This is actually based on a true story for the most part, and that story has not yet finished, so if you pray or have any good luck rituals or just want to send good thoughts to my friend then I'd really appreciate it.

As always I have to claim to the BBC or the characters.

Will be updated next Saturday, but won't be finished until my story is.

Day 0

It is probably somewhat redundant to note that no one expected the accident to happen. That is what accidents are, after all. Terrifying phone calls that interrupt post-dinner drinks or your first date with the pretty secretary that work in the office the floor below you. They drain your body of everything and replace it with an icy fear that grips your heart, too little information and an overload of worry.

Yet that is exactly how it happened. On January the 12th at 8.47pm John received the first phone call. Mary was stood by his side, dressed in a beautiful new dress that shielded her post-pregnancy stomach from the stares of others, clutching a glass of champagne as she laughed with his work colleagues, celebrating Annie's new apartment with friends. The room was full of people, cigarette smoke hanging moodily in the air and mid-range wine flowing freely, people laughing and chattering, floating around the room aimlessly as the CD player carried on playing it's 80's hit, a desperate cling to their forgotten youth.

His phone vibrated in his pocket and his thoughts went to baby Ellie, Harry babysitting her tonight, allowing him and his wife a brief respite, a night of socialisation and alcohol, rather than made-for-TV films and takeaway punctuated by cries for baby formula. Ellie had been cranky all day, red-faced, shrieking and impossible to quieten, maybe Harry couldn't soothe her, maybe she was panicking the Ellie was actually sick rather than just grumpy. John considered ignoring the call, looking at Mary who was chatting happily to Annie, discussing furnishings and wall colours, and his mind went to the hotel they had booked for the night. Images of soft, Egyptian cotton sheets and room service, a hot shower that wouldn't be interrupted by a colicky baby, breakfast in bed without the washing up. All very tempting ideas that would dissipate should Harry request them home. Yet John took the plunge and stepped outside to take the call, the cold night air hitting him, the grass glittering with the start of frost.

"John?"

It wasn't the voice he was expecting, not Harry's aged smoker's voice, hoarse and lilting, but instead it was Mike. The background was loud, a cacophony of noise, but noise very different from the party. Clinical and familiar to John's ears.

'Mike? Yes, hello. Everything alri'?"

"I...you've heard about Sherlock, haven't you?"

And John's stomach sank, sank to his feet and then lower. Sherlock had been so distant lately, distracted by his work he claimed, but John feared it had been loneliness getting to him. He had stopped visiting his and Mary's new home, stopped texting about new cases or forwarding gruesome photographs of bodies laid out in the morgue. He had, in fact, stopped almost all contact, withdrawing more into himself despite Mary and John's best attempts. John hadn't seen him in three weeks, nor heard from him in two, having been distracted by his new life to remember to call Sherlock or text him during his lunch breaks, asking to perhaps meet at the pub later for a few pints.
Suicide.

It had to be.

"No. No, what's happened?" he tried to keep his voice calm, tried to remember he could have been nothing, maybe he was in prison again, asking John for bail. Maybe he'd broken his arm. Maybe he'd made national news again for some brilliant new case that John had missed out entirely because John had lately been a terrible friend. But then why was Mike Stamford calling?

"He's been in an accident John. It's...it's very serious."

"An accident?"

That was wrong. Sherlock didn't get into accidents, accidents were for normal people with normal lives, not for dark-haired geniuses that lived in museum-esque flats in ridiculously expensive postcodes. Sherlock caused accidents.

"There was a road traffic collision, three cars involved, a few hours ago. He came here first, that's how I know. But he's been moved since, to London Bridge. It's...more specialist, John."

'A...is he alive?"

The information wasn't registering, still stuck on the first statement. A car crash. It must have been a taxi, he never drove in London, not having the patience for the never moving traffic.

"He was the last I heard...you ought to go now. I can arrange for a police escort, get you there a lot quicker. Are you at home?"

Words stuck in his throat, Mary coming out to check on him, talking over her shoulder to Annie about the pros and cons of egg-shell blue versus baby blue for a living room, her face falling when she sees him.

"John?

John blinked, words not reaching his tongue and Mary frowned, plucking the ignored phone from his fingers. He couldn't hear what she was saying, but she looked serious, concerned, speaking rapidly. She had everything in control, she always did. Every panic was calm calculations and rational thought. John should be able for that, he'd been in Afghanistan after all, but he couldn't think now, the Afghan sands filling up his mind.

Day 1

No one had been allowed in last night, no one had been told what was happening, so they had simply waited.

John had arrived at London Bridge Hospital at 9.17pm under Mycroft's orders. Private and the best in Britain, too critical to move outside of London anyway, brought in by helicopter, a flurry of activity and medical staff, yelling orders across the trolley.

Mycroft was standing guard outside, hand gripped tightly around his umbrella, back straight and eyes looking straight ahead. He hadn't even dared peek inside of the ICU doors that nurses and doctor escaped in and out off, too fearful to see his brother clinging onto life.

He'd been placed in an induced coma at 10.04pm, protocol for a head injury, needing to keep swelling down on the brain, just routine, just protocol, just normal. He might be fine still. He might wake up just tired and sore, but ultimately fine. Just protocol. John repeated these comforts inside of his head like a mantra, Mary equally worried, texting Harry the news and asking her to stay on, taking over the practicalities of this for now. She too was concerned, almost, if not equally, as much as John and Mycroft, not understanding the medical procedures, not understanding what was happening at all, but knowing better than to pester John with questions.

Sherlock remained unaware in his coma, locked inside his magnificent mind, ignorant to the drama and panic he was causing.

He had suffered almost no other injury, a fractured eye socket and broken jaw. Nothing major, nothing unfixable and the doctors didn't bother themselves even dealing with that, not needing to cause his body more stress from surgeries and treatments, everyone just focused on his brain.

But the coma was protocol.

It would all be okay.

Mycroft prayed.

Day 3

The vigil has started on day two when they were finally allowed in to see him. Tall and skinny, a strip of curls shaved off right above his right eyebrow, a sick mockery of a trendy haircut. He'd have loathed it. His left eye was an ugly hue of black and purples, eyelid swollen shut, even though his eyes weren't opening, and a long cut ran along his cheek, threatening to leave a waxy scar and his jaw slumped into his neck lazily, uncomfortable looking.

The wires were extraordinary and took Mycroft's breath away.

He'd seen it all before, of course. His line of work wasn't as tidy as one might think ad he'd seen Sherlock plenty of times in hospital after an OD or an ill-advised stunt. But this was something quite different. He'd known every other time exactly what would happen, even after Mary's shooting there'd been little doubt he'd survive once he had quick treatment.

But these tubes weren't simply providing nutrients, antibiotics and painkillers, these tubes and wires were the things keeping him alive. Should they all be unplugged then his brother would simply pass on, nothing there to keep him holding on any longer.

Electrodes were stuck along his head and chest, measuring brain pressures and heart beats, drips pressed into veins filling him to the brim of coma drugs. Tubes snaked down his throat to keep him breathing, even though he hadn't actually stopped breathing yet, but just in case. Catheter hidden under the bedsheets to measure urine output. Everything was measured, carefully noted and recorded and checked. The blood pressure cuff inflated every 15 minutes without a quiet beep, his nurse, Rebecca, faithfully took his temperature every half hour, treating Sherlock like a small child, talking to him comfortingly despite being a man older than herself.

He never stirred once.

They had all been encouraged to speak to him, and yet they all were unsure of what to say.

"Don't speak about the accident or his injuries. Let him now you're there, you can help him, different tones and pitches. Positive thoughts, positive stories and memories. Read him the newspaper or books if you're struggling, hold his hand,' Rebecca had reminded them every time. She was comfortable with it, doing it on the daily.

Mycroft, however, struggled dearly with such an instruction. Not one for small talk or idle chit-chat, for conversation that didn't have an ultimate goal. Yet here he was, gently holding Sherlock's long, papery fingers, mindful of the pulse monitor pinching his index finger, mindful of the tubes pressed inside of his hand, treating his brother like gossamer thread. He talked about the weather, about the news, about mummy who hadn't been able to bring herself to visit and father, who had simply stepped outside briefly to allow Mycroft to spend some time alone with his brother. He spoke about Mrs. Hudson, who waited in the relative room outside the ICU, unable to come in due to a lingering cold but desperately wanting to be close. About John Watson and his wife, who were keeping Mrs. Hudson company outside, adhering to the two people per bed rule, waiting for Mycroft to leave so they could have Sherlock back. About Lestrade, who had visited yesterday and called constantly, demanding hourly updates, every phonecall hesitant. About all the flowers and cards that had arrives but weren't allowed in, too dangerous, too full of infection, and had instead been gifted to the nurses or Mrs. Hudson.

A few choice cards had made there way in, though, wrapped in plastic and washed into antiseptic, only allowed in for 2 days at a time for worry that they should gather dust and cause an infection, Sherlock's throat so open and vulnerable to these sorts of thing. A card signed by John, Mary and Ellie, of course, simple and understated, much like the Watson family. A card from mummy and father old-fashioned and floral, full of well wishes and apologies that she hasn't been able to visit. Mycroft read that one to Sherlock often, unsure of what else to do with it.

The amount of people that had been calling John or texting Mary, cornering their father in the local shop, had been surprising. As much as Mycroft loathe to admit it he never saw Sherlock as someone that had been as dearly loved by so many people. It was undeniable that he'd been well respected as a consulting detective, tabloids reporting on his accident, making first page news and demanding statements from his family and friends. But that was just media hysteria, a bid to make more profit. The reeal surprise had been the 'family' and friends that were showing up every few hours, all knowing that they wouldn't be allowed in to see him, yet all willing to make the gruelling journey just to sit outside of his room and to offer his family support. His homeless network frequented the corridor, much to the staff's disdain, Molly Hooper brought up flowers every day, just for an excuse to be there. Donovan and Anderson even visited together, bringing a set of toiletries and tea and biscuits for the people that kept vigil there 24/7. Angelo came in floods of tears with his eldest son, hugging Mycroft and John in an over-emotional display, in Mycroft's opinion. Even Victor Trevor, a boy that Sherlock had befriended in university and consequently fell out with after graduation, showed up, quiet and apologetic, offering to bring anything they wanted or help anyway possible. Old clients sent cards and made calls and texts, enquiries.

They had arrived in their hundreds, all worried about him.

Sherlock remained unaware. He hadn't regained consciousness since the accident. He had no idea that this had happened.

The last thing he remembered, Mycroft reasoned, was probably complaining the taxi was taking the wrong turn, not trusting the cabbie's Knowledge, Sherlock always knowing best.

The driver had been killed instantly.

Their cab had been indicating to turn into a slip road, but the car behind hadn't seen, crashing int him, causing the taxi to spin across the road and the oncoming traffic to crash into them.

It had all taken a matter of seconds. No one else had been injured.

The driver had been named Ian McKinnel.

His funeral would be next week.

Mycroft prayed it would be the only funeral.

Day 4

He watched over his son, looking as frail and hopeless as the day he was first brought into the world, skinny and pale and kept alive by machines. That's what it looked like.

Mycroft kept telling him his stats, John Watson rattling off medical facts and figures. He'd remained clueless, never as clever as his boys or the company they kept, never as clever as his wife, that hadn't left the bed since it had all happened, hiding under the covers like a scared child.

Mycroft had called him, at 8.05pm, the accident having only just happened.

He'd told him very little information, having not knowing the details himself.

He'd driven himself, hands shaking but mind focused. They had all thought Sherlock wouldn't live the night, and he needed to say goodbye to his youngest son.

He had to leave Violet at home with the neighbours, too hysterical to face going, unable to say that goodbye.

He'd driven by the crash site, the easiest route to the hospital.

It'd been closed off, police standing guard, not allowing traffic to pass through.

They only do that in event of a a death from a car crash, William knew that.

What he had not known was that that the driver had been killed, rather than his son.

He had begged the officer standing guard to let him through, a grey-haired man with a kind attitude, but face pinched with worry. William recognised him from the newspaper clippings Violet kept from their sons exploits and cases. Mr. Gregory Lestrade.

And they had allowed him to pass, allowed him to drive by the mangled car, completely written off, glass smashed and road slick with someone's blood, a body bag laid out and technicians taking photographs.

William hoped that it was not his son in that bag.

Everything had been real, but not connected. He wasn't able to feel. He saw the body bag, someone's body tucked away for the last time, he saw the blood, blood belonging to somebody. He saw the car his son must have been cut from just moments ago.

But he wasn't able to connect to it.

He just drove, drove to the first hospital, where he'd first been admitted to for emergency treatment.

Sherlock was there, still alive although staff had to keep checking on that status, no one sure.
William saw him seize, bloody and messy, looking ready to just give up. His body shook off the body, staff struggling to hold him down, holding his head carefully to limit any further damage that might be caused.

Things had moved quickly after that.

The first scan had been taken and it didn't look good, Mycroft arranging for his immediate transfer to a specialist hospital in the city centre.

Mycroft had then been there, standing right beside him, stoic and in false control.

They had travelled together to the hospital, all traffic lights mysteriously green and no speed cameras flashing at the conspicuous 120mph travel.

They had arrived together, shown up to the relatives room outside of neurological ICU. They were one of several families already there, all looking at the newcomers sympathetically, offering tea and biscuits, showing them how to use the phone to contact the nurses inside of ICU.

No one asked questions, no one spoke to them, understanding what horrors they were currently going through.

It had been quiet for about an hour.

John and Mary had shown up an hour later, John visibly shaken, immediately calling through to the nurses station to demands answers, the nurses unable to give any, only reassuring that Sherlock was still alive.

Mary had been calmer but no less demanding, asking quick questions and being sure to get an answer, but she had sat beside William carefully, explaining what was happening, as best as she understood, in a calm voice, holding his hand.

Mycroft didn't speak until 2am, when the relatives room had cleared out, and even then it was only to offer the four remaining tea. He had eaten his way through two packs of custard creams, brushing off the crumbs that lingered on his suit jacket.

That had been 4 days ago, and William believed now that things were beginning to look up.

Sherlock's brain pressure had remained stable and doctor's seemed to be hopeful, even planning to start weaning him off the coma drugs tomorrow morning.

William told his son all of this in a cheerful manner, kissing his head and telling him about his garden, about how he's protecting it from frost using the strange chemical Sherlock gave him last winter. He reads to him from a science journal, stumbling over every second word, and he does the crossword with him, asking Sherlock about number 4 down, 8 letters, second letter b.

Sherlock didn't give the answer, but William didn't need him to.

William just needed his boy to wake up and carry on making strange chemicals to save his plants and to help strangers with their tragic cases and to make Violet laugh with his strange jokes about subjects William didn't quite grasp.

Mycroft entered and they both sat together, talking over Sherlock, talking about the weather again. Talking about nothing, but at the same time everything.

Tomorrow would bring good news, William was sure of it.

_

As always reviews are appreciated, but if you could keep my friend in your thoughts I'd appreciate it even more.

Thank you for reading :)