Summary: It has been six months since Sherlock fell from the roof of Bart's hospital. John is a complete wreck, and planning to end it all. But what will he do when the detective returns? And will everything be alright once he does? Originally a weird angst-to-fluff one-shot. Slash if you want, but not necessary. Co-authored with Meghan

Warnings: Spoilers for the end of season two! Some fluff, lots of angst, no character death and possible slash later on

Sherlock, I know you read these texts. I just want to let you know that I'm ending it tonight. So, you know, if you're alive, let me know soon. JW

This number is no longer in service. John sighed. Of course the number was blocked. He bloody well knew that! Still, he hadn't stopped texting his friend, and he had this weird feeling that Sherlock could see the increasingly desperate messages.

I don't care. Sherlock, if you're there, let me know now. JW 'Great,' John sighed as he sat back against the sofa. 'Now I'm actually responding to the phone.' He looked down as his phone buzzed with an incoming text. He frowned. "Unknown Number" flashed on the screen. No one ever texted him anymore. Hesitating for just a moment, he opened the text.

Cherish your life, John Watson. Don't end it. You doubt his death. Hold on to that. -Unknown Number

Mycroft, if that's you then sod off. I've given him six months already. I'm done holding on. JW

So quick to think it's Mycroft. -Unknown number

John frowned again. None of his texts had ever given him replies recently, much less ones with actual emotions. Because of this, and only, this, John decided to keep texting. He's been the most perceptive. Everyone else seems to accept that I'm fine. Alright, then, if you're not Mycroft then who are you? JW

I can't tell you who I am, but I know that you're not fine. I know you're grieving, John. -Unknown Number.

The doctor sighed – whoever was writing him back was saying the same thing that everyone else had been for the first two weeks after Sherlock's… disappearance. After that, John had learned to hide his real feelings under a false mask of normalness. Good for you. Keep talking as long as you want. You have about an hour to convince me. Then it won't matter anymore. JW

I know you've started to date Mary Morstan. She wants you to be happy, John. Don't let him keep you from being with her. I know you've quit your job at the clinic as well. You've taken a few small cases that popped up on your blog, and you're limping again. -Unknown number

Mary. Dear, sweet Mary. She would have been the first real girlfriend that John had had since Sarah, but in truth, he wasn't interested in dating anymore. It was just another disguise to hide how broken he really was. He was surprised that the person knew about the clinic, though, and that he'd seen John enough to know that his limp was back.

Of course Mary wants me to be happy, but you just don't get it. Coming back from the war Sherlock was the only thing that kept me from falling apart. I was a broken man when I met him, and he fixed me. No one can take his place, and no one can help. JW

John, I understand completely. You have to let others help you. -Unknown number

John snorted in a display almost similar to humor. Understand? No one understood. No one had ever had half of themselves ripped away and told that it would "Just get better." They've tried. Nothing works. I need Sherlock back. One way or another, I have less than half an hour until I see him again. JW

Go to the park at midnight, tonight. Don't ask questions, just do it. -Unknown number

Alarm bells sounded in John's head, but he ignored them. He'd been doing a lot of that lately. Why? JW

Just go. -Unknown number

Might as well. Fine. But I'm bringing my gun. If you're anyone other than Sherlock I'll use it. JW

It was midnight. A man with curly dark hair leaned against a tree, holding a cigarette to his mouth. He stood in the shadows to conceal himself from the people who walked along the sidewalks. He scanned the park every few minutes for the limping doctor.

John stood at the edge of the park, shaking with worry. He had honestly thought that he would be dead by now. The doctor wrapped his fingers around the gun in his pocket, reassuring himself with the weapon. He took one last breath, and began to walk. His limp was more pronounced than ever before, he was painfully thin, and deep shadows formed under his eyes. A woman sitting on a bench stared at him, and the quickly stood and walked away after he'd passed. John stopped as he neared the middle of the park. He would wait until dawn, he decided. Then, it would be over.

The man pulled out his phone, not leaving the shadows of the tree. His face light up with the light from his phone. By the tree. -Unknown number The man was tall, and thin. His long overcoat hid the wounds he had on his arms, while his dark leather gloves covered the ones on his hands.

John's phone buzzed as the new text came in. He read the words twice - he could never be too sure of his mind, these days - and quickly saw the tree. He started towards it, wishing that he had brought his cane. His leg hurt terribly. As John reached the tree, he could tell that there was a figure in the shadows. His heart rose into his mouth and his stomach clenched, but he had learned not to get his hopes up.

The man shifted out of the shadows. "Hello John." His voice was deep and hoarse.

John stared, not daring to breathe. The voice was so familiar, but still he refused to believe it. He knew that he couldn't move. "Sherlock?" he whispered.

Sherlock stepped into the light. "It's me, John." The detective said, studying his friend's face.

John stared, unblinking, at the man before him. After his brain had shouted at least five times 'It's Sherlock!' John finally came back to himself. For the first time in six months, some life returned to his eyes, and he flung himself at the detective. He wrapped his arms around the man's neck and refused to let go. He didn't say anything, because he had no words. Sherlock stumbled backwards slightly and hesitantly wrapped his arms around the doctor.

"Sherlock..." John choked out, not letting go of the detective. He buried his head in the other man's shoulder, just relishing the presence of him.

"I can't stay long, John. It's not safe..." Sherlock said quietly, wincing slightly as John grazed one of his wounds.

"No, Sherlock, don't say that!" John said hoarsely as tears threatened to slip out of his closed eyes. He kept his face pressed firmly into the thin shoulder, trying to hide from the world. "I can't get you back only to have you disappear again. I can't say goodbye again - I've done it every night in my nightmares. If you're leaving, then I'm coming with you."

Sherlock's voice was soft. "You can't, John. You have to stay here with Mary. Keep her safe." He paused. "I promise I'll be home permanently. Just not now."

"Sherlock," John said, finally pushing himself away from the detective. "Tell me why. I don't care that it's dangerous and I don't care if you have to leave. Tell me why. I was going to kill myself tonight, do you even realize that?" His voice broke and he closed his eyes, collecting himself. He started again in a more steady voice. "Tell me what happened, both before you died and after, and then I'll tell you if you can leave."

Sherlock sighed. The fact that John actually admitted to thinking of suicide was bad. Threatening to commit it was even worse. He had to tread carefully, but honestly, he was far from okay himself. "Moriarty. On the roof, he said he had sent his men out to kill those I care about. The only way to stop them was to jump. Molly and Mycroft helped me vanish." He said. "The past six months, I've been taking his men down, so that I can return."

"And how long will it be until then?" John cast his gaze over the detective, noticing by the way he held himself that he was hurt.

"I-I don't know. I've only got one man left, but lucky for me... he's the most dangerous."

"Then I'm coming with you," John said, looking Sherlock straight in the eye. "There's no way I'm letting you go off on your own to be killed permanently."

"You can't, John. You have people here who need you to keep them safe." Sherlock said shifting his weight.

"You need me, Sherlock. And I need you. Everyone else will be fine once you're back."

"It's too dangerous, John." Sherlock cringed, and held his side. He pulled his hand away, revealing blood. His wound had reopened.

"Shit," John said, finally tearing his eyes off of Sherlock's face. "Sit," he ordered, pointing at the ground. He ignored the look that Sherlock gave him, and cut off his retort. "We can argue about what we'll do after you stop bleeding to death. I'm pretty sure that it wouldn't help either one of us."

"I'm fine, John." Sherlock said quickly and stubbornly.

"No, you're not." John said, suddenly tired. "And, even if you are, I need to make sure of it myself. Now, sit."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and did as he was told. "Shit," John repeated as he saw the knife wound in his friend's side. "The damage is superficial, but you're going to lose a lot of blood if we leave it alone. Come back to the flat and let me fix this, please."

"No, not to the flat. To dangerous." Sherlock said shaking his head. He was starting to get light-headed from the blood loss, but fought to keep the fact from John. No matter what, he didn't want to cause his friend more pain.

"Where then? Bart's?" John tried to keep his voice calm, but he was really worried about how pale Sherlock had become.

Sherlock shook his head. "No, no hospitals. We can't go anywhere official."

John rolled his eyes. "Where, then? Mycroft's place? We have to take you somewhere, Sherlock. You're going to pass out soon." Even as he spoke, John saw the colour drain from his friend's face.

Sherlock shook his head. "It's too dangerous, John..."

"Oh, for the love of- Sherlock, you're probably going to bleed to death if we don't do something. I can see that you're already light-headed and cold. So, don't bother arguing with me, and just tell me where we should go." John was going into army doctor mode, and he didn't care. "If you can't choose a place in the next two minutes, then I'm taking us back to Baker Street, danger be damned."

Sherlock shrugged and blinked a few times. His vision was starting to get blurry. "Right," John finally decided. "Baker street it is. Stand up, Sherlock. Can you do that?"

Sherlock nodded and attempted to stand up. "Woah, woah!" John said, catching his friend as the detective's knees started to buckle. Setting his mouth in a grim line, John grabbed Sherlock's arm and wrapped it around his shoulders. He pulled on the arm with one hand and wrapped the other around his friend's waist, careful not to aggravate any more injuries. Soon enough, Sherlock was on his feet, and John had slipped completely into army mode. He would do whatever he had to, to make sure that Sherlock was alright, his own safety be damned.

Maybe it was lack of sleep, or his PTSD, or just the strain of the past six months, but John could have sworn that everyone around them was secretly hiding a gun, threatening his friend. Trying to appear as casual as possible, John tightened his grip on Sherlock, and started walking to the nearest sidewalk in the park.

Sherlock stumbled a few times, but John caught him. His side was completely covered in blood by the time they reached Baker Street. The doctor let go of Sherlock's arm as he opened the door, glad that he had forgotten to lock it on his way out. Mrs. Hudson was out that night, he remembered. Good. Sherlock was slowly becoming a dead weight, and John struggled to get him up the stairs. Sherlock looked around the flat. It hasn't changed much, he thought to himself.

"Come on," John said, maneuvering them over to the couch. They were both trembling at this point, Sherlock from blood loss and John from shock and tension. The doctor slowly lowered his precious burden onto the sofa and, after making sure that the detective wouldn't disappear or something, went to get his medical bag. Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, to focus on his breathing.

"Okay, take your coat off and lift up your shirt," John said as he came back with his medical supplies and a bowl of hot water. Sherlock groaned and slid his coat off of his shoulder. He laid back down on the couch and lifted his shirt.

John frowned as, for the first time, he saw the wound laid bare. He closed his eyes and collected himself, before he grabbed a cloth and dipped it in the warm water. He forced himself to treat Sherlock like he would any other patient. It was made easier by his army training, but harder because all he wanted to do was wrap his arms around the man before him and never let go. Dabbing carefully at the edges of the wound, John ignored the fact that his hands were shaking. Sherlock winced each time John touched the wound. It was like tiny knives running through his body each time the cloth touched him.

"I'm sorry," he said over and over again, so many times that the words probably lost all meaning. He hated causing Sherlock so much pain. Eventually, the wound was clean enough that he could see what needed to be done. "You need stitches, and a lot of them. I'm going to give you some local anesthesia. I'm also going to treat any other injuries you have, okay?" He knew he didn't need to ask his friend these things, but he was so scared that Sherlock would just slip away if he didn't keep talking.

Sherlock nodded. "Just hurry John." He said wincing from the pain again.

His friend's compliance scared John more than he cared to admit. Frowning, he made a split-second decision. He loaded a small needle half-way with pain-killer and positioned it in the right area above the wound. "Ready?" he asked. "This is going to sting like hell."

Sherlock covered his face with his arms. "Just do it..."

John stuck the needle in and pushed the plunger, wincing as if it hurt him instead of the detective. Then, making sure that Sherlock's eyes weren't following him, he dug two sedative pills out of his bag. He poured them into a glass of water and stirred until they dissolved. He held the glass out to Sherlock. "Here," he said as normally as possible. "You need to stay hydrated."

Sherlock nodded and took the glass of water, drinking it quickly. He hadn't eaten or had anything to drink for days.

"Good," John said, unable to keep the relief from his voice. "Now, are you going to tell me where else you're hurt, or do I have to forcibly search you?"

"Nowhere. I-I'm fine..." Sherlock mumbled. "Only wound..."

Uh-huh, John thought, looking over the painfully thin waist and many bruises showing all over his body. He would have to work quickly before Sherlock realized that he'd been drugged. "I'm going to take off your shirt now, Sherlock. Okay?" he asked, a little more loudly than he needed to. The detective was going to be furious when he woke up.

Sherlock felt his eyelids getting heavier. "You...You drugged me..." He mumbled accusingly, letting the drugs take over.

"I'm sorry," John murmured, even though he knew that Sherlock could no longer hear him. "I'm going to take off your shirt and look for injuries, especially internal bleeding," he explained to the sleeping figure. No matter what state the detective was in, John was just glad to have someone to talk to. In a way, it was better that he could finally let his filter go, with no consequences. The doctor took off the black leather gloves and slowly unbuttoned Sherlock's shirt, careful not to wake him or aggravate any other injuries. As soon as the tattered piece of clothing was discarded, John sucked in his breath in a sharp gasp.

Sherlock had always been thin, but now he was emaciated. His hip bones jutted out like shelves and John could easily count his ribs. Besides that, large, blue-and-purple bruises extended over the detective's chest and abdomen. Countless marks lay upon his arms and hands, some of which were obviously new. For a moment, John just stared at the wreck that was his dearest friend. Then, he got to work. First, he began to tap his knuckles gently along Sherlock's stomach, confirming that there was not major internal bleeding. Then, he began to clean and stitch up every cut he could find. After over an hour, the doctor had checked his friend over from head to toe.

John rose and emptied out the fifth bowl of water he had used, and checked the time. 1:48 am. Setting his jaw and breathing deeply through his nose, John walked quickly over to Sherlock's room and pulled out a pair of pajamas - he had never gotten around to cleaning out the room, as he knew he'd completely fall apart if he did. John redressed Sherlock, more than a little awkwardly, and decided that the detective would survive sleeping on the couch. He ran back to Sherlock's room and fetched a blanket and a pillow, which he gently used to make his friend more comfortable. Finally, John cleaned up and put away his medical instruments, which had been thrown all across the floor.

When all tasks concerning doctoring were done, John started to worry about what Sherlock had said earlier - were they really in danger here? John realized that he still had his gun in his pocket. Smiling tiredly, he placed it on the table. He then went about making sure that all the blinds were closed and the doors locked. Then, the exhausted doctor flopped down on a chair across from Sherlock, and just stared at his best friend. Now that all the work had been done and he had a moment to relax, the shock of Sherlock's appearance suddenly, forcefully, slammed into John. A combination of the emotions that he had been feeling for the past six months began to boil up inside John, and he couldn't take it anymore. John Watson, the brave army doctor, Sherlock's one true friend, sat in that chair for the rest of the night, silently crying.

Well, that was angsty. Next chapter up soon! R&R to speed up the writing, and I appreciate ConCrit!