Sorry for the delay! I haven't been exactly reaching the healthy standard for the past few days and now I'm quite stuck in a half-awoken state. Thank you so much for the reviews, favourites and follows. I really love you guys. I might write more Sherlock fanfictions, so perhaps stay tune?

"Sherlock? Oh god, Sherlock, what happened?" He quickly accessed Sherlock's situation. As his hands gently touched his chest, he could feel movements in his ribs. The grating sound and Sherlock's unconscious moan further proved his points. His two, no, three ribs were broken and had more than likely scraped into his lungs, resulting in Sherlock's coughing of blood.

How could he have not noticed it earlier? Sherlock had looked so much paler than his usual self, there were beads of sweat on his forehead, the way he carried himself and how he had hacked up wet coughs. He was a doctor, he's supposed to recognise the signs but his anger had taken the better of him.

Oh god, and he punched him in the chest earlier. He must have broken his ribs with his fists. John was an army doctor, but he did train for the army before he went into war in Afghanistan. He had wanted to punch him in the face, but somehow he didn't want to deal with Sherlock's bloody nose, so he had punched him in the chest enough to bruise. Yet this had just made things worse.

"Sherlock?" John continued to call, but he didn't dare to touch him, for fear it would aggravate his wounds.

Sherlock's eyes fluttered to a half-opened state, though his eyes weren't clear and alert. It was a pair of pain-filled eyes and John is suddenly so afraid instead of angry. He had never once made it obvious that he was in pain, this sudden slip up of his stoic figure made him seem so vulnerable. John had built up this image of Sherlock being so strong and independent that this slip up was swaying it away, ready to collapse anytime.

"Jo…hn…" It took him so much energy to even whisper John's name. He could feel the waves of darkness and pain crashing over and over again on him. It was like he was drowning in the river of Thames. John seemed to have heard his whisper because he had leaned towards Sherlock a bit more.

"I… needed to protect you. From… Moriarty's sniper…" He was wheezing by now, each breath he took had gotten shallower and shallower, as it took him more effort to breath in the sweet, precious oxygen. It made him panicked, and it didn't help him much that he was panicking about his lack of breath. It felt like a sharp rock sitting on top of Sherlock.

"I'm… sorry. So sorry… Sorry…" Sherlock kept repeating his apologies, each one getting softer and softer. John shockingly noticed there was transparent trail of tear leaking from the sides of Sherlock's eyes as they seem to be drooping. John held the man's hands but he didn't know what to say. Sherlock was actually apologising to someone, to him. Oh but his hands are so cold, so freezing, like an ice cube.

What should he do? Should he call out for help or-

It was then realisation struck him that he had his mobile phone with him. John quickly dialled the hospital's number, but for that split second, he hesitated. Instead he quickly looked for Mycroft's name on his contacts and he pressed 'call'. The call got through almost immediately and he felt a slight relief hearing Mycroft's voice through the speaker.

"Mycroft, Sherlock's passed out. His ribs are broken and ah, I don't think he would appreciate waking up in the hospital." John didn't even mention that perhaps Sherlock won't wake up at all. He couldn't bear the thought of a second death of Sherlock. This time, it'll be permanent.

"Noted. My men are on the way." Although it was merely a few words, John could hear the lace of worry in it. He was right about Mycroft genuinely cared about his little brother then. Despite both of their retorts and harsh words, they still had the same blood that course through their veins.

John tightly secured Sherlock's hands in his, afraid to let go. He quickly checked his breathing again, both disappointed and relieved that he could feel shallow breaths. His pulse was weak and fluttery, John wasn't sure if he could stay that way for long. He kept whispering quiet, mumbling words to reassure the younger man, even if he couldn't listen anymore. It was as if he was reassuring himself more than the other.

"It's fine, Sherlock. Just relax, just relax. It'll be alright."

The thumping of his heart and the soft breathing sounds of Sherlock was the only noise present in the messy room. He anxiously tried to calm down as he looked at the wallpaper. The yellow painted smiley stayed there, reminding him and taunting about Sherlock. It seemed to purposely smile so sweetly, contrasting the mood and his situation.

It was three full minutes before a luxurious black car had parked itself right in front of 221B. John hadn't seemed to notice anything, only when Mycroft gently pulled his hands away from Sherlock's, he had resisted. It took Mycroft some moments, but he managed to convince John that his brother was in good hands.

They had quickly boarded the car and drove to a private hospital, where Mycroft's assistant, Anthea had pre-arranged it earlier. The A&E doctors and nurses had immediately attended to them, wasting no time once they stepped foot into the hospital.

John was stopped before he could enter the operation room. A nurse had kindly asked him to sit down at the waiting room. He nervously sat down on the blue plastic chair as he clenched and unclenched his hands. It was one of his habits when he was nervous or thinking. He wasn't aware of his habit but as usual, Sherlock pointed it out to him.

Mycroft left, though not as soon as John had expected. He left after one hour, when he had received a phone call and urgently rushed away as he told John that he trusts him to take care of Sherlock. John barely nodded before the important man went away to attend to his work. John was even quite surprised that Mycroft came by foot with his men.

Really, those brothers have a way of brotherhood, don't they?

John wasn't sure how long it was, but it felt like years before the same nurse came back to inform him that Sherlock was now up for visitors. He gingerly walked into the room and took a look at the sleeping man. He was hooked up with lines, and he looked so fragile. John frowned in guilt as he dragged the armchair towards the bed.

Sherlock didn't make any moves to indicate that he was conscious but John held the taller man's hand nonetheless. He brushed his thumb and quietly whispered his apologies to Sherlock. He wasn't sure if he heard it or not, but he'll apologise again once he had woken up.

John had heard about the reason Sherlock was 'dead' for three years from Mycroft earlier, and the guilt inside him welled up. He wasn't so sure about forgiving himself for his rash actions, but he was sure that he had definitely forgiven Sherlock. For all the things that he had given up, for everything he had done. All John was afraid of was that they wouldn't be able to return to normal but they had time on their side. This time, he wasn't going to let Sherlock go anywhere without him anymore. They might not be the same, but they'll still be the Consulting Detective and his faithful blogger.

Unknown to him, Sherlock's fingers twitched a little in John's hands.

-End-