"Oh God, Oh God! that it were possible

To undo things done; to call back yesterday!

That time could turn up her swift and sandy glass,

To untell days, and to redeem these hours."

~Thomas Heywood

Sherlock fired another round at the wall and glanced over to see where it hit. Not exactly where he planned but close enough. He heard a few footsteps above him, running to the top of the stairs.

"Sherlock! Stop shooting the walls! Mrs. Hudson is going to add it onto the rent and we can't afford it after your failed experiment last month with the acid," John yelled down the stairs and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I'm bored, John! I need something to do."

"Go for a walk and deduce people in the park. Walk into a random restaurant, hotel or store and ask people if they need help with something. Do something! But stop shooting the wall!" John snapped and turned to go back into the spare room.

Sherlock had been without any cases for about a week. The website was providing nothing. Lestrade had nothing. Molly had nothing. Mycroft had offered a case but Sherlock had scoffed and rolled his eyes. Now he was sprawled on his chair, dressed in pajama pants, tee shirt, his robe and firing random shots into the wall and trying to predict how accurate the projectiles would land without looking where he was firing. He'd been scoring about 82% on predicting where it'll hit. He hoped to reach about 90% soon. If he didn't then he'd have to go looking for more bullets. John had gotten tired of the snappiness and trying to distract Sherlock and had disappeared into the spare bedroom to read or surf the Internet or something. Sherlock fired once again and glanced over at the wall. He heard footsteps and yelling again and knew John was coming downstairs and would definitely take away the gun now. Only two bullets left; better make them count. Sherlock raised his arm and fired the final two shots. The first one landed like normal in the sheetrock like normal. The second made a sharp clang noise and ricocheted. Sherlock slid from his chair and covered his head as thuds and bangs echoed around the flat. Slowly uncovering his head, Sherlock looked up at the wall. There were three new holes; the first bullet claimed one hole but the second bullet claimed two holes. A ricochet? A possible new experiment started to form in his mind. Evaluating the ricochet patterns on different types of metals. It would be useful knowledge. His mind started listing off the different types of metal that he could use in the experiment. Would the type of bullet affect the ricochet pattern? Distance from firing point. The possibilities started racing through his mind.

"John! I got an idea for an experiment. I might need Lestrade's help with it. Or Mycroft maybe. Depends on who can get me access to a shooting range uninterrupted for a few hours," Sherlock called and grabbed a piece of paper to start making notes about how to design the experiment.

Sherlock scribbled a few notes before his hand stopped and he slowly became aware of how quiet the flat was. Hadn't John been coming down the stairs to make tea or yell at Sherlock before he fired at the wall again. And the bullet had ricocheted. Sherlock's eyes flickered towards the doorway to the landing as he slowly straightened. An unpleasant feeling was building in his gut and chest. He licked his suddenly dry lips and dropped the pen to the desk.

"John?"

There was no answering reply as Sherlock slowly walked to the partially closed door. His eyes immediately focused on the ricocheted bullet hole just at chest height and his heart seized in horror.

"John?" he asked, ignoring the faint tremble in his voice.

His gaze slid down the gap between the door and door frame as he reached out. When his gaze locked on the pair of legs sprawled on the landing, all his calm broke.

"John!" he yelled and wrenched the door open to stumble to his lover's side.

John lay crumbled at the bottom of the stairs and a puddle of blood was slowly growing beneath him. On the left side of his chest was a slowly growing stain of red on his jumper. The puddle was coming from somewhere else. Sherlock ripped off his robe and pressed it against the entry wound with one hand while searching for a pulse. He found one; fast and thready. The wound was too close to his heart, Sherlock realized suddenly. Swearing to himself, he slid a hand under John's body and found the exit wound. The entry wound was left chest, just under his pectoral muscle; exit wound was slightly higher. The bullet took him at an angle. Sherlock wrapped the robe around John's body and pressed it against the exit wound. He darted back into the sitting room and grabbed his mobile from the mantle and dialed emergency services before cradling it between his head and shoulder.

"John! John! Can you hear me?" he yelled and pressed a hand against the entry and exit wound.

The only reply he got was a soft groan and a flutter of John's eyelashes. Sherlock snapped out the address over the phone and listed the details they asked for. Sherlock's mind was racing in circles as he stared down at his lover. His lover shot by Sherlock's own hand. Tears flowed down his face as he pleaded with John to wake up; to acknowledge him. The brief pounding on the door downstairs alerted Sherlock to the paramedics arrival but he wasn't going to ease on the pressure trying to keep John's blood in his body where it belonged. He screamed at them to break down the door; nothing mattered if they couldn't help John. Two paramedics pushed him aside and descended on John. Sherlock stared at John's slack face as they slipped on an oxygen mask and started packing the wound with gauze. Numbers and readings were being issued back and forth as needles were inserted for IVs. Urgency took over as the oxygen mask was ripped away and they started to thread an endo tube down John's throat. 'Left lung collapsing', was whispered followed with, 'Bullet went through the lung. Too much blood, must have nicked the heart or an artery. Bleeding out. Need emergency surgery.' Sherlock was only vaguely aware of someone talking to him and asking him questions. He replied automatically while listening to the paramedics. A backboard appeared as they prepared John for transport. It felt like a dream, a nightmare cruelly constructed from Sherlock's genius mind from his previous experiences. The nightmare that the one person that he finally opened himself up to was leaving. Walking away while he begged them to stay. Or leaving because Sherlock himself pushed them away.

Handcuffs clicked around his wrists.

Sherlock's head snapped around to stare at...Dimmock? Where was Lestrade? Why was Dimmock here? Why were his wrists in cuffs? Dimmock stared sadly at him.

"You just admitted you shot him, Sherlock. You shot John. Accidently you say, but you still shot him. I have to take you to the station."

"No, I have to go with John. I can't leave him alone. I need to go with him."

"You can't, Sherlock. After we finish at the station you can see him at hospital," Dimmock said softly, hoping Sherlock would see reason.

John's life was on the line; reason was not a valid concept to Sherlock. "No! John! I have to go with him! John!"

Dimmock quickly threaded his arms through Sherlock's cuffed arms as the consulting detective struggled to follow his lover. Dimmock kept them kneeling on the floor and held Sherlock back as the paramedics started to carry John down the stairs. Sherlock yelled himself hoarse until the sounds from the ambulance faded away down the street. He was left panting in Dimmock's grip and staring at the pool of blood at the bottom of the stairs. John's blood; all of it. His mind retreated in on itself and ignored all outside stimuli.

John had tried to convince Sherlock to come to bed that morning and fool around. Sherlock had just snapped at him in his frustration of not having a case. Sherlock's mind snapped back to their last time together. It had been a week ago when they had finished an exciting case. They had made love that morning after closing the case the night before. It was slow and enjoyable. No rush for a case or work. No rush to get out of bed. They took the time to enjoy each other's body. Now, he realized how much John had tried to get Sherlock's attention on something for the past week. Tried to coax him out of the flat. Coax him into discussions. Left notes about lectures at nearby universities. Anything to get Sherlock out of his funk. And all Sherlock did was ridicule or insult.

Sherlock wasn't aware of Dimmock leading him to the panda car and helping him into the back seat. He wasn't aware of the shocked faces that he passed on the way to the holding cells. He wasn't aware of the cold tile floor under his barefeet. He wasn't aware of his body occasionally shivering in the cool holding cell dressed in only pajama pants and a tee shirt. He wasn't aware of the four hours he spent sitting in that cell. He wasn't aware of the ache in his shoulders and arms from his cuffed hands.

He was only aware of the probability of death from John's wound. He was aware of his blood stained hands; stained with John's blood. He was aware of the blood soaked shirt and bloody knees from kneeling in John's blood. His mind listed the possible complications and with each one his heart tightened even further. He remembered kissing along John's golden skin; in his mind the skin turned grey and cold under his lips. The warm, sparkling eyes and now they were empty; empty of John. His heart started racing and he began gasping for breath. He killed John. There was no other deduction. No other conclusions to draw. His flat mate was dead; his lover was dead. John was dead. Sherlock had killed John.

*slap*

Sherlock's head snapped to the side as pain exploded on his left cheek and his eyes popped open. Opening his mouth, Sherlock stretched his jaw to try and ease the sting while turning to look back at who may have slapped him. Mycroft stood in front of him and his umbrella was tapping impatiently on the tile floor. Lestrade stood behind him in the doorway looking like he dressed in a hurry. One look at Mycroft told Sherlock that his older brother was furious; but furious at what?

"Mycroft?"

"How could you be so idiotic, Sherlock? I've never known you to be so baseline stupid. Of course a bullet will hit something or someone if you fire it. The luck that nothing bad happened until now is a mystery. You stupid boy," Mycroft snarled before snapping his mouth shut to reign in his temper.

Sherlock took the verbal abuse silently once dropping his gaze back to the floor. He didn't need Mcroft to tell him what he already knew. He didn't care anymore. John was dead; nothing mattered. His only care was getting out long enough to find a dealer and make it all go away. Permanently; permanently make it go away. Mycroft sighed and accepted the bag Lestrade held out silently.

"Here are some clothes. Get cleaned up and dressed," he said softly and set the bag on the bench next to Sherlock.

Lestrade came forward and moved to uncuff Sherlock. Lestrade hesitated for a moment upon seeing blood staining Sherlock's hands but he ignored it.

"How's John?" Sherlock asked softly, not sure if he wanted confirmation.

Both men hesitated and glanced at each other before Lestrade spoke. "We're not sure."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow in confusion. How could they not be sure? Lestrade stepped back with the handcuffs and watched as Sherlock stiffly moved his arms around to his front.

"There was a large eleven car pileup on the motorway. Twenty-three people or so were rushed to various hospitals. John...has been lost in the confusion," Mycroft admitted and Sherlock surged to his feet.

"What?"

"Anthea is searching all the hospitals for a man of John's description and injuries. We will find him, Sherlock, but it'll take time," Mycroft said while holding a hand out to stop Sherlock from charging from the room.

"We don't have time, Mycroft! John could be dying with no one there with him. He could already be dead and his body pushed aside like a lump of trash."

Just as the words left his mouth they came back around and pierced Sherlock's chest. It was the first time he had spoken them out loud and he realized how much the words hurt now that he had verbalized them. Images flooded his brain and for once he cursed his powerful imagination for showing him the scenes he just described. A choked whimper slipped past his lips and his knees wobbled unsteadily. Mycroft stepped forward and wrapped an arm around Sherlock as the detective started to collapse. Sherlock wrapped his arms around Mycroft and held him tightly, taking the comfort that was offered.

"What if he is dead, My? What do I do?" Sherlock whispered into Mycroft's shoulder and felt Mycroft's arm tighten slightly.

"There's no point in considering that until we know for certain. Dr. Watson is strong and fit and more stubborn than you at times. Do not make deductions without having all the facts. Control your mind, 'Lock, do not let it control you," Mycroft replied softly against Sherlock's ear.

"Now get dressed before you catch something. Greg and I are going to try and get you released. Once I hear anything from Anthea about John, I will let you know."

Sherlock nodded and straightened from Mycroft's arms. The cell door clanged shut behind the two men as Sherlock opened the bag and tried to repress the flinch at the noise. Thankfully, Dimmock had put him in an isolation cell so at least he didn't have to deal with idiot criminals; most of who, Sherlock probably put in here himself. He changed quickly and wiped his hands clean with the wet wipes stuffed in the bag. He didn't look at the blood soaked clothing and vowed to throw them away or burn them at the first chance he got. He left his coat draped over the bench and slipped his keys, wallet and phone into his pockets. The familiar custom tailored suit calmed his mind slightly as he started to walk around the cell. He started listing the elements and their weights and what group they belonged in; anything to keep his mind busy. He evaluated his emotionally reactions up to this point and wondered if this was how John felt after Sherlock's jump. Was it the same or not? Sherlock decided it was not the same. Sherlock had it worse. John, at the time, believed Sherlock to be dead and had no evidence to suggest otherwise. Sherlock didn't know if John was dead or not. He quickly realized that hope was painful; the hope that maybe John was still alive but reality would intrude and provide statistics that hinted that John was dead. His emotions swung back and forth. Sherlock sat again on the bench and leaned forward to press the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. Had to control his mind. Stop it from running rampant.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock's head snapped up in surprise to find Mycroft standing in the doorway to the cell again. He hadn't heard his brother approach or open the door. His mind was really in disarray.

"We've adamantly stated that is was an negligent discharge of a firearm. Given your history of helping out the NSY they will overlook the charges. However, if Dr. Watson should die then you will be brought up on manslaughter charges. I cannot change that."

Sherlock slowly nodded as Mycroft motioned for him to follow. Sherlock didn't need to tell Mycroft what was running through his mind. If John did die then the court system wouldn't have to worry about bringing charges to Sherlock. All Sherlock would need would be an hour and enough cocaine, morphine mixture to stop his heart. Easily done.

Sherlock grabbed his coat and slipped it on as he followed Mycroft through the back halls of the NSY. He shoved the bag with his blood soaked cloths into the first trash receptacle he reached and didn't look back. He kept his gaze turned down and followed the back of Mycroft's heels as they left NSY by the back hallways. A storm was coming, Sherlock mused when they stepped outside. He breathed in the air and smelled rain on the wind. John loved the moment before a storm. When he could smell the rain and feel the electricity in the air. John had more appreciation of mother earth and her power.

Mycroft's phone rang and both Holmes stopped in their tracks. Mycroft pulled his phone out and glanced at the screen before sliding a thumb across the screen and bringing it up to his ear.

"Yes, Anthea."

Mycroft looked at Sherlock and held his gaze as he listened to his assistant. Sherlock tried to read his brother's face but couldn't. They were brothers, they knew how to read each other and how to keep a blank face. Mycroft was the better of the two, Sherlock grimly acknowledged. He wrapped his coat tighter around his body; maybe he could protect himself, protect himself from the words that were about to shatter his world. Mycroft made noises of acknowledgement before hanging up the phone. He opened the door to the back seat of the sedan and motioned for Sherlock to get in. Sherlock stood locked in place while he stared at his brother.

"My...please. Tell me," Sherlock whispered and felt impossible tears sting his eyes.

"He's alive, for now. Get in and I'll tell you on the way."

Sherlock almost fell into the car in relief, questions bubbling up and threatening to choke him. Mycroft told the driver the name of the hospital and told him to hurry. He sat back and looked over at Sherlock. His little brother had leaned back against the back of the seat with his hands covering his face and his chest was surging in time with his heavy breathing.

"Anthea would have called sooner but she's been dealing with the surgery team. Dr. Watson is still in surgery and they have been instructed to do everything in their power to save him. They have him on a cardiopulmonary bypass machine and are cooling down his body while working on repairing the damage to the lung and heart."

"Why are they cooling his body?" Sherlock asked from behind his hands.

"Cooled blood decreases the body's demand for oxygen. Less demand for oxygen means less stress on the lung and the heart. We'll find out more once we speak with the doctors," Mycroft replied quietly and stared out the window at the passing city.

Neither brother spoke again until they reached the hospital and found Anthea in the surgery waiting room. She looked up from her Blackberry and nodded in greeting to her boss and Sherlock.

"The nurse just told me that Dr. Watson has survived surgery. He'll be on his way to recovery shortly and the doctor will be here shortly to update us on the surgery and his chances." Anthea held up a hand to Sherlock as he opened his mouth to speak. "Yes, he is being moved to a private room which you will have access to. You will be allowed to remain as long as you do not disturb the patient or hinder the medical staff from doing their job."

Sherlock nodded in appreciation and looked up at an approaching doctor in scrubs.

"John Watson?"

"Yes. How is he?"

"Are you family?"

"No, but I'm Sherlock Holmes, I'm his emergency contact."

The doctor glanced over the paperwork on his clipboard and nodded.

"I'm Dr. Sweeney and I'll be overseeing Dr. Watson's care. Dr. Watson is in critical condition but stable. He crashed once in the ambulance and once on the table. The bullet nicked the aorta and he lost a lot of blood before getting here. We immediately took him into surgery to repair the damage. We put him on a cardiopulmonary bypass machine while we worked to repair the damage to his heart and left lung. The lungs are a very forgiving organ in some instances and we were able to sew the holes closed. The nick in his heart wall was difficult to repair but we're hopeful we fixed it. Thankfully, we did not have to crack his chest to get at his heart; we managed to do the work through the initial trauma location. He's been moved to a private room and we're slowly starting to warm up his core temperature from surgery; we'll keep his body temperature lower than normal to ease the demand on his lungs. He's on full ventilator support and he'll be kept under sedation and on a paralytic for several days.

"After three days; if there are no complications; we'll take an MRI and see how his lungs and heart look. If the injuries seem to be healing then we can consider starting to wean Dr. Watson off the ventilator and medication. We'll need to watch closely for any bacterial infections. Pneumonia is a high probability but hopefully we can catch it early and control the severity if he does contract it. Overall, he was very lucky."

Anthea shoved a chair under Sherlock as his knees finally gave out in relief. Mycroft asked a few more questions before thanking the doctor and found out what room John was going to be moved to. Sherlock felt lightheaded at the news. John was going to be okay. Overall he was going to be okay.

Feeling the overwhelming urge to be near John as soon as humanly possible, Sherlock stood and quickly started for the hallway to find John's room. He heard Mycroft and Anthea follow him down the winding halls until he reached the private ward. John's room door was standing open and Sherlock could hear someone moving around inside the room. He slowed and stopped in the doorway. A nurse was moving around the bed, checking all the connections and confirming the flow rate for the drugs going to the patient. Sherlock couldn't look at John yet, not while someone was in the room. He looked around the rest of the room and looked back at the nurse as she approached him.

"I'll be on until twenty-three hundred. I'll bring by the new nurse when she comes on. Please use the call button if there's anything you need."

Sherlock nodded and she stepped out to speak with Mycroft as well. Sherlock slowly stepped into the room towards the bed and finally looked at it; looked at the person on the bed. He made himself lock away his emotions until he could afford to release them. John's mouth was slack around the endo tube that was taped to his face. His torso was bare and a large square of gauze was taped to his left chest over the bullet wound. His arms were riddled with IVs and monitors to evaluate his oxygen intake, blood pressure and heart rate. The sheet was pulled up to his waist and Sherlock reached out to pull the sheet up over John's body. He was always prone to feeling cooler; why he always wore those jumpers of his. Sherlock pulled the chair over and shrugged out of his coat to hang it on the back of the chair. The scarf followed before Sherlock moved and hitched his hip up on the bed to be nearer to John. Sherlock reached out and gently brushed his thumb over John's forehead. Sherlock leaned forward and pressed his lips to John's forehead. The skin was cool under the detective's lips and he kept them pressed there while tears threatened. Releasing a shuddering breath, he went back to the chair and sat to keep watch. He would watch until John woke up and he would wake up.

Two hours later John had a mild temperature. Three and a half hours later it was a raging fever from pneumonia. When Sherlock pressed a hand against John's left lung he could feel the faint vibrations from the liquid in his lungs while he breathed. He watched as the nurse changed the bandages and replaced the empty saline bag with a new one. Sherlock drank the terrible cup of coffee the nurse brought him. After finishing the cup, he rinsed his mouth out with water and regretted drinking the coffee. He should have known how bad hospital coffee was. A short time later, Anthea appeared bearing a large to go cup and Sherlock cautious sniffed and his mouth started to water. It was a coffee from his favorite shop. He took a sip and let it flood his mouth before sliding down his throat. Holding back the moan of pleasure, he looked up to thank Anthea but found she was already gone.

That progressed for the next day or two. Fresh cups of good coffee would appear on the bedside table with occasional sandwiches or small pieces of fruit. Sometimes he would eat what was brought, most times he would ignore it. Mycroft managed to convince him to go home for a short time to shower, change and get some sleep. Sherlock had actually intended to do that but once he reached the landing he came across the coagulated pool of blood. He rushed to the loo and dry heaved, bringing up only bile. Cleaning his mouth out, Sherlock found the cleaning supplies and set to scrub out the stain. Bolts of pain were racing across his lower back by the time he was satisfied. Granted, he had stripped the first few layers of the wood off but at least the stain wasn't visible anymore. Putting away the cleaning supplies, he took a scalding hot shower and only emerged when the hot water ran out. His skin was pink and sensitive to all the scrubbing.

Sherlock was back at John's side an hour later and sitting under Mycroft's glare.

"Sherlock, you need to get some rest. John wouldn't want you doing this to yourself," Mycroft commented and Sherlock snorted softly.

"Well then, John can bloody well wake up and tell me that himself."

Sherlock knew he was being petulant but couldn't stop himself. John was the one that censored Sherlock. Without John, Sherlock could be as acidic as he wanted with his comments.

Mycroft sighed and gently gripped Sherlock's shoulder before he leaned over to speak to his brother.

"I know you are worried about John, but think how it will be while he recovers. He will be more concerned about you then he will be with recovering. You need to take care of yourself to take care of John. He will need you to be strong," Mycroft whispered and squeezed his little brother's shoulder.

A nurse appeared and hesitated upon seeing the two men in close conversation. Mycroft straightened and raised an eyebrow in the nurse's direction. She blushed slightly and looked over at John.

"We are taking him for an MRI. It should only take about thirty minutes and he will be brought back here afterwards. The images should be ready thirty minutes after that," she said and started to disconnect the power supplies.

Sherlock stood to follow but looked at his brother when Mycroft's grip tightened. Sherlock watched as John was rolled out of the room and felt the painfully urge to follow. He didn't want to be away from John. Needed to see him to stay calm. Once the sound from John's bed had faded away, Mycroft pulled Sherlock up and drug him out of the room. Sherlock was so startled his followed dumbly until he realized where Mycroft was leading him. He was about to complain when he remembered Mycroft's earlier words. He knew how John was and Mycroft was correct. John would see the state Sherlock was in and immediately worry about him, ignoring his own condition. He would harass Sherlock to eat and sleep. Sherlock followed Mycroft to the canteen and looked disheartened at the offered line of mass produced food. His lips twitched in a snarl.

Mycroft cleared his throat and Sherlock sighed before turning to look at Mycroft. He was standing next to a table with Anthea and on the table was a spread of food from; Sherlock sniffed; Angelo's. Sherlock looked at Mycroft and saw the knowing smile. Mycroft knew Sherlock would not eat happily from the cafeteria fare so he brought food he knew Sherlock would eat. Sherlock felt a sudden surge of affection for his brother. Nodding briefly in thanks, Sherlock sat and started eating while Mycroft and Anthea quietly talked about work. They resolutely did not look or speak to Sherlock while he ate, knowing better than to interrupt once Sherlock started. Mycroft's mobile pinged again and just like the other times, he glanced at it but instead of putting it down after reading the message, he held it and stood.

"Sherlock, we need to get back to John."

Sherlock stared at him blankly for a brief moment before jumping to his feet and running out of the canteen. His chest tightened as he skidded around the corner and barrelled into John's room. Two nurses were standing next to the bed while Dr. Sweeney listened to John's lungs with a stethoscope. Sherlock's knuckles turned white from his painful grip on the doorway as he watched the doctor. He heard Mycroft and Anthea come up behind him but he didn't spare them a glance. The doctor sighed and looped the stethoscope around his neck as he turned.

"Ah, Mr. Holmes. A word, please."

The nurses slipped through the door once Sherlock's arms dropped. Sherlock stood just barely in the room and faced the doctor after glancing over at John. Gentle pressure was suddenly against Sherlock's arm and he flinched slightly at the sensation. A glance over his shoulder showed him Mycroft standing close and offering the only support Sherlock would accept. He briefly nodded before looking back to Dr. Sweeney.

"During the MRI, Dr. Watson was struck by a pulmonary embolism. He started coughing up blood around and in his endo tube. We immediately administered heparin which did clear the clot but now we have to watch closely for any drop in blood pressure to indicate if he's bleeding out from the lung damage or from his heart."

The doctor hesitated before completing his statement. "This is not good news. His body is too weak to fight this as well as the infection. The strain on his heart could become too much. You should say your goodbyes in case he can't rebound from this. The nurses will closely watch his readings at the nurse's station but if you see any distress, please page the nurses."

Sherlock nodded mutely and shifted aside as the doctor left the room. He slowly walked forward and pulled the chair back to the bedside and lowered himself into it while gripping John's hand. He vaguely heard Mycroft say that he would be out in the hallway and Sherlock just nodded without looking away from John's face. John looked grayer now; like his life was slowly slipping away. His life was slowly slipping away.

"Oh, John. What have I done?" Sherlock whispered and rubbed the back of John's hand with his thumb.

"I did this to you."

Sherlock turned over John's hand and gently kissed the cool palm.

"I was bored and shot the wall...but I shot you."

Kissed the palm that never harmed an innocent.

"Can I...you...please, John."

The palm that calmed and soothed Sherlock's turbulent mind. The palm that healed his hurts with gentle touches. He pressed the cool palm to his cheek and threaded his fingers through the slack ones.

"Please, John, don't leave me."

The palm that made him scream with pleasure. Killed a man that threatened to hurt him. Did nothing to hurt Sherlock, no matter how much trouble Sherlock created.

Sherlock lowered his head and pressed his cheek against John's hand. He had to wait. Had to wait for John to wake up. Or wait for John to die.

(!)(!)(!)

Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he spun in place to identify where he was. He was no longer in hospital with John. He was...in the Scottish Highlands. It was night and a fire was burning brightly in the firepit. At his back was a small cabin that John and he had rented after finishing a case. John argued that they needed a holiday after solving six cases in five days. Both of them were exhausted. Sherlock had sniffed dismissively at staying out in the Highlands with no mobile service or telly. But, grudgingly he had eventually admitted that John had the right idea. He needed to get away from the frantic buzz of London life. It was also the same place that John had revealed his feelings for Sherlock. They had made slow, tender love beside that fire. And later on in the cabin. And on the table. Tables, actually.

John was sitting, propped up against a large stone in the fire's circle of light. He wore a pair of jeans and a jumper; he was wearing Sherlock's favorite jumper. He was holding a wineglass of deep red liquid, which he took a sip from while staring at Sherlock. It was from a beautiful bottle of cabernet sauvignon John had brought. That bottle of cabernet sauvignon was the best wine Sherlock had ever had and what it had represented.

"John?" Sherlock whispered and saw the answering smile.

"Hello, Sherlock."

Sherlock stumbled to John and fell to his knees beside the army doctor. He grabbed John's face and frantically kissed him; not caring if this was a dream or nightmare or fantasy. Whatever it was, he would take it greedily and never let go. He felt John smile against his lips as Sherlock slowed his frantic kisses.

"John...John...I don-I don't understand."

"Sshhh, love," John murmured and reached up with his free hand to press it over Sherlock's hand.

"I still don't understand."

John smiled and used his glass holding hand to gesture around them. "Remember this place?"

Sherlock didn't spare another glance to their surroundings. Of course he knew where they were. He was more concerned about the man in front of him.

"Of course. But why am I remembering this?" Sherlock asked as his thumbs gently rubbed against John's cheek.

John sipped at his wine again before answering.

"This is one of your fondest memories. Your mind reverts back to it when it's about to shut down. Like safe mode on your laptop," John supplied and the glass of wine suddenly disappeared from his hand.

His newly empty hand reached out to wrap around Sherlock's neck and gently pulled him forward to kiss him again. Sherlock sighed into the kiss and relaxed into the older man. John pushed back and rocked forward to rise to his knees. They were both on their knees now, torsos pressed against each other. John's hands slid down Sherlock's chest and then slid back up towards his shoulders to push off the heavy coat.

"Your mind has subconsciously acknowledged that I'm probably about to die. It's saving everything it can to a permanent file. How I smell."

Sherlock breathed in deeply. Gun oil, leather, Earl Grey, cordite. He loved that smell. It was home; it was comfort; it was acceptance. J. WATSON SMELL SAVED.

I wish you freedom

I wish you peace

I wish you nights of stars that beckon you to sleep

I wish you heartache that leaves you more of a man

I wish I could be there, but I can't

John tossed aside the coat and softly spoke against Sherlock's lips. "How I taste."

Sherlock kissed John again and slipped his tongue into the welcoming mouth. Tongues danced against each other as Sherlock pulled John tighter against his body. He tasted of biscuits, jam and Earl Grey tea. J. WATSON TASTE SAVED.

I wish you places that sit so still

Where people never ever change and never ever will

I wish I could hold you and make you understand

I wish I could be there, but I can't

John was slowly unbuttoning Sherlock's shirt. He lifted Sherlock's hand to release the cuff and kissed the inside of the delicate wrist. He did the same thing to the other wrist. Sherlock was panting heavily as arousal curled in his belly and the base of his spine. John tossed aside the shirt before shucking his owner jumper and undershirt.

"How my skin feels...against your hands...against your body."

Sherlock wrapped one arm around John's waist and slid it up John's back. His other hand slid up his chest and rested on the scar tissue. The skin was warm and firm over the muscles. Muscles that flexed and shifted under Sherlock's hands and fingertips. Hidden strength and power. J. WATSON FEEL SAVED.

I wish you wisdom

I wish you years

I wish you armies to conquer all your fears

I wish you courage for all that life demands

I wish I could be there, but I can't

John's hands slid down to Sherlock's trousers and quickly loosened the belt to cast it aside. He quickly unfastened the trousers and pushed them down Sherlock's thighs along with his pants. Sherlock gasped and held his breath as John wrapped a hand around Sherlock's cock.

"How I sound when we make love."

Sherlock quickly had John out of his clothing and had him laying out under Sherlock's body. The flickering fire cast shadows over the dips and planes of John's body. Sherlock kissed down John's body and ignored the tears that were falling from his eyes onto John's tan body. The moans from John's lips were scorching flames down Sherlock's spine. Sherlock would mouth 'love you' against the skin between kisses, as the palm of his free hand was stroking down John's outer thigh. Beside him appeared a bottle of lube and Sherlock didn't hesitate. He quickly coated his fingers and knelt between John's spread thighs.

"Please," John whispered and reached out to brush aside a tear from Sherlock's blue-grey eyes.

Sherlock slid a long finger inside John as he wrapped his mouth around John's cock. John moaned Sherlock's name and it was beautiful. Sherlock's long finger brushed against John's prostate and he felt the resultant thrash. Another finger was added as Sherlock deep throated John. Fingers carded through Sherlock's curls and gently tugged. Heeding the unspoken request, Sherlock kissed up John's body and nestled himself between the trembling thighs. He pressed his forearms against the dirt on either side of John's head so their torsos were flush against each other and their faces were close.

"I love you," John murmured as Sherlock pressed the tip of his cock to John's entrance.

Sherlock's bottom lip wavered threateningly before he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to John's lips. "I love you too."

Sherlock's hips slid forward and he eased into John's willing body with a choked cry. Both men froze as they savored the delicious sensation and heat. Sherlock could feel John's pounding heartbeat as he lowered his head to press against John's neck. John's hands were stroking up and down Sherlock's back and would occasionally squeeze or rub in various spots. Sherlock's hips shifted back before sliding forward again. John arched against him and his hands dug into Sherlock's back. Sherlock knew it wasn't going to be long.

"I'm sorry, John. I'm so sorry," Sherlock whispered as his hips slid deeper into his lover.

John was panting in lust and painful arousal. His cock was hard between the two men but this wasn't about John. The smell of their mating permeated Sherlock's mind and with it followed the thought. 'This will be the last time with John.' Sherlock slipped a hand between their bodies and grasped John's cock. With a few pulls and a few tears, Sherlock felt John tense and then scream as he orgasmed. The wildly fluttering muscles set Sherlock off and a sobbing scream slipped from his lips as he thrust one last hard time into John and stilled. The orgasm raced through him, exploding from the base of his spine out to his fingertips and toes. J. WATSON SAVED.

There are rhymes and there are reasons

And times when nothing stayed the same

But you know my love still remains

I wish we were together

I wish I was home

I wish there were nights where I was never alone

I know I've said it but I'll say it once again

I wish I could be there, but I can't

Sherlock collapsed on top of John and gently pressed a kiss against the scarred tissue at his shoulder. Instead of warm flesh under his lips, he felt nothing.

"Our time here is almost done, Sherlock. You're starting to wake up," John whispered as he kissed the top of Sherlock's head.

"No, no. I can't live without you, John. Please. Don't leave me, please," Sherlock sobbed and clutched tighter against the cooling body under him.

John hummed quietly and softly kissed the shell of Sherlock's ear. "I wish I could be there, but I can't."

John disappeared from under Sherlock and all that was left was a cabin, a fire and a destroyed consulting detective. Sherlock Holmes never followed normal convention. He didn't rail or scream at the unfairness of his life and the loss of his lover. He whimpered and dug his fingers into the dirt.

"John...take me with you."

(!)(!)(!)

Sherlock gasped and his eyes popped open to quickly dilate in reaction to the room's overhead lights. His gaze immediately locked onto the bed and its occupant. Heartbeat was steady but weak; pressure was low. Dangerously low. Sherlock tightened his grip on John's hand and gently raised it to kiss. He sighed deeply before lowering the hand back to the bed. The dream was fresh in his mind. Normally, he forgot all about his dreams but this one...this one he would cherish and cling to.

"During...during the time I was gone, I thought of you constantly. You were in my dreams and when I was awake. I heard your voice whispering to eat and sleep; to keep myself healthy so I could come back to you. I made so many promises to myself concerning you. Promise to take you less for granted. To make you laugh more. To make you smile more. To never make you grieve again. To never grieve over me because…"

Sherlock took a shaky breath and felt tears well in his eyes. He didn't care if they fell anymore; he was beyond caring. The only person that loved and accepted him for who he was was about to die. Die by his own careless hand. Tears were the least of his concerns. He took a deep breath to continue.

"To not grieve over me because I'm not worth it. I'm not worth any of it. I'm...not worthy of you, John. I never was. You are so much better than me."

Sherlock tightened his grip on John's hand and leaned back in his chair to stare up at the ceiling. They had never spoken about his time away. It was too difficult for John to stay detached and objective. Sherlock could only do it because he had lived it and had three years to come to terms. His mind was surprisingly clear and non encumbered by the normal racing thoughts and ideas that usually crowded his mind.

"You always look for the good in people; believe in the good of people. I could never do that. I've seen too much of the bad. But then I met you. You...you were different. You saw the good in me that I thought was no longer there. You brought the good in me out. You made me want to be better. Better for you," Sherlock murmured and rubbed his thumb over John's hand.

"I also promised to never leave your side again. To never be taken away. But that doesn't mean you can leave. We're supposed to stay together; go through everything together. All the hardships that we seem to attract. But you're trying to leave me now. You're trying to go where I can't follow."

The tears were trickling silently down Sherlock's temples and disappearing into his curly hair.

"Don't go where I can't follow you, John. Please, don't leave me alone. Don't go where I can't follow because...I will find a way to follow you, John. I will find you. I won't let you go again," Sherlock murmured and lifted his head to lean forward to rest his elbows beside John's hips.

He stared up at John's lax face and felt a strange calmness fall over him.

(!)(!)(!)

Sherlock stood silently like a sentinel in the corner as he watched the people move around his lover. Mycroft had taken it upon himself to notify John's closest friends and sister that he might be passing away. The word had spread like a wildfire. Sherlock never knew how many people valued John; the number of people coming by were staggering. The number of people John helped. Sherlock curled in on himself. John Watson, the unsung hero. The short man living in Sherlock Holmes' shadow. Fellow doctors came by. NSY staff and inspectors came by. A large handful of the Homeless Network. None spared Sherlock a glance and he was glad for that.

Sherlock fingered the syringe in his pocket. It hadn't been hard to find the drugs he needed. They were in a hospital. He knew where the cameras were located and the procedures they used. It was a deadly mixture of potassium chloride and pancuronium. A strong paralytic to put him down and enough potassium chloride to stop his heart. He'd feel it. He'd feel his heart slow, stutter and stop; the mental and physical agony of his body trying to breath and live yet unable. Sherlock would die when John died; he just had to stop his transport.

The stream of visitors stopped when visiting hours ended. The nurses had given up trying to make Sherlock follow the rules. Sherlock remained in the shadows of the room with the window at his back. His shadow was cast on the tile floor as a bolt of lighting outside lit up the window. A moment later the vibration from the thunder danced through the pane of glass and to his back. Sherlock turned his head and glanced over his shoulder at the rain the was streaming down the window pane. His gaze followed the trails of water before turning to look back at the bed and its occupant.

The fever had dropped just a little to indicate the antibiotics had started working but it might have been too little too late. John's body was too weak to continue fighting. He was relying solely on the mechanical ventilation to breath. The last brain scan was not promising. He might have lost too much blood. Sherlock sighed and looked at the doorway when a figure appeared. He didn't have the energy to glare at Mycroft as the elder Holmes entered the room and looked from the bed to the window.

"Any change?"

Sherlock shook his head. Mycroft opened his mouth to say something but alarms started sounding. Sherlock was frozen as he stared at the heart monitor beside John's bed. Staff flooded the room and Sherlock stumbled towards the bed. Mycroft intercepted him and held him back as he watched the heart rate decrease. They started shocking John's body as Sherlock struggled against Mycroft's grip.

The doctor held open John's eyelid and flashed a penlight to check the reaction. Sherlock saw him shake his head sadly.

"No! John! Don't do this!" Sherlock yelled and felt Mycroft flinched at the volume of Sherlock's voice.

The doctor looking at John's pupils tensed and narrowed his gaze before looking over his shoulder at Sherlock.

"Yell at him again."

Sherlock didn't hesitate. "John! You better listen to me, you berk! Don't you dare do this to me! I came back for you! You better come back for me or I'll never forgive you!"

The heart monitor started to slowly register a steady rhythm.

"You love it when I do nice things for other people! Now, please, please, do this for me! Please, come back to me, John!" Sherlock sobbed and ignored everyone else in the room as he stared at his lover.

The doctor standing over John nodded encouragingly and moved his stethoscope over John's chest. Sherlock shrugged out of Mycroft's grip and hurried to John's bedside as he wiped away his tears.

"If you die, I will burn all your jumpers. I will do experiments all over the flat. I'll call every one of your ex-girlfriends and tell them sordid details about our sex life."

John's heart rate increased marginally at that and Sherlock latched onto the hope that John could hear him. "I'll tell Judith your secret ingredient for your berry tart."

Sherlock continued to threaten, beg, bargain, plead and cajole as John's readings started to improve. The panic started to fade as Sherlock gripped John's hand and held it tightly as he continued to talk. The doctor ordered a brain scan as Sherlock hitched a hip onto the edge of the bed and continued to talk. John's outward appearance never changed but physically he was reacting to Sherlock's words. John's lungs were struggling to work but they were struggling. Dr. Sweeney motioned Mycroft to follow him and they stepped out of the room.

"I don't know how to explain it but Dr. Watson is reacting to Mr. Holmes' voice. All of his numbers have improved."

"I'm sure my brother has spoken to Dr. Watson since he's been here. What's changed now?" Mycroft questioned and glanced back into the room at Sherlock who was still talking.

Dr. Sweeney shrugged. "Maybe Dr. Watson couldn't hear him the first times. We don't know what it's like for someone in a coma. It might be that Mr. Holmes' yell penetrated to Dr. Watson's subconscious level. Gave him something to latch onto possibly."

Mycroft tapped the tip of his umbrella on the floor for several moments before sighing. "My brother will believe that as well. You might need to provide Sherlock with some throat spray because I doubt he'll be quiet from now on. Thank you, Dr. Sweeney."

The doctor nodded and walked down the hallway, leaving Mycroft to stand in the doorway of the room. He looked into the room and watched as Sherlock continued to talk to his lover. It was going to be a long night.

(!)(!)(!)

Two days later, Sherlock was still talking and hadn't moved from the bedside. HIs voice was hoarse and raspy but he wouldn't give up. If his voice was what was keeping John tethered to this world then he wouldn't stop. John was showing signs of starting to wake up. The endo tube was removed a few hours earlier and he now wore a face mask. His lungs were getting stronger and color was starting to come back to John's face.

Sherlock flexed his hand around John's lax fingers and rubbed his face with his free hand. "Back in Siena, when you were going after Bricks, in that square. Despite everything you did and were doing...I couldn't believe you were mine. That you wanted me."

Sherlock reached for the throat spray Dr Sweeney had given him and took some quickly before continuing.

"It only made me want you more.

"Have I ever told you that I love watching you make tea? You're the only person I know that leaves the tea bag in while they pour the milk in. Then you mix it before squeezing out the bag. You say squeezing the bag gets the best mixture."

Sherlock chuckled weakly. "Look at me. Sherlock Holmes getting choked up remembering you making tea."

He released a shuddering breath and swallowed painfully. He lowered his head and pressed his forehead against John's thigh.

"I love your eyes and how much emotion I can read in them. I can see the pain when I cause it, I can see the pride when I do something right, the sarcasm when you're making fun of me when I do something stupid and silly. Yes, I do stupid things. Usually, I can cover them up and no one would know but you...you always see. You always see me. It's annoying...but endearing. Knowing that there is someone I don't have to hide from. Someone who sees me for me," Sherlock rasped and bumped his nose against the blanket covered thigh.

"Please, John...see me again," he whispered and closed his eyes against the tears.

A gentle hand brushed against his riotous curls and his head jerked up. The hand fell limply to John's lap and Sherlock was pinned by a pair of blue eyes. He stared blankly as the hand slowly moved to drag down the breathing mask. Sherlock was silent, wondering if he was dreaming; imagining this. The mask barely cleared John's lips before the lips twitched in a weak smile.

"I'll...alwa...ways see...you...you...wan...ker."

A high pitched giggle escaped Sherlock's lips as the euphoria surged through him. He moved to sit on the edge of the bed and slowly leaned forward to gently kiss John's dry lips. He also punched the nurse call button as he shifted to nuzzle against John's jaw and breath him in. The hand resting on John's chest was covered by John's free hand and tears slipped down Sherlock's cheeks.

"Thank you...thank you for coming back to me, John," Sherlock whispered.

"I...heard...you...yell...at me. Gave...me...som-something...to latch...onto. Love...your voice," John murmured, his eyelids drooping.

Sherlock smiled through the tears and heard the nurses enter the room.

"Love you," he whispered against the shell of John's ear.

Another weak smile. "Love...you."

Sherlock's wish came true.

(!)(!)(!)

And that's the end. The song is 'Gavin's Song' by Marc Broussard. It's a heart wrenching song. I cry almost every time I hear it. I did take out a line or two that didn't work with the idea I had but that is the majority of the song. Thank you to everyone that reviewed, favorited and alerted for this story. I hope you enjoyed the journey as much as I have. I do have a few other Sherlock stories in the works so we'll see how they go. Cheers to everyone and please review. Review make me very happy.