"You don't look too pleased, Sherlock." John said it more as a question than a statement.

"I honestly can't believe Lestrade dragged us all the way out here, in the middle of the countryside, just to have a look at such a dull case. Even a toddler could have solved it!" Was the irritated answer he got. "I don't like it in the countryside."

"Let me rephrase that for you… You don't like it outside London." John smirked when Sherlock huffed in annoyance.

John could actually agree with Sherlock that this case had been incredibly dull, easy even. At one point, John had started to pick up some of Sherlock's deductive skills, even he had understood what had happened and he could absolutely see why some people was deemed stupid by his flat mate. Farmer's right arm cut up mercilessly as if it had been through a shredder. Dead from the massive blood loss, but no blood was to be seen near the body. Even John thought it was obvious that the neighbouring farmer had done it, after he got to know that the dead person had bought his fields when he didn't have the money himself to pay for maintenance of it. The big fan, placed just underneath the roof in the barn, was the murder weapon. The speed it held when they arrived was just… very unusual, Sherlock saw it as the murder weapon at once and could only say 'neat'. When Leastrade climbed up the ladder he found just what he was searching for, blood. Shortly after they found the neighbour's fingerprints at the ladder, at the walls, it was basically everywhere. He was repairing it, just finished when the neighbour came in.

"Neighbour hastily climbed up the ladder, based on his footprints, to threaten the farmer. The farmer was a calm person, didn't want to do anyone harm, weak, but heavy and not exactly fit. Both lost balance when the neighbour started to get more furious and shook the ladder when he got restless, he accidentally pushed the farmer to get his balance back and the farmer hit the speed button with one hand whilst the other arm got caught in the fan."

John could've also told some of it, but not everything, of course, Sherlock was superior to all of them, but he would never say that out loud.

"He's got a lump on his back head, fell down from the ladder then. The neighbour didn't stay much longer, he panicked. Most likely he's already far away from this place, went to a cabin of some sort to find out whether he should live on or not, he knows he will get caught. There are not only human footprints here, there's been animals here too, several dogs. They must've been wild dogs, escaped from their homes and went to live here, in the safety of the rural environment. No dog would turn on their master. Can you not see the marks in his flesh? They dragged him out from just beneath the ladder and placed him here, then decided against doing anything more about it, as he was already damaged and , to them, he obviously belonged to someone else. Search around the ladder, there will be a nice, red puddle of blood there in the sand."

The whole thing was deduced and declared in under two minutes, just as normal. Sherlock had just politely said that he was now going home, didn't want to spend another minute surrounded by stupid brains, good bye and then swung his greatcoat dramatically before he left. John still got baffled by the man, it was just as fantastic to watch him do that whole thing now as it was when he met him, especially when everyone stood left dumbstruck. The only negative thing about this, was that he now had to deal with the fact that this case had both bored, annoyed and irritated Sherlock. It had been cold to, caused by the crisp winter air which was much colder out in nowhere than in London. When irritation struck Sherlock, he would most definitely act like a child for the rest of the day, maybe even until he got another case, or another truly marvellous case. As if it wasn't enough that this had been a rather unnecessary case, which was only a waste of time, Sherlock had also been forced to drive out to the farm himself, in Mycroft's car, since he wouldn't dare to ask a cabbie to drive him out there. Bad reputation. Sherlock had now become something akin to furious, John heard him mutter unpleasant words through gritted teeth as he sent a message to someone on his phone. It was probably Mycroft, complaining to him about the car or something, just to let his fury out on something, or rather someone. John was just happy it wasn't him this time. Suddenly there was a bump in the road, and the Blackberry jumped elegantly out of Sherlock's slender hand and landed neatly beside Sherlock's feet. John didn't really know what was wrong with the man, what the hell he was thinking about, but he loosened his seat belt and bent down, one hand on the steering wheel and one hand reaching for the phone. John watched with horror as the car turned slightly to the right and headed straight towards a parked car in the opposite direction they were driving. He placed one hand on the steering wheel himself and tried to turn the car over. Just at the same time, Sherlock got up after fetching his phone and got hit hard in the face by the reality in front of him. He turned sharply to the left, sending the Land Rover up a steep slope on the side of the road. Suddenly the car was on the wrong side of the road, and the roof was also on the wrong side. The car slid down the ice, directly towards the car. Somehow, John managed to think 'Where the fuck is Sherlock?' And that was just before it got black.

Sherlock opened his eyes slowly. His eyelids were heavy, difficult not to shut them again. He knew somewhere deep inside that he had to stay awake, not why or how, but a voice just told him to.

"There you are Sherlock, stay with me now." The voice had got more and more frantic, grown desperate in fact. "Please, keep your eyes open, focus on my voice." It was a dark and very comfortable voice. "They should be here really soon. Anytime now."

John hated the sheer look of confusion upon the consulting detectives face, despised it. It just didn't fit together with him, not at all. He just knew too well how it was though, because mere minutes ago, John had felt just the same. He had loosened his seatbelt as quick as he understood what was happening, and landed on his neck with a thud and a little crack. Otherwise than some bruises and cuts from the hundred percent crystallized windows, he was fine, at least compared to his friend. He was just about to turn to his friend and help him if he needed it, but then remembered briefly that he had disappeared out of the car at some point of the crash. He had almost puked at the thought of him lying in the middle of the road, his limbs twisted in obscure angles. That wasn't where he found him though. By God, he wished it was like that he had found him. He had no idea how Sherlock had managed to get stuck between the car and a tree, he just knew the odds for it were incredibly low and that it looked awful. So much blood. It was obvious that there were some internal damage here, thick, red, liquid had spilled out of Sherlock's mouth and was now Land Rover looked like something that belonged at some scrap yard. John let out a frustrated sigh when he thought about how improbable the whole situation felt like. The cold, the blood and the press from the car didn't make a very good combination. John decided he would have to ask Sherlock questions until help came, maybe even make him solve riddles to keep his mind occupied from what could only be immense pain.

"Can you speak to me?" He asked nervously, his voice a tad more shaky than he wanted it to be.

"Yeah... why shouldn't... I?" He grumbled back, his voice very strained and stuttering, face still only a big question mark.

"No particular reason..." John mumbled under his breath. "You see... you need to help me out here, and the only way you can do that is talking to me." John was now pleased with how he sounded, almost as if he was talking to a child at the clinic.

"Why? What... are you... in pain... John?" There was only so much John could do not to laugh, heartbroken by how his friend sounded. As he laughed, Sherlock's forehead only wrinkled even more in confusion.

"No you idiotic git, I'm just fine, help will arrive soon. Spare your breath, don't talk too much." He only got a hesitant nod as an answer.

Sherlock was also visibly injured by the shards from the windows of the car, just like John. It was cold outside, absolutely, but not so much it would cause a normal person to get purple lips and skin white and hard like ice. The normally pale eyes had now turned into being emerald green against his skin. This was not really the time to panic, John decided. Breathing was obviously a problem for Sherlock, but what else was there to expect when his insides were being mashed? Still there was nothing but confusion plastered on the man's face, not a single wrinkle or movement revealed something even akin to pain. There was no doubt his threshold of pain was abnormally high, but upon seeing his expression, John though he may be so out of it he didn't understand what had happened or what was happening.

"Are you in any pain?" His voice was quiet, hushed, careful, almost shameful.

It seemed like Sherlock was thinking this over several times, probably going through all of his body parts to locate the pain. At one point John thought he saw something in Sherlock's eyes, something like hurt or shock, but it passed as quickly as it had come and all he did was to shrug. John couldn't believe it, did he honestly not feel pain, or was it just the whole situation that had made him numb? Probably the latter, as the bloodstream was cut off somewhere around his abdomen. Come on, where are you? He asked everyone and no one in particular. This was like getting payback for all the times they had "mused" over murders, only this was a mere accident that had turned into something very much worse than it should have been. It was like crashing into the teacher after you had tripped someone over, because you were too busy laughing at them instead of watching where you sat your feet. Sherlock was getting drowsy, he could see that. His eyes started to drop and his upper body bent slightly forwards. John wanted to continue the asking, the talking, but he could actually feel himself getting both cold and tired too. He looked at Sherlock and could now notice that he was actually trying to hold onto life, perhaps more as a subconscious thing to do than something he actually knew he was doing. His breath was loud, rattling, shuddering, sharp, but the wailing sirens coming closer was deafening it together with John's loud sigh of relief.

"They're coming, Sherlock!" He couldn't cover the enormous amount of joy his voice held.

"Hmm, good." He mumbled back, trying to smile, but his face was still just a big question mark.

What was is that John was so happy about? What had happened? What was happening? He had heard John talking about someone coming, but who were they? Why was he so happy when they came? And the big question he had been asking himself all the time since he had woken up... why were John still there? After he had asked all those questions to himself, everything happened too fast. John said their names to someone and then he was taken away from him and a whole load of people came over to him. Paramedics, both men and women, and several policemen present. He couldn't figure out exactly what they were saying, but he knew they asked him questions. How could he answer when he didn't understand them? It was as if they spoke a foreign language. He frowned, irritated and frustrated that his senses were betraying him, and for what? Suddenly he felt everything loosen up when blood rushed down to his legs and he yelped as he choked on his breath. He fell straight to the ground. Okay... probably for that.

"NO! STOP!" John shrugged off the blanket he had gotten by the paramedics and shoved them away from him. "He can't stand, for God's sake! The car has been pressing on his stomach for the last... I don't even know how many minutes, or maybe even hours." He was over at Sherlock's side at once, checking if he was still okay.

His breath had gotten more rapid, but he still didn't seem pained, just confused and maybe even more so curious about what was happening. That same look he got when there was a new, especially intriguing case. His clear, open eyes shot looks in every direction, at every person, clearly trying to catch up with what was happening.

"Mr. Holmes, are you okay?" One of the female paramedics asked, obviously the leader of them.

"You can bloody well see he's not fine! You can't just start moving things before checking the circumstances, god damn... it's one of the first things you learn in life!" John knew he was overreacting, but at least he managed to make her look ashamed for one moment before she regained her straight posture.

"And did you have any other suggestions as to how we could've got the car away from your friend?" She watched John expectantly, hoping for him not to answer that question. "Didn't think so. We don't have the time to stand here and wait. He has lost far too much blood already. We'll have to move him, now." John stepped back and shook his foggy head, what was happening right now? "As for you Dr. Watson, I need you to get back to the ambulance and get yourself checked."

"It can wait." John said firmly, but when he started swaying and almost blacked out from the stress, he didn't exactly get any choice. Paramedics led him back to the ambulance, placed the blanket around his shoulders again and gave him a cup of hot tea as they continued to check him over.

Sherlock screamed loudly as they lay him over on a stretcher and rolled him towards the second ambulance, making everyone wince in sympathy. For the second time, John threw the blanket off and got rid of the paramedics. He managed to topple the teacup on his way too, sending warm tea down on the ground to melt snow. He followed into the same ambulance as Sherlock, even though they wanted him to get into the other one. John was fine, he was absolutely fine he told himself, and everything that mattered now was his friend. Everyone let it go when they understood the good doctor wouldn't move at any circumstances.

They were on the road faster than John could imagine, it didn't even seem that long ago that the whole accident happened, yet it had managed to get a whole lot darker and colder outside. He saw Sherlock now lying on the stretcher, shivering, pain was now very clear on his face. He had gritted his teeth and closed his eyes, his breath was coming out in short gasps. His hand was clamped over his side, even though the paramedics tried to pry it away so that he wouldn't apply further pressure to his already damaged insides. He was so little now, it seemed, so pale and tiny. John could see that the confusion still hadn't left him.

"C-co...cold." Sherlock stammered.

Of course he was cold, even though he had three woollen blankets surrounding him and packing him in. He had suffered blood loss from all the cuts and the internal bleeding, and it was starting to get urgent, that much John knew. Otherwise everything was mostly a blur. He knew that even though Sherlock was the one most hurt, he wasn't exactly unharmed himself. But a concussion and some bleeding scrapes... what was that when his friend had got smashed between a car and a tree?

"Yeah, they'll fix that... Please let them help you now!" John said desperately as he tried to help the paramedics getting Sherlock's hands of his stomach.

He was still incredibly strong for looking as awful as he did. Two paramedics managed to strap his arms down, just to be sure he wouldn't do any harm to himself. It only caused him to panic further though, he tried several times to sit up, but got pushed down at once and held there.

"Come to your senses Sherlock, I know you're in there. Use that incredibly brilliant mind of yours to understand that you need help, and that we're going to give you that." John was at the bottom of his courage and would beg if he had to.

Something in Sherlock must have picked up on what John tried to tell him. He stilled almost instantly and turned his hurt and somewhat ashamed look towards John. He made soft whimpering noises the whole way to the hospital, making John cringe and place his hands over his ears. It was a god awful sound, it didn't fit Sherlock. There were several times where the ex-soldier saw him clench his fists and arch his back, but he had cut the sound out, he didn't want to hear. Probably the worst thing about it all was that Sherlock's expression was still that confused and curious one from time to time.

When Sherlock came to, the first thing he noticed was how dry his throat was. Then his mind set in and he suddenly became aware of the fact that he didn't understand anything. He could see the periodic table on the wall and a whole load of maps, folders and sheets and quickly deduced that he was in his room, in his own bed, surrounded by warm blankets. He felt how his right arm, which had been lying outside of the blankets, had become very cold and then he noticed that the whole room was indeed very cold, or was it just him? He didn't know, couldn't think clearly, because of an ache in his lower abdomen, chest and side. There was just one thing he knew... he would not be lying in that bed for one more second, he had to find John. Easier said than done, that was. For all he could muster, he tried to get up, but the pain was breath taking and he felt exhausted. After lying slumped against the pillows for a few minutes, everything came crashing back to him and he blinked as id to clear his thoughts. Was John even alive? What if he had died later from injuries caused by Sherlock being a stupid arse, he could've never forgiven himself for it. How long had he been out? Days, maybe weeks, even months could have gone. He had no idea, and he hated it so badly. Why could he not just look at the sun to figure out the time of the day, or the dust in the room to get a hang of how long it had been since the last time he was in there? Why could he not just deduce? He tried to yell John's name, but it only came out as a whine. He cleared his throat and was about to try one more time, but just then John banged the door into the wall and looked down at Sherlock with big eyes. Sherlock looked back with eyes twice as big as John's, shocked at how frantic he looked and also happy that he was still alive.

"It's just... that... you're early. I didn't expect you to wake in at least a few more hours." John answered upon seeing Sherlock's expression.

"Oh." Was all he could say back.

"But then again, you never do anything according to what's normal, so I should've expected something like it." John smiled a soft, warm smile and scratched the back of his head.

The little, compact man sat down on his flatmate's bedside and draped the blankets a bit more tightly around him. He was still freezing cold, despite everything he and the hospital staff had tried to do to warm him up. Every other vital sign had seemed perfectly fine, even the broken ribs, all his bruises and small cuts had gotten very much better before he got signed out of hospital. He was even awake briefly when being moved from the hospital bed and to his own, but the nurses told, and John knew, that Sherlock would have no memory of waking up later because of all the meds. It didn't go completely without problem to get the injured man out of there, it was without doubt that it wouldn't have worked without Mycroft. John could take care of him though, and it would be better for Sherlock's mind to wake up again at home, knowing how much he hated hospitals. John only hoped his temperature would rise soon, or else he would have to put him in the shower or bathtub, and he really shouldn't be up and going with the injuries not fully healed yet, and his insides probably still a good bit sore.

"How are you?" He asked Sherlock quietly and carefully.

"What has happened? Why am I here?" As per usual, Sherlock didn't care about John's question, only his own.

"Isn't that what you want? I could absolutely drive you back to the hospital." John's voice had gotten a little bit harsh, but either Sherlock didn't pick up on it or chose to ignore it, he just lay there, waiting for his question to be answered. John sighed. "I brought you home because I thought you would like it better. It weren't much to do at the hospital either way, you are healing extraordinary much better than normal people, did you know that? There's been three days since the accident, so today's-"

"It was my fault, I...I'm-"

"Sorry? No... That stupid road in that godforsaken town, it was way too narrow, you did what you could to avoid crashing. It just... it went all wrong Sherlock. Don't you dare blame yourself." John stared at Sherlock with challenge in his eyes, so he decided to shut up, sentiment and excuses weren't his area anyways.

While they had been speaking, Sherlock had managed to get even colder than before. Once again he couldn't understand if it was the room or himself. Weird that, almost interesting even, how he couldn't tell the two of them apart. He slid further down into the bed, held around himself and started shivering slightly. His breath hitched as he turned over on his side to block John out. His whole stomach burned and itched, he could feel it churn inwards and it was as if he was being squeezed between that car and the tree again. There was also an awful pressure in his chest. The pale, slender body was now just lying under a heap of woollen blankets, shivering, and holding around itself. John didn't sit there for long, he had long since understood what was going to happen and ran for a bucket, but when he came back with it and placed it on the floor next to Sherlock, nothing happened. Sherlock suddenly drew a breath and laid back on his back again, not a single expression upon his face. Mind over matter, huh? Still that curiosity though. There was still a little shiver shaking the frail body, even though Sherlock had told himself to get his act together and stop behaving like this was so painful it could just as well be his undoing. The little tremble was enough to have John making up his mind. 'Shower it is.'

Standing straight was hard, it felt like his whole stomach would tear apart, even though he knew it wouldn't, of course it wouldn't... Breathing had gotten a bit more of a work too, but Sherlock had managed to coax John into believing it was all okay, even though it absolutely wasn't. He praised god for the person who had put a shirt on him, so he could just unbutton it. If it had been a sweater or something else he would have to take it over his head, John would've got to help him, and that would be... rather awkward. Sherlock stepped into the hot shower and let the water pour down on him as he lowered his shoulders completely and relaxed. Feeling the hot water running freely down on his cold body was a complete relief, even though it was hard to stand. He was just about to put soap into his hair when he realized that his stomach did not agree with him on stretching his arm upwards. His arm dropped in surprise at once when he actually felt pain caused by his actions. It didn't take long before he decided to step out of the shower, this time the clenching did not stop. He managed to put on his pyjama pants and the robe with great effort and pain, and was just about to go out of the bathroom when he caught sight of himself in the mirror. He stopped abruptly and leaned forward over the sink to get a better look. He let out a shuddering breath when he saw his almost black stomach and all the small cuts in his face, his whole state managed to horror even him. It looked bloody awful, almost surreal, his skin wasn't supposed to have that colour. He was deathly pale, pink, black, yellow, blue and purple spots decorating his whole body as if he was a piece of modern art. One of his hands found his stomach and gently stroked over it with curiosity, how was it possible to be almost all black, was it all just a bruise? When he poked slightly with his fingers he doubled over and sat down on the floor. A coughing fit followed and the breathing problems increased. He grasped at his robe and tried all he had to stop the coughing, so that he could stand up and go out into the living room and perhaps sit in his chair and drink some tea. Slowly it ceased and everything that was left was the pain and the shortness of breath. He stood up, closed the robe and, with a very thoughtful expression, opened up the door to find John sitting just outside waiting for him. He smiled briefly up at the dark haired man before his big, kind eyes suddenly got filled with concern. Sherlock swayed a bit and held his breath, before he straightened up and walked directly to his sofa. Why could the clenching in his stomach just not stop? Why didn't it want to disappear? Or maybe worse, why did it grow more and more intense? Perhaps he fell down on the sofa a bit too fast for John's liking, or he noticed something else, but at least he managed to get Sherlock away from it and into his own bed without him really noticing.

"Now how do you feel?" He sounded almost tired... he probably was too, he looked like he was. "It was a really short shower, but it might've been just enough to raise your temperature a bit, hm?" When he didn't get a response, his heart rate sped up just a little.

He shouldn't be stressing, he should actually be in bed too, just like Sherlock. His concussion hadn't just been "a little one", it had caused him to collapse into darkness several times a day after they had gotten into hospital. He had at least got medicines to take, while Sherlock hadn't got anything else but painkillers and the good advice to stay in bed.

Now he lay there, not responding to John and with his arm once again clamped over his stomach.

"C'mon, this isn't you mate, are you ok?" He hated this, absolutely hated this.

"Yes, yes... just let me get comfortable in here, would you?" Sherlock rasped out as he threw away some of the blankets, it was way too hot. "I'm alrigh-" He stopped and held his breath.

This wasn't him, he didn't control this anymore. His body took him with full power and soon after he lay there with heat packs against his stomach to make it calm down. If it weren't for the massive problem he had with breathing, he would've told John to stop fussing, it would stop hurting eventually, it always would. Most of all he wanted to throw away the heat packs, just to show his protest against it all, there was no reason to make a big deal out of it. He quickly changed his mind about it when he realized that it actually helped. Bit by bit breathing got much easier and eventually he fell asleep with all of the big blankets wrapped around him like a sleeping bag. John smiled tenderly and took away the heat packs before he went to bed himself.

There was a throbbing pain that woke Sherlock from his deep sleep. The same clenching he had felt in his stomach earlier had returned, worse this time, it felt much more like he was going to tear apart now. At first he thought about calling John, but then gave himself a mental slap, he would just fuss anyways, no point in it. His breath hitched and he swallowed hard every time it throbbed a little extra. He closed his eyes and tried to shut the pain out, but it was a great deal of pain to shut out, more than he could take. A drop of sweat ran down Sherlock's neck and he decided to throw of the blankets, even though he was actually freezing cold. He knew his pulse would elevate and that his breath would quicken, but his breathing didn't speed up, if it had only been so easy... It stopped, it actually stopped and he didn't manage to get it back, no matter what he tried. He sat up, struggled frantically to breathe, just to get one single, little breath down would help, but nothing happened. 'It may not be such a stupid idea to call John now' he thought matter-of-factly. A shaking hand reached for the phone on the bedside table, but that was a move he should've absolutely not done. A short scream left him, or more like a yell. Soon enough he could hear footsteps above him and he knew he had managed to rouse the man upstairs. It didn't take long before he came bursting into Sherlock's room, almost having jumped down the whole stair. A hand was on his forehead at once, checking temperature, but then the doctor must have noticed the big breathing problem he had and turned to put one hand on his chest and the other on his back to support him for better airways. This stretched Sherlock's stomach even further and he tried to push John away, without succeeding though.

"Is it worse, the pain?" He asked almost too clinically for Sherlock's liking.

"Yeah." He choked out and nodded.

John hurried out to get the heat packs again and found that the long, slender man now sat doubled over in his bed, his black curls half plastered to his face and half hanging down around his face, hiding his expression. The irregular twitch from his chest indicated that he still could not breathe. 'The pressure from the pain must be too much for him to manage.' Once again he pushed Sherlock up to a more straight sitting position and placed the heat pack on his stomach so that he could hold it there himself, cuddle it even, if he wanted to. But Sherlock dropped it with a hiss and a gasp, making it bounce of the mattress and land on the floor. 'Does it really hurt that bad?' John wanted to ask him, but he knew he should just shut up and try to help him with the breathing part.

"Don't panic, it'll onl-"

"Not… pan…icking!" Sherlock spat out.

He felt tears welling up in his eyes, and even though he knew that it was only natural that it happened, he couldn't anything to it when he got both angry and confused. He brought a frustrated hand to his cheek and brushed away the tear. He hated being confused, he hated not understanding, he hated not knowing. When would he get back his breath? That was what he hated not knowing right now, and as much as he wanted it not to be true, he was indeed panicking.

He threw himself forward so that he doubled over again and tore away from John's grasp. His moans were pained and panicked, he swore to himself that he would die right now, he couldn't live without breathing. God... suddenly it wasn't so boring after all, breathing. Was this like drowning? This was like drowning... it had to be like drowning... Breathing was absolutely a big part of the whole 'staying alive' thing, he knew that, he absolutely knew, of course he did, and of course he knew that was not possible to do under water. What more did he know? Didn't he know everything? He tried to search for the name of the man beside of him, but he couldn't remember, and right after rummaging his brain and not finding anything, he didn't know his own name or understand where he was anymore. Right before it felt like he was going to drown, someone drew him back over the surface and he could finally breathe again. At last he wasn't drowning anymore; finally he could float on the surface of the water and gasp and wheeze. And John was his lifesaver; John had dragged him up to the surface. Now he sat beside of him again, breathing together with him, talking to him, instructing him on how to breathe, because he had forgotten how to. As if hit by lightening, he snapped out of whatever it was he had been almost hypnotised by and let out an irritated huff of breath and laid down on the pillows.

"Leave." He told John pointedly, staring straight into his eyes.

"Like hell I'm leaving you now, Sherlock. Don't you even dare to think I'm not good enough a doctor to see you're stomach's still hurting." John's voice was low, rushed, almost threatening.

"Then make it stop." Sherlock whispered, looking down at his hands and closing his eyes shut to block out the now growing throbbing at his temples.

"We have to call for an ambulance. I don't know Sherlock, I've got no idea how to stop it, there may be something wrong, something... maybe..." His stomach shouldn't be hurting this much, but John was almost sure why it did so now, and he had to check.

John opened up the red robe to a disapproving whine from Sherlock. He took in the black stomach, swallowing hard at the sight. His hand closed in on the worst area, but it got swapped away by another hand and he met a pair of pleading eyes.

"Don't... John... Leave it-"

"I am just-"

"John... stop-"

"You have to sit still..."

"John, no!" Sherlock yelped and sat up abruptly as John pushed into his stomach with his whole palm, and a wave of guilt hit him hard.

Sherlock sobbed, twice, and gritted his teeth against the pain. That was when John saw his blood soaked teeth. He looked like a real animal, having chased and brought down his very own prey. Now he realized that he had to call for an ambulance ASAP. Internal bleeding. Sherlock moved his hand to his mouth and by the time he took it away, it was just as red as his mouth. The Hospital was what they needed, John felt like morphine was what both of them needed right now, to calm down. That black colour looked awful, and John suddenly thought that Sherlock may should have been in hospital for a few more days after all. A gasp, a hitch and then the whole ordeal was on again, Sherlock couldn't breathe.

The ambulance ride was just as awful as the last one. The worst part was actually getting him out from Baker Street, of course he couldn't walk so he had to be carried out on a stretcher. Even the slightest little movement hurt, John could see that, he could hear that. It helped a lot when Sherlock got a breathing mask on, but even then he couldn't breathe properly. When they got into the hospital, he had to wait in a bed on the ICU while they were running tests and checking up on the problem. John's temper had raised to a critical level more than once, and he had felt dizzy several times when he had yelled at the staff. Why did they have to take all these tests? Couldn't they just open him up and fix what was wrong? Well, he knew it didn't work quite like that, but he still thought they were considering this too much. Sherlock's breath was heavy, and his eyelids drooping. His whole system was full of drugs and pain-killers, or else he would have probably been lying in the bed completely overcome by the pain.

"Sherlock..." He turned his head against John's voice and saw him pointing at a male nurse coming towards him.

Suddenly he was so confused, and thought he should get away. It didn't work, why would his body not respond? Why now? He felt so heavy, unable to get away because of his own transport. He let out a high-pitched whine and flailed with his arms to try and get the nurse to back away. Suddenly John stood looming over him too, and took one hand on each of Sherlock's shoulder, trying to calm him down. He only got even more confused, was it even John? He couldn't see straight. Why would John do this to him?

"He's just taking you to surgery, Sherlock, calm down." He said sternly, pushing Sherlock down into the mattress and making his sluggish, drugged mind come back to life for a few seconds.

His eyelids dropped shut and he nodded, fatigue plastered on his whole face. The nurse started rolling Sherlock's bed out of his room and down the hall to a lift. It opened soon enough, soon enough for Sherlock to actually get relieved about it opening so soon, the nagging feeling in his stomach had vaguely made its way back through painkillers and other drugs. He looked around, taking in how big it was, or how big it must've been to fit in two persons and a whole bed. The nurse and John talked fast together, the tone of their voice was a bit urgent, almost alarmingly urgent, and it was definite that they talked about something 'a bit not good'. The bed was out in the corridor almost before the doors had fully opened, it felt like, and the nurse and Sherlock's dear doctor had now gotten into a rushed trot. Sherlock shook his head from one side to another, trying to get eye contact with one of the other men, but he couldn't keep his eyes open, the lights were too bright. It hurt in his temples and he screwed his eyes shut to try and shut it out. The doors to the OR swung open and the lights were now even worse. Sherlock took his long, slender hands up to his eyes and tried to cover them from the sharp shine as best as he could. He felt the left hand getting wet and sticky very soon and took it a bit away to look at it. Both the sensation of the brightness and of seeing his hand almost completely crimson red, made him throw his head to the side and throw up on his pillow. Somewhere very deep inside his brain something told him 'remember to check what sort of reaction body can have to over-sensitivity... later sometime'. For now he tried to focus on what the people around him were doing, with his eyes shut, trying to feel what they did. Someone wiped away the blood from his moth, at the same time a few others lifted him over to the operation table. Oww, not good... not good. A couple of hands fled to a couple of eyes again, and even in the man's weakened state no one could manage to get them away so that they could administer sedatives through the breathing mask. A syringe was then put into Sherlock's arm and just before he fell asleep he opened his eyes and thought 'Where the fuck is John?'

Sherlock woke up with a start, his eyes flung open and he groaned silently. He had just imagined the worst thing ever in his sleep. There had been a car crash, he had caused the car crash, bending down to pick up his phone while he was driving and John was sitting next to him. What an absurd thing to dream, by the way, he would never bend down to pick up a phone on the floor whilst driving, that was pure stupidity. The car had landed on its top somehow, and the next thing he saw was blurred red and blue lights and himself between a tree and a car. He closed his eyes again and sighed deeply. He didn't usually dream, and if so he rarely remembered them. Then again, he'd never dreamt about getting smashed between a car and a tree either. A manly voice had told him to keep calm and not to worry, undoubtedly John's voice, warm and soothing in his ear and confused brain. Then he saw the brave soldier collapsing on the ground. If anything more happened, he didn't get to see, because it felt as if he drowned down to the dark bottom of the sea. Everything went black, and then he woke up. A shaky breath left Sherlock's mouth and he opened his eyes again. This time he tried focusing on his surroundings, and his forehead wrinkled into a deep frown when he saw he was in a hospital. Now it felt like someone was choking him, his throat tightened and his heart dropped. At least he knew now that he had one...

His trembling hand went to the oxygen mask placed big and incommodious over his whole face, functioning the same way as food, essential to stay alive, but very bothersome indeed. This time the oxygen mask was inconvenient for the whole speaking part, or rather screaming part. He managed to drag it off so that it hung around his neck, and then he whispered quietly for John. His voice was hoarse, not at all how he wanted to be, it was awful, like chalk screeching against blackboard. He tried once again, still there was nothing else but a simple whine, drifting ghostly out between his lips. No one else could've had the misfortune of hearing the awful sound that had now subsided and become raspy, hurried breaths. He didn't have time for breathing, it was too hard to inhale the oxygen, and almost even more exhausting exhaling the carbon dioxide. He had to find John, get John, see John, know it had only been a dream.

"NO!" Sherlock's eyes widened and he gasped as the scream left him, it didn't sound like him, was it even him?

Now he felt as if he didn't have time for anything, and absolutely not for his gaze to swim and his whole body to feel like it had to swim with them, but for the umpteenth time, he was drowning. He had gotten tired of drowning, didn't like the sensation anymore, it had started to get frightening now. Somewhere far above the surface he could hear some sort of a beeping, under water it seemed almost lulling. Like a soft, humming melody calming him down, making him ready to close his eyes and give in to the deep, dark, overflowing water masses.

"NO!" John dropped his cup of coffee right down on the floor in shock, as he heard the heart wrenching, high-pitched scream.

He groaned at the mess he'd made on the floor and the stains he'd got on his new shoes. At least he'd have a good explanation on this one, it was a god awful sound. 'Even Sherlock would've winced at that one', he though and a tiny smirk passed his concerned features a bit about the thought. He should wake up anytime soon now and feel perfectly well. An armada of white-clothed people ran past him at what he thought must've been absolute max speed, making him drag his focus away from the coffee machine again. John didn't stop holding in the button, and managed to spill coffee one more time. He jumped when the warm, black liquid made contact with his skin, sighed frustratingly and gave up on the matter. He sat down in one of the chairs in the hallway, pleased to get some time off guarding the ever so tenacious and senseless detective like a hawk. The beeping of the heart monitor had made him crazy in the end, and the clock ticked abnormally loud. His head was still somewhat fuzzy, aching from time to time, but it didn't really matter, some rest now and he would get over it all and they could move on solving cases. He was tired right now, and even though he hadn't done much more than sitting in a chair for the last five hours, sitting down now was like taking off your suit after a long, exhausting day and turning on the telly to watch some crap show. Only when a bunch of other nurses ran past him and down the corridor, did his mind catch up with what was happening. He saw them running into one particular room. Sherlock!

John got up from his chair immediately, stars and blackness blocking his view. It didn't matter if his head ached, or if his body was soar, or his mind tired, the only sensation in him now was terrible fear. He ran after the nurses into Sherlock's room, where he found the whole lot of them standing around him.

"Nononononono." A hoarse, tired voice murmured.

"Please calm down Mr. Holmes!" A young, inexperienced nurse squealed impatiently.

The heart monitor beeped frantically, it made John wanting to put his hands over his ears again, just like he had done in the ambulance that time. A sharp, ragged, quick breathing filled the whole room with even more tension.

"Let me come through, he's my friend, I'm a doctor, just... let me-" John didn't really feel like finishing the sentence, he just pushed his way past all the young people, probably interns.

"John! " Sherlock gasped.

"Yeah, it's me." He said with a slow, reassuring voice, the voice of a real doctor.

"I- I... I though I... killed you." The otherwise so dark and monotone voice cracked at the last word and an honest, sad frown crept upon the pale man's forehead.

"No, I'm right here you bastard, right where I've been all along. You nearly got yourself killed, but not me. I'm one hundred percent alive, maybe more now than ever!" John smiled sadly and huffed, before he put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder and squeezed slightly.

"I'm so- I... dear lord... sorry." Sherlock's voice hitched at the last word, it was hard hold down the tears. Tears of joy, surprise, shock and guilt.

"No, we already had this talk. I am absolutely fine, and maybe you were a little stupid, but hey... no one died right?" John huffed out a nervous laughter, and released his grip on Sherlock's shoulder.

The frantic beeping had started to slow down somewhat, and Sherlock sunk back into the pillow, looking disgustingly fatigued. He blinked slowly, it was hard opening them again, as if weights were holding them down. As long as John was in the room, and Sherlock could speak to him, he would try with the cost of his life to keep awake. He couldn't sleep... He had just dreamt that he had killed John, but he hadn't, John was still alive, all flesh and bones with blood rushing through his veins, standing right next to him. The awful thought of him being dead had went right into his bone marrow and shocked him thoroughly, having him 'back' was making him wanting to listen to his voice forever. All the nurses started to retreat, except from one girl who checked that everything was in its right place before she eventually left too. Sherlock sighed when she left, finally he could be alone with his thoughts... and John... and just relax. After sitting in an extremely soft, comfortable silence for a few minutes, that confused expression made its way back into Sherlock's face, bit by bit.

"Why are you looking like that? You've done it an awful lot lately. What are you wondering so much about?" John asked, curiousness planted all over him.

"I- I just... I can't fathom why... Why are you still here?" Sherlock had been wondering about it all since the car crash, why didn't John just leave when Sherlock was such a waste of his time?

"Because best friends do that for each other, they help, support and comfort." John's warm smile, that Sherlock liked so much, lured itself upon the little, stern face.

"So you're saying that..."

"Yes."

"You and I, we are..."

"Yes."

"Best..."

"Friends." They said in unison, and the heart monitor skipped a beat just then.

"Yes, of course. Course you're my best friend."

R&R!