

I moved very slowly towards the end of his bed, willing my hands not to shake. But this time I knew it wasn't because of the lack of danger. I grabbed his chart and began reading urgently. I focused on the medical terms, trying to forget whose file I was studying. My heart sank in my chest with every word I read until I regretted I ever went to medical school. Somehow I wished I hadn't understood a single word on that chart. My heart wanted to deny the tests' results but my brain wouldn't let me.

I collapsed on a chair near Sherlock's bed and buried my face in my hands. It took me a minute to steady my breathing and by the time I was a little calmer, the door opened and Lestrade walked in. I didn't look at him, I didn't speak, I refused to acknowledge his very presence. I focused my gaze on Sherlock's body, noting that it was the very first time I ever saw him asleep. This was ridiculous! He wasn't asleep; he was in a bloody coma! I took a deep breath and pinched the bridge of my nose. I needed to calm down, I couldn't afford to panic.

But he just looked so… small. I had seen the detective in his pajamas, I had seen him act like a five-year old, I had seen him getting strangled… But somehow this felt different. He looked so vulnerable, and it frightened me to the core. I was aware of the dangers his lifestyle led to, but never had I truly believed that Sherlock could seriously get hurt. He was too clever. Or at least, he had seemed to be. Feeling sick, I forced my gaze away from Sherlock and ran a hand through my hair.

"I'm sorry I yelled Greg." I finally whispered.

"That's okay. You're upset." Lestrade answered before taking the seat on the other side of the bed. I stayed silent. "I still need you to tell me what happened, John." I could hear the hesitation in his voice, but I knew it had to be done.

"It was Moriarty." I sighed. "His fifth case was about us. He waited until I was alone and sent his men to kidnap me. Then I assume he told Sherlock to come to the pool and he strapped the bomb on my chest, like with the others. At one point he left, Sh-Sherlock took the bomb off me and threw it a few feet away. I can't really remember what happened next…"

I could tell Greg wasn't buying it. But if he had his doubts, he didn't mention it, and for that at least, I was thankful. "The bomb went off somehow… and I woke up in here."

"Was Moriarty in the swimming-pool at the time?"

I dared not look up, I was afraid of where the discussion was going. "Yes."

"We didn't find any body on the premises." Lestrade finally admitted after a short silence.

My eyes shot up at that last statement. Was he telling me that Sherlock was in a coma… for nothing? I violently shook my head, denying everything I had just heard. I knew Sherlock would want to know Moriarty had been stopped, or would he really? Hell, the detective probably wanted another chance to track down his nemesis. I felt my stomach protest at the idea and forced my thoughts back to another topic. Anything would do.

"Do you remember your first case with Sherlock?"

I stared at Greg for a while. His lips were twitched in a small smile, as infuriating as the detective could get, it was obvious that the DI was very fond of him. Almost involuntarily, I gave out a throaty laugh. "Vividly."

"You know, I never thought Sherlock capable of having a friend."

I chuckled a little at that. "Surely, even Sherlock must have had a friend or two in the past."

"Not that I know of. I don't think he had ever wanted one."

This confession left me speechless for a moment. Luckily for me, Greg wasn't expecting an answer and he simply got up. He tied his scarf around his neck and slowly opened the door. He stopped dead in his tracks for a moment and turned back to me.

"For some reason, Sherlock seems to listen to you, John. When he wakes up, make sure he takes proper care of himself."

And with that last thought he was gone, leaving me to re-examine everything that had happened in the last few months.

A few hours later, I was bitterly regretting correcting Sebastian when Sherlock had called me his friend. If at the time I hadn't been sure, I was now. You don't choose who your friends are, friendship just… happens. And I now remembered how far I had been willing to go to save that man's life. And how far he had gone himself to save mine. I let out a deep sigh just as the door opened again, letting in a very tired Mrs. Hudson.

"Oh dear, have you been sleeping at all?" She whispered as she jumped around the room, tidying up everything that needed to be sorted out.

I gave her a small smile, choosing not to mention how sleep-deprived she looked herself. "I'm fine Mrs. Hudson. How have you been?"

"Good. But you left a bloody mess in the flat, especially on the kitchen table…" Her voice trailed off and I could tell she hadn't had the heart to clean up Sherlock's experiments.

"Whatever happens… I'll clean everything up."

"What do you mean, dear?"

"Well… I can't afford the rent… without Sherlock. So, I might need to move out. I'm sorry."

Mrs. Hudson frowned a moment before realization dawned on her. "Oh. Sherlock didn't tell you." She whispered, taking the seat next to mine and placing a comforting hand on my arm. "Sherlock has paid the rent for the next six months already…"

I started a bit and stared at our landlady open-mouthed for a while. "But… but how could he? He said he couldn't afford this place on his own."

"Well then… he lied, dear. Sherlock didn't need a flatmate, that's why I always assumed that you two were…" She cleared her throat and I suddenly felt like mine was incredibly tight.

"Why did he lie?" I asked in as steady a voice as I could muster. I kept my gaze straight at the wall, refusing to acknowledge Mrs. Hudson's stare.

"I think he didn't want you to know how much he needed company. He didn't want to scare you off…" She rubbed the side of my arm soothingly and I was forced to admit that it was working.

"He must have been so lonely…" I whispered before running a hand through my disheveled hair.

"Yes, he was."

"I wouldn't have left." I stated after a few minutes of silence. "How could I…?" My voice cracked and I gripped the armrest of my chair more tightly than necessary. I violently shook my head before risking taking a glimpse at my friend's bed. I had never realized how much the detective had craved for my company… and how much I had needed his in return.

This explained so much. Why Sherlock seemed to hate Sarah so much. Why he was so upset when I went to her flat. Why he sulked when I had to go to work. He was afraid of losing me…

I remembered my second date with Sarah. I had spent the entire dinner texting Sherlock, I hadn't noticed it at the time, it had seemed so natural… Sherlock always came first, whether I admitted it or not. I had ditched her so many times simply because Sherlock had said he needed me. I lifted my hand steadily for the first time since I woke up and took Sherlock's, intertwining our fingers in a tight grip. Mrs. Hudson kept silent and I knew she understood.

I hadn't let go of Sherlock's hand for hours when the door opened again. I didn't look up but I already knew who it was. I had been expecting this since the beginning, but I didn't feel ready to face the man who probably had the more reasons to hate my guts at this moment.

"I'm sorry Mycroft." I whispered.

The elder Holmes brother took the seat on the other side of the bed and even without looking up, I could see how worried he was. I knew how much Mycroft cared for his brother, and somehow, I felt safer knowing he was ready to do anything to make sure Sherlock was well taken care of.

Mycroft crossed his legs and played a little with his umbrella before speaking in his usual business-like tone. "I'm glad to see you are alright, John."

"Well, I'm not alright, Mycroft!" I snapped. As soon as I saw the elder man's eyes I regretted my outburst. "Don't you wish I was the one lying unconscious in a hospital bed?"

"No." He stated matter-of-factly. I gaped at him for a few seconds before he explained himself. "No matter what my brother might say, he can get hurt… And he has."

The seriousness of his voice couldn't completely mask the pain I could clearly read between the lines. I felt my whole body shiver and gripped Sherlock's hand with even more force than before.

"I have seen him at his worst, John. And I do not wish to witness it again. Ever. My brother is very protective of you, and he couldn't handle seeing you in such a state. I, personally, am relieved he can't see it for himself."

"You don't understand…" I hissed through gritted teeth. My jaw so clenched it was beginning to hurt, but I dared not let it go, afraid of the tears I could feel burning in my eyes.

"On the contrary, I do. You feel responsible because Sherlock got hurt trying to rescue you. He made his own choice, and I respect that."

I jumped to my feet but kept my hand firmly locked with Sherlock's. "He triggered the bomb and shoved me into a stall! He took most of the blow because he chose to protect me first!"

I could hear my scream echoing throughout the entire room as tears began rolling down my cheeks. I took a deep breath trying to make them stop, to no avail. I was shaking now, from both anger and pain. "He… he wanted to protect me…" I choked out.

I fell to my knees as my head collapsed upon the bed. I brought Sherlock's hand to my mouth and gave it a light kiss, letting my tears run down my face freely. I could feel Mycroft rising and walking towards the door but I refused to look up at his retreating form.

"Understand this, John. My brother might still die. But I know for a fact that seeing you get hurt would have been the death of him."

I tried to stay very still and quiet but couldn't help a slight whimper to escape my lips now and then. Ten minutes later, I was all cried out and grateful than no one had seen any of that. I suddenly felt exhausted and without really thinking about it, I climbed on the bed and slipped under the covers. I turned towards Sherlock and buried my face in the crook of his neck. I squeezed his hand gently as I let sleep wash over me.

When I woke up, my whole body was flushed against something that felt soft and very warm indeed. My mind raced back to yesterday's events and I stopped breathing for a while. I felt the body next to mine tense ever so slightly and I unconsciously tightened my grip over Sherlock's waist. His whole body relaxed and I heard him let out a shaky breath. The detective ran his free hand through my hair and pushed my head harder against his bare chest. I gave it a light kiss before closing my eyes again, reveling in the feeling of Sherlock's body flushed against mine.

I had never been so close to an almost naked man in my entire life, and I was surprised to observe that it felt quite nice. But then again, this wasn't just any man, this was Sherlock. I allowed myself to breathe him in, I didn't know exactly what this was, but whatever it was, it felt right. I squeezed his hand and whispered against his torso:

"Don't ever let me go again."

I felt him nod and I brushed my thumb across the back of his hand, allowing a small smile to grace my lips.

And that's it. What did you think? I'm sorry if Mycroft's reaction surprised you, but to be honest, I can't image him react in a normal fashion.

I'd appreciate a review, but do as you please. Hopefully, the next few months until Series 2 won't be too painfully long.

See you!