Ok, this is my first fan fic for anything ever. I need you to be honest, completely. Not cruelly, please, but you know if its crap tell me Yes, there will be eventual slash, don't worry. I wouldn't give you an M fic without any steamy scenes.

Hope you enjoy xx

The last thing John H. Watson saw before he blacked out was Mycroft Holmes's head smashing into the seat in front of him. After that it was a blur of pain, a steady beeping, and a warm feeling on his left hand.

John, Mycroft, Anthea and some guy Mycroft hired to be his driver were in a car accident. It wasn't the driver's fault, some idiot crashed into them from behind at over eighty. Seatbelts did nothing to keep them safe. Only the driver got away unscathed. The others ended up in hospital, two of them seriously injured. One dead.

John knew only that he was in a coma. He knew, but he couldn't wake up. He tried to move, but it only led to frustration and pain in his head. He couldn't hear anyone talking, he couldn't open his eyes or blink, but he knew he wasn't dead.

To pass the time, he escaped into his thoughts. Afghanistan, the first time he met Sherlock, and the accident itself. This last one baffled him. He knew it had happened, but he couldn't remember it. All he knew was that his back hurt, a mixture of colours whizzed past his eyes and he blacked out. Again and again he replayed what he remembered, but it never made sense to him.
Obviously after a while, boredom got to him. He began making up stories, songs. Anything to keep him going. His personal favourite - although he would never admit it - was one he invented about a case.
A jewel thief had broken into The National History Museum, on the same night that an art thief had broken into The Hickman Art Gallery. Lestrade called up on Sherlock, who took to the case like a shark to spilled blood. John helped as much as he could, and whilst John wasn't very good at inventing the deductions, he was more than average at adding the emotional aspects. He made it so that Sherlock could feel, that he felt guilt when a poor pretty girl died, that he hugged John when he complimented him, instead of just saying: "You know you do that out loud." Yes Sherlock. Yes he did.

However, this story was only good. But when he made up his ending - that's when it became his favourite.

John caught the bad guy. He developed his own little deduction technique (eeney meenie miney mo, to be precise. But this is John's fantasy, can't make a judgment here). Sherlock was so proud of him that he kissed him, forcefully, passionately, and without even meaning too, John Watson became bisexual.

"Sorry Sherlock, you know the drill by now. Visiting hours are over. Go home, get some proper rest." Dr. Mike Stamford had been trying to persuade Sherlock to leave Johns bedside for almost half an hour. The steely eyed consulting detective glared at him mercilessly, and for a moment, Mike was too intimidated to do anything.

"Sh-Sherlock, I'll… I'll get in trouble. I have no problem with you being here, but my boss… he'll murder me if I let you stay."

Sherlock looked from the overweight, annoying man to his friend. John looked so small, tiny, wrapped in bandages, covered in wires. It stirred an emotion in Sherlock that he had never felt before over anyone. He didn't know what it was exactly, most sociopaths don't. You and I would describe it as love. Or at this stage, a very strong crush.
Without a word to Dr. Stamford, Sherlock stood from the uncomfortable wooden chair and headed out the private room. He had insisted on giving john somewhere private. They would have done it anyway, not that Sherlock cared.
Sherlock was becoming accustomed to these cab rides home alone. He let his mind drift back to his first case - a study in pink, John called it. Well, it wasn't his first case. But in his mind it was certainately the most important.
Like the cab rides, he too was accustomed to an empty flat. It had been almost two weeks now that John had been in hospital. Two weeks of not eating enough, not sleeping enough, not giving a damn about anything. John would disapprove. But what he didn't know couldn't hurt him. Or, so Sherlock hoped.
On a normal night, he would watch crap telly with his friend. John would get annoyed as Sherlock picked apart the plot piece by piece, and they'd end up having an argument, only to be resolved five minutes later over one of John's famous brews.
He missed his flat mate. So much. There was nothing to do. No cases, Lestrade wouldn't give him anything to do until John was better - they worked best as a team.

In a way that should make him feel guilty - but didn't - Sherlock missed John more than he missed his brother. The funeral didn't make him cry, seeing his Mummy cry didn't have any effect, he just wished he could be there with John.