Death is nothing like Hollywood. Sherlock knows this better than anyone. It's a fact that he's lived with and cared little about his entire life.

But suddenly, it matters to him, for the first time ever.

In a film, they would all be sure John was going to live. They would keep him on the electrocardiogram until the very end, and then they would defibrillate him several times, and only then would the bitter end come, dramatic and heart-wrenching like it ought to be—because this is John, and he deserves that at the very least.

That's not how it happens. The electrocardiogram is getting weaker, slowly and painfully. The doctors have already lost hope—John's dying and there's nothing they can do about it. They unhook him from the equipment. They see no point in monitoring the heart when they know it's going to give out.

They've told Sherlock why John isn't likely to wake up.

Somehow, Sherlock managed to miss every word of it. It isn't even in his mind palace. His ears refused to hear it.

They've given up. And Sherlock's damn near giving up too. He doesn't kid himself, not usually. But this…

No. This isn't happening. This…

"John, wake up, for god's sake," Sherlock snaps. "This is getting ridiculous. Just wake up. Just…" Sherlock looks at John's blank, empty face, and his chest tightens to the point that he's not sure he can breathe. "Please." It comes out as a whimper, the kind Sherlock hasn't heard from his own lips in ages.

And then the impossible happens.

John's eyes are fluttering.

"John!" Sherlock gasps, jumping up. "John—you're—John!" No other word in the English language matters right now.

John's eyes are open. At first, it's obvious he's seeing nothing, but then he's looking Sherlock in the face. And then his eyebrows pull together.

"Sher—Sherlock," John mutters. "You're… crying."

Sherlock looks at John dubiously. "Does that matter right now?" he enquires, dumbfounded.

"Why are you crying?"

Apparently it does matter right now. In John's state, he's confused. That must be what it is.

"Oh, I just cut some onions," says Sherlock drily.

"No, I tried that. It didn't work."

"I—what?" Sherlock asks, at a loss.

"Wait. Where am I?" Ah. John was definitely confused. Now he's starting to remember. "Am I—oh god. I—you—Moriarty—"

"Moriarty? Did he do this?"

And then John is grinning.

"What the hell are you smiling about?" Sherlock quips, not able to be truly frustrated because he's so happy John's alive.

"You said you couldn't cry. But there you are, crying."

Sherlock continues to be baffled for a long moment.

And then he gets it.

The clumsiness to the point of retardation. The onion. The movies. John had conducted an experiment to make Sherlock cry and failed. And now…

Sherlock's ready to get angry, but then he realizes something else.

The movie. Brokeback Mountain was the one. John's strong reaction… Sherlock suddenly understands it.

And his deduction causes him to make a bold move. He better be right, or this would be really awkward tomorrow.

He lunges forward and kisses John, straight on the lips.

John's looking at him with wide eyes, bewildered.

"You idiot. You wonderful, breathing idiot."

And then John is smiling again, and Sherlock's smiling too.

"I knew you could cry," John says. "I knew it. Say you were wrong."

"I was not completely right," Sherlock admits.

"You were just plain wrong."

"Shut up."

"Shut me up."

Sherlock fully intends to, until Lestrade walks in again, and the "John is alive" chaos ensues, with doctors and yelling and other things Sherlock doesn't really register. He just looks at John, who just looks at him. It's different than before. Heated. No, they couldn't ignore the kiss later. Sherlock was pretty sure he didn't want to anyway.

Yeah, so he was wrong. But maybe, just this once, it was worth it.

Thanks for reading. It was just a bit of fun, so I know it wasn't particularly deep. But review anyhow, if you please. I do adore reviews.