John's head was spinning; the lights, the sound, it was all so much. He was used to the harsh environment of a hospital; the bright florescent lights that burn your eyes, the drab décor that sucked what little happiness you had left out of you, the unavoidable noise that came with the stress and high pace work of a hospital. It was viewed differently as a patient of course, but he had been a patient plenty of times and it had never felt like this. The hospital had never created such a sense of panic and being trapped.

His shoulder burned painfully; the bandages seemed too tight as he sweated from stress and fear. He scratched around the bandage; the stiches he knew were under it the only reason he didn't rip it off. He looked around the waiting area of the hospital; it was a busy night in the hospital and he was stuck waiting for a room, surrounded by other mildly sick people. A child with a broken leg, a woman who couldn't stop vomiting, a man who kept complaining that no one was listing to him. They were all like him, waiting. Except they were all with family members. John was alone.

John felt a lump form in his throat and swallowed it painfully down; he refused to cry here in font of all these people. He could do that when he was back at the flat….alone? Would he be alone? Could he bear it if he was? John pulled out his mobile and checked it for the thousandth time, knowing there would be no text or call. God, what were they doing to him?

John felt the unstoppable point of tears begin, that point where the moisture in your eyes has reached such a point as to not be able to be held in the eyes any longer. What was the point anyway? No one was here to care….John allowed the tears to spill out of his eyes, putting his hand over his face. The more he cried the harder it got to stop; he tasted salt in his mouth and was sucking his breath in in spurts. The tears were like an avalanche; the more that came out the more they gained speed. When he heard someone's machine beeping, he rubbed a hand over his tear streaked face, whining at the IV tape that scrapped his face as he rubbed his face. He looked around but couldn't see anyone in any distress. He did notice the little girl in the corner was watching him; she gave him a sympatric smile. John tried to wipe his nose as much dignity as he could with the back of his hand; what kind of damn hospital didn't have tissues?

John looked at the pile of his clothes sitting by the bed; he leaned over, wincing slightly as his shoulder cried out in pain, grabbing at the pile of clothes, looking. When he found the blue scarf under his jumper and trousers, he took it in his hands and gripped it tightly. The soft, familiar fabric of it felt good in his hands as he ran his fingers over it. It even smelled familiar; he didn't even resist the urge to rub it against his cheek before laying it back down in his lap. The little girl in the corner, clutching a pink, satin blanket smiled as she hugged it; she understood.

John was glad he had thought to grab the scarf in the chaos. Painful images came flashing back at him; a flash of silver of a knife, blood splatter, pain…..Sherlock on the ground half of the forensics team pinning him to the ground as he screamed….

Suddenly John couldn't breathe; he sucked in air as quick as he could but it didn't seem to be enough. His lungs burned, his chest hurt; was this hyperventilating? He couldn't even guess. He put the scarf to his face and breathed in it through his episode….slowly…slowly….it was helping. He pushed his errant thoughts of you're a failure out of his head. That wouldn't help now….he could blame himself for that later.

John had just gotten himself composed when he saw Greg walk through the door and coming toward him. John sat straight up, eager to talk to him; he would have answers, he would be able to tell him everything was going to be fine. He, after all, knew Sherlock. Surely he'd know this was a mistake.

Greg looked inexplicably tired. His salt-and-pepper hair was disheveled, his coat rumpled; John was dismayed to see blood still splattered on his shirt. John felt sick to his stomach when he wondered who it belonged to.

"How is he? What have they done with him? Can I see him?" John croaked out desperately. He had to find out answers soon or he was going to explode.

John saw Greg's eyes traveled to the scarf and a slight scowl crossed his face. "How are you? You're the one with a damn stab wound in your shoulder" he asked with slight anger. He seemed tired; no doubt he was. This was a bloody awful day…

"Forget that" John said, looking idly at his shoulder. It was really just a flesh wound, nothing to get upset about. "I want to know how he is doing"

"Well, not good, I'm sure you can imagine" Greg said, " We're not quite sure what they are going to do with him yet. He's been taken in for questioning and-"

"Greg, you have to do something! He can't be there! He didn't mean to-

"Didn't mean to what?" Greg asked sarcastically "He didn't mean to stab five people? He didn't mean to put Sally in intensive care? Put Anderson in a coma?" Greg gave him a look of disgust. "Look at you….he bloody attacked you and you're still defending him."

The words were painful; they cut him to the heart. He felt like his insides were going to split open. He didn't meet Greg's eyes; he looked down at the cheap, rough blanket covering his legs. His shoulder throbbed but he ignored it. "He snapped…." John said distantly. John should have done something sooner; it was building up for weeks and yet he ignored the signs. Allowed Sherlock to get sicker and sicker without seeking help. Now he was probably going to go to jail. "He never would have done that in his right mind….I know it…."

Greg sighed. "Well, it may come down to that" he said. " Obviously you're going to be a key witness"

John closed his eyes; witness….against Sherlock. He couldn't do it.

John looked up at Greg, his eyes stinging from the fatigue, tears and bloody bright lights. "You know him….you know he's not a criminal" John said, almost begging Greg to believe him. He wouldn't really mean to hurt me…..

Greg shook his head, rubbing a face across his face. "I hope you're right….but right now it does not look good for him." He said tiredly.

John looked down at Sherlock's scarf, not able to stop the memory of what had happened. He didn't want to think about it, to make it real. But it was a slippery slope as one flash of memory rolled into another and he was seeing the whole evening over again…..

In the next chapter John remembers the attack. Please review, follow and favorite.