This is the first chapter of a fic I am writing with no plan of where it was going, this was just something that i wanted to explore with the characters (Coming from that bit of my brain that goes: yeah let's be mean to Sherlock! :P)

So, I hope you like it and...enjoy!

John had been at the surgery when the call came through. The call that would seemingly stop his heart and send it into overdrive at the same time. The storm that was battling on outside his office window was now mirrored in him; the thunder reverberating in his head, the lightning cracking in his mind every time the reality of the call came to the surface of his terror. John had fought in the desert, watched his best friend die, and had been almost blown apart by a bomb more times than a man should be in life. But when the words Sherlock Holmes, hospital, and car crash came to his ears, terror took its hold, and John lost himself.

Reason and clear mindedness surfaced in the cab he was taking to the hospital, emerging out of the spattering rain hitting the window of the cab. A cab. That was apparently what Sherlock had been in when the lorry had come careening into its side, the tempest destroying any sight the lorry driver could have had of the cab. The thought that John was now travelling in what, oh god, might be Sherlock's death carriage made John sick.

His hands and curled and uncurled into fists on his lap he traveled on through the storm, on through the uncaring populous of London, to face his own private tempest.

John's hands clenched and unclenched in his lap as he sat on the plastic chair of the waiting room, its hardness reflecting the cold, hollow feeling settling in his chest, that premature feeling that Sherlock was already gone. His was, of course, irrational; Sherlock was in surgery, which was all he knew. Yet, maybe that was what made it worse; John was so used to being on the other side of this; the ignorance was killing him.

It was not long, or maybe it was; John's sense of time was as wild as the storm that raged on outside, until a bustling ball of worried energy appeared in the form of Mary. Her face was without make-up, making her pure fear even more evident.

Her smell was intoxicatingly pleasant as John embraced her tightly, letting some of his worry seep out as their love over-powered it, and when they broke away his mind felt more clear than it had in hours.

"How is he?" Mary asked, brushing away and invisible nothing from John's jacket.

John shook his head, "I don't know. He's been in surgery for about…" he looked at the clock, the element of time returned to him, "Four hours. So, you know, it's probably not..." he trailed off, swallowing tersely.

"John, this is Sherlock; you know how strong he is." Mary reminded him, looking deep into his eyes.

"Yeah," he muttered. That was brave of her; bringing up memories of the last time Sherlock had been in hospital; when she had shot him. 'No, no John. That's a; in the past. Stop, you have forgiven her.'

He took a deep breath and resumed his waiting, this time with the soft hand of his wife in his won, harbouring him to the bay as the storm raged on.

It was another three hours until they were allowed to see Sherlock, before they even had news of him. In that time Mycroft himself had arrived, wearing a look of strong discomfort, the closest, John thought, he could get to worry.

They were led to intensive care, the doctor giving Sherlock's condition report to Mycroft officially, but really to John and Mary also, who followed on not even a metre behind. Sherlock had not been lucky. The lorry had managed to pin him into the cab, and it had taken the fire service too long to cut him out, in which time he had bled out profusely, and had already coded once on the table. His left arm had suffered severely; something had sliced into it deeply. The same was to be found on his left side. One of his legs was broken in two places, and other minor injuries, such as bruises and cuts were abound. His head had suffered a harsh, but not fatal, blow. Sherlock had a concussion as a result. All this, though, did not mean anything to John compared to the doctor's final, felling blow. Comatose. Sherlock was comatose. A coma. The storm in John's mind raged on once again.

Mycroft, of course, had been the first into Sherlock's private room to see him, but he insisted John come in when he felt ready, being Sherlock's emergency contact and best friend. Of course John had given him a few minutes, partly so he could be alone with his younger brother and partly because he had to prepare himself. Mary said she would wait outside until he needed her. John nodded numbly, taking harsh breaths through his nose before, finally, he entered.

Like the current of the sea, the constant beep of the heart monitor lulled John's senses into focussing on one thing; Sherlock. Sherlock, who lay completely still on the bed, there was not even the twitching of eyelids or fingers to give John any sign he was still alive. Only the rise and fall of his chest and the rhythmic beeping was John's saviour. John had, being a army doctor, seen far more horrific injuries, but the sight of his best friend lying so pale, oxygen prongs in his nose, stitches on his forehead, left arm strapped to his chest in a sling, and his left leg elevated slightly in its protective cast seemed to him as though there was nothing worse. And the fact that Sherlock was in a coma, an unassisted coma, made him want to cry and throw up at the same time.

John barely noticed the presence of Mycroft, who stood stiffly and pale with unprecedented shock on one side of the bed, as he approached Sherlock's frozen form. He grabbed a pale hand, careful not to pull out the IV line, and squeezed it tight, his heart plummeting as he felt how cold his friend was.

"Sherlock," his voice came out as a croak. He cleared it and tried again, "Sherlock, I'm so sorry this happened. I'm sorry I wasn't there with you, but I'm here now." John knew that most of the time coma patients could hear things around them, and he also knew Sherlock would probably be rolling his eyes in his mind. Then again, Sherlock might not be aware of anything; he was receiving morphine for the pain, which would make it harder for Sherlock to hear John. Still, John was doing this for himself as well.

"Sherlock, you have to wake up from this, okay? I don't care if your bloody mind palace might be more interesting than reality; you need to wake up. It's your birthday soon, you can't miss that." John knew Sherlock couldn't care less about his birthday, probably didn't even know how old he would be, but John had to give the man something to motivate him to wake, even if it looked like Sherlock had no idea he was there, talking to him, as still and unmoving as before.

John took a deep breath, bracing himself with his other hand against the bed. Mycroft watched him the whole time, swallowing every so often. "I'll be here okay? For as long as I'm able to be, I will be here with you. Or Mary will, or Mrs Hudson. And I'm sure Molly will probably want to visit. How does that sound, hmm?" his friend's pale face remained lax, none of the usual air of self-righteousness around him, just a bruised, sunken faced nothingness. John squeezed his hand one more time before placing it gently back on the bed covers.

He turned to faced Mycroft then, face ashen and eyes suspiciously wet. Sherlock's older brother looked him over with that knowing look, something like a cross between gratitude and jealously in his eyes. "You meant what you said, I presume? You will be here when you can?"

John nodded stiffly, straightening his back, "Of course. We might even be lucky; the git might wake up soon and save us all the worry." 'Although I highly doubt Sherlock would be that un-dramatic'

Mycroft snorted slightly, "That would be rather too convenient, I think, John…..and anyway, the doctor said there was no way of knowing when Sherlock would wake up." Mycroft looked down at his little brother then, and for the first time John saw pure, clear worry on his face. The iceman was melting.

"Thank you, John. I am eternally grateful for your continued support to my brother, even after all these years."

At Mycroft's words, the violent storm in John's mind abated somewhat, beating back and forth like the current of Sherlock's beating heart.

Please review etc! it is really very much appreciated :)

The next chapter should be up soon! (She says..!)

Happy Reading! TheBritishBourbon x