The first time that Sherlock roused he was vaguely aware that he was in hospital.

John and his brother were sitting at each corner of the cot he was laid out in. It had been a surreal experience, to say the least, seeing both his uncaring brother and his distanced friend sat around him, in what looked like angelic poses.

Mycroft Holmes was the furthest thing away from nurturing as possible, and yet there was something caught in his expression that was positively brotherly.

Those were the days, Sherlock thought to himself.

Sherlock and Mycroft had not always quarrelled. It was only as of the past few years that they had been locked into an almost constant battle with one another. Yet, all of that seemed to have been forgotten; water under and old bridge, or so they say.

Sherlock had a very sneaking suspicion that John had everything to do with Mycroft sitting by his side. If anyone could get through to Mycroft about sentimentality, it would no doubt be John Watson.

John had gotten through to Sherlock, after all, not that he had showed it directly. Sherlock had been very careful to secrete his emotions behind a solid mask of indifference. He'd been in love with John Watson for years, but had barely taken the time to admit it, even to himself.

He could pinpoint the exact moment where he'd come to the realisation that he was very much in love with John Watson. It had been as he was stood on that blasted rooftop, Moriarty whispering instructions into his ear in that silky Irish voice, coming clean on his promise to burn the 'heart' out of Sherlock.

John Watson being Sherlock's heart in that particular scenario. When Moriarty had threatened to kill John, Sherlock had tried to picture his life without his faithful blogger, and had found that he simply hadn't been able to. The mere concept of a world without John Watson was to painful to bear, so he'd made a sacrifice, he had died in the name of saving John Watson - because yes, he loved him dearly and held him in very high regards.

Of course, he had miscalculated. He hadn't gone as far as thinking about how John was going to react to his death. He'd hurt John, very badly, and it felt as though the sacrifice had been an incredible selfish act, instead of an act to save his best friend, the man who had warmed his ice-laden heart.

He didn't deserve the attention they were giving him. The way they were looking at him, as though at any moment he might just fade away, was making him feel very uncomfortable.

His brother should have been appalled by his destructive behaviour, should have been scorning him for his foolishness, but instead he was looking at Sherlock like he was a ten year old boy again.

As for John, the man should have been fuming, filled with resentment over Sherlock's "fake" suicide. As it was, he could distinctly envision the worry and concern on both of their faces.

The next few time he opened his eyes it was just John.

Brother dearest had left to deal with some world crisis. Or perhaps he was visiting mummy and father. How disappointed his parents would be over this whole ordeal, sitting in the knowledge that their youngest boy had once again been placed in a death defying situation, after another attempt of shooting up. Their line dancing would once again be disrupted, thanks to his substance abuse.

John held his hand. Whispered comforts to him. At once point Sherlock was certain that John's lips had touched the back of his hand. That could have just been wishful thinking, though. Every time he thought he felt John caressing his skin, his internal voice snapped at him with vicious vigour.

Why would John ever want to kiss you? After what you've put him through, I'm surprised he even wants to look at you. You're a freak, Sherlock. An untouchable, unlovable freak.

Every time he slipped in and out of consciousness, he felt wave after wave of guilt and confusion threatening to consume him. He was drowning under the weight of it all, with each time he woke, it was like inhaling thick, treacle air, his chest tightening with a mixture of feelings that he could not quite depict.

The feeling of guilt was attached to the image of John Watson's face; it was pinched with worry, bags of exhaustion hanging heavy beneath his eyes, the fear and constant panic written between each and every worry line. John looked older than Sherlock remembered. His hair was beginning to to fade into brackish grey, only a few sparse blonde hairs remained.

That was his fault. He was responsible for John always being so worried. He'd faked his death. He'd turned up without notice, and had unreasonably disrupted the new life that John had been building with Mary he'd almost died again, this time for real, and John Watson once more had been dragged through hell, all for him, all because Sherlock was selfish and had wanted to get high.

He should have stayed away. Away from John Watson. Away from London. Perhaps he should have taken up the offer to work for his brother, to infiltrate foreign country's, to stop terrorists, and work beneath the British government's thumb. At least that way John Watson would not have been put through so much grief. He'd be able to lead a healthy, normal life, marry a beautiful wife, and father children. That is what his friend deserved. Not this. Whatever this was…

"You're thinking out loud again."

Sherlock felt a callous thumb rub gently across the knuckles on his right hand. He exhaled heavily as he tried to push back the burbling butterflies in his stomach, that seemed to rise up every time he felt John's tender touch. He felt guilty whenever John touched him like that, for he was clearly getting a lot more out of it than John.

He was glad for the hospital bedsheets, as they more or less hid how much John was affecting him. He felt dirty and sinful just feeling the way he did, and he hoped upon hope, that if John did notice anything, he would just allow it to slide.

Slowly, he turned his head towards the direction of John's voice, and his eyes fluttered open, his thick eyelashes blinking rapidly as he adjusted to the harsh hospital light. It hurt to keep his eyes open for too long, but he forced himself to keep his eyes as wide and alert as possible, just so he could look at John Watson for a while longer.

"Was I?" He replied nonchalantly. "What was I saying?"

"You said that you should have stayed away."

"It's the truth, is it not? I think that we would all be better off if I had stayed dead."

The grip on his hand automatically tightened. A direct response to his words, he noted.

"Don't say things like that. I don't want you dead. I can't live through that again. I can't. I went insane."

Sherlock's eyes swept over John swiftly. Observing. Deducing. There were so many things about John Watson that had changed, evolved, or rather had reverted. John was as haunted, if not more so, than when Sherlock and John had first met.

Restless sleeps. Nightmares, no doubt. Bad dreams about him. No, about the fall, about standing over his bloody corpse, about believing that Sherlock was dead, longing after a life that he could no longer detain. The slight tremor in John's hand had returned - the one hand that wasn't clutching Sherlock's own, was sat pressed firmly in between John's thighs to stop it from shaking. Had John completely reverted? His eyes wandered down to the man's leg, but there was no way of telling if the limp had come back, not without John standing up.

The question must have lingered in his expression for far too long, for John seemed to have cottoned on to what Sherlock was trying to deduce.

"It did come back for a while, but when I got your call, when I knew there was a chance I could lose you all over again, I forgot about it. I ran through London like a bloody maniac. It was like our first case all over again." John was beaming at him, flushed with happiness, as he revelled in the memory of their first case together.

Sherlock wanted to allow himself a smile. That was one of his favourite memories, yet now it felt tainted and dirty, and he was the only one to blame for that. He didn't deserve anything good, and with a tight clench of his jaw, he fought back any spark of happiness his past case memories brought forth.

He could not get past the lump of guilt that had formed in his throat. He'd caused John so much pain - he'd done that - why was John still sitting at the edge of Sherlock's hospital bed? Why wasn't he still infuriated? He deserved hatred, not compassion.

John Watson should have left him to die in that alley way.

This time the wave of emotion that rocked through him was catastrophic. He could hear John calling him, trying to pull him out of his volatile thoughts, but Sherlock's mind was fogged over.

Can't think, can't think, can't think…

He couldn't prevent the pain from showing on his face, and despite how hard he was trying to slow the angry beating of his heart, the machines that he was attached to gave him away. The beeping sped up, building into a crescendo, the sounds soaring higher and louder.

His breathing quickened, along with the pulse in his wrist. His lungs were constricting, failing to draw in breath, refusing the air that his body so desperately needed. He wanted to gasp and gulp and sob, but instead he could barely get out a breath.

John Hamish Watson, good doctor as always, leapt into action, palm hitting the emergency cal button next to Sherlock's bed. This made things so much worse. There were nurses and a doctor -but not the right kind of doctor; not John.

John's face was pushed out of his line of sight, which only induced further panic within the detective. Where was John? Where had he gone? Had he left? His eyes darted from nurse to nurse. They were speaking to him in hushed tones, touching his face softly, calling him things like "darling" They were being nice to him, despite his reputation, and the fact that his numerous trips to the hospital had labelled him as the worlds most dreadful patient.

He paid little attention to them, all external sounds being drowned out my his own thoughts.

I told you. You're a freak, Sherlock. Of course he's left you. Time to sleep now, Sherlock. Sleeeeeep.

He was momentarily aware of a sharp pain in his arm, and a few moments later his thrashing movements stilled, and his entire body felt like a weight was pressing up against it, dragging him into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Upon waking up from his drug induced sleep, Sherlock's eyes caught sight of John once more, looking even more worn out than he had previously. His heart lurched at the sight in front of him, made him want to scream again, but he resisted from doing so. He'd expected to wake up alone, without John by his side this time, but his dear Watson was camped by his bedside like a good solider.

The anguish on John's face was enough to kill Sherlock. It was more effective than a stab wound, the sensation tearing through his flesh and muscles; emotional pain converted into very real, very physical pain. He was getting hurt over and over again.

It was unbearable. He wanted to scream, rip his hair out, pound his fists into the hospital bed beneath him. John seemed oblivious to the mental screaming taking place inside Sherlock's head.

"This place must be a dream. It's not every day that you get the drugs actually attached to you!"

Sherlock knew that John was putting on a brave face. Typical John Watson. Always pulling on a smile, a facade, just to make other people feel better.

"Not good for the brainwork."

"You won't be working for a while." A further frown line marred John's face, and Sherlock felt his stomach drop in disappointment.

Before he could stop it, a low whine escaped the back of Sherlock's throat, in a form of deep protest. Without John the brainwork had become a necessary object of interest in his life. The work was all he had now. He needed the work in order to forget.

"I don't want to hear it, Sherlock. You got stabbed. You're going to be in pain and discomfort for a while yet."

Good, that's what I deserve. Pain. Suffering. Discomfort. It's the least I deserve. Let me have this John. I need to hurt. Need to be punished for the awful things I have put you through.

"It isn't as though I'll be running around London. I just need the brainwork. Especially since - "

"Since what?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Clearly it does, otherwise you wouldn't have brought it up."

"It doesn't matter." Sherlock repeated, this time a little bit firmer than previously.

"It matters to me. I'm not stupid, you know. I've noticed that there's something not right with you. It doesn't take a genius to deduce that."

"There's nothing wrong with me. I'm fine."

John snorted loudly in disbelief. " You're such a liar."

"You've only just come to this conclusion?"

"Shut up and get some rest."

"I'm barely tired."

"Liar."

"I'm really not-"

"Sherlock," John reprehended the younger man. "Go back to sleep now or I'll get the nurses to sedate you again."There was a rough element in John's voice, one that left little room to argue with.

Sherlock closed his eyes, but he didn't fall asleep straight away. Instead, he remained awake, listening to the sound of John's close by presence. After a while he heard John break the pattern of his breathing with an elongated sigh.

"I wish you would just spit it out already, Sherlock. I hate seeing you like this. You were so worked up before. If I didn't know better I'd say you had an anxiety attack. But that's ridiculous, isn't it? Sherlock Holmes doesn't fear anything, does he? What could Sherlock Holmes ever be scared of?"

Sherlock snorted and even behind his closed lids his eyes rolled. "I think both you and I know that is one of the bigger lies I have told. I am susceptible to fear, as much as any other man, I just choose to deny it."

"For once in your life, tell the truth, what is it that you fear so?"

Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he looked at John straight in the eyes. "You mean that you are really that oblivious?"

"Apparently so." John shrugged and looked at Sherlock quizzically. Sherlock felt a lot like he was under some kind of scrutiny - it was making him feel quite uncomfortable actually - and he shifted under the bedsheets awkwardly.

He felt vulnerable. John Watson made him feel so open and vulnerable. There was nowhere to hide this time, no words he could use to cover up the truth, no clever tricks or distractions that he could pull out of the bag. He had run out of options.

"Alright then," He nodded, licking his lips tenderly, as he considered his next words. " If you must know what I am fearful of, what has me on edge, well that is very simple. It's you. John Watson is what Sherlock Holmes is scared of."

John blinked. His scrutiny merged into shades of surprise. "Me?"

"You have ears, do you not? That's what I said. Yes, you."

Sherlock could tell that his face had flushed a vibrant red. He was embarrassed by what he had admitted, and the connotations that his words had within them. He wanted to tear his gaze away from John, however he found that he was stuck in a trance, staring at John like a wide eyed child.

"Has this got to do with what you told me? In the alleyway you, you know, well you said-"

"That I loved you. Yes, I was there for that part, though I couldn't be certain whether I dreamt it or not. Most stabbings lead to hallucinations after a certain amount of blood loss. There have been known cases where-"

"Shut up." John held up a hand, and Sherlock firmly clamped his lips together, to stop any further words from escaping. "You're an idiot. You know that? I love you too, you great idiot. I've loved you since our first case. I was captivated by from the very start. All you had to do was tell me and I would have dropped everything for you. Surely you should have deduced that by now!"

Sherlock stared blankly at John. Since their first case? How had he not noticed? Had it really been staring him point blank in the face for all of this time? He shook his head to try and clear it of fog, but he could still see no certain answers on John's person, and the words his friend had said did not connect with any deduction he could find.

"I can't deduce anything. It appears by deduction abilities are severely affected by my emotional attachment to yourself."

"You're in love, you blind idiot." John was grinning at him so wide that Sherlock couldn't help put break into his own beaming smile. "Hang on, wait a sec, you said you were scared. I still don't understand. Scared of what?"

Sherlock's grin dispersed quickly and he had to think carefully about how he responded. "Rejection, I suppose."

"Oh." John's face fell. "I guess I can see where you got that idea from."

"You told me to fuck off. You said very clearly that you never wanted to see me again."

"I was angry. People say things when they're angry, things they might regret later."

"Even to people they supposedly love?"

"Especially to people that they love." John confirmed. "I was hurt Sherlock. I thought you were dead. I was allowed to believe that for two years, and you were alive for all that time, whilst I was hurting. Can you see how that's a bit not good?"

"It wasn't exactly a piece of cake for myself, John. I wasn't playing hide and seek for two years. It's not as simple as that."

"Then you can explain yourself over dinner when you're better."

"Why over dinner?" Sherlock asked, oblivious to John's insinuation.

"Maybe I want to take you to dinner," John said, emphasising each and every one of his words.

"I see," This time Sherlock cottoned on, his ears turning a dark shade of pink. "Aren't you forgetting something?"

"What?"

"You are soon to be a married man. You are engaged to Mary Morstan."

It was John's turn to look embarrassed, turning his gaze to the hospital floor. "She broke it off with me. She took her stuff from the flat yesterday. She seemed convinced that I couldn't put my heart into the relationship, at least not with you lying in hospital. "

"Did you love her?" Sherlock asked. He tried to keep his tone as neutral as possible, but his words were tainted with an edge of jealousy.

"I do love her, Sherlock." John worried at his lips with his teeth. He'd clearly doing that a lot over the period of Sherlock's hospital stay, as his lips were a bright red. "When you died, so did I. Mary taught me how to feel alive again. I'll always be grateful to her, but she wasn't the first person to make me feel that way. Do you understand?"

Sherlock nodded slowly. "Yes. You love both of us, but you are a man who values loyalty, so you had to make a choice."

"It doesn't mean I value her any less, just that - " John looked conflicted, torn in two, and once again Sherlock couldn't help the wave of guilt he was currently rolling in. "It's always been you. Right from the start. I want you to know that. It's important."

"It's always been you," Sherlock repeated John's words carefully, trying his hardest to replicate the tenderness within them. "You should know that, too. Where do we go from here? What's the normal protocol?"

The sudden burst of outrageous laughter from John was unexpected. Sherlock was unsure of what he had said to warrant such a reaction. At first, he was certain that he had said something wrong.

"I'm sorry, sorry, Jesus I haven't laughed so hard in a long time!" John had been laughing so hard tears had welled up in his eyes, and he had to wipe them away with the backs of his hands.

"Did I say something a bit not good?"

"No, no, it's not that. It's just, Sherlock, when has our relationship ever been normal?"

Sherlock couldn't help but find the humour in the situation as well, as was soon grinning right alongside John. "I suppose you're right. However, just because our relationship isn't normal, doesn't mean we have to skip out on the normalities of dating. I would not want to miss out on a vital part of the courting process, after all."

"You want to court me?"

"Of course. It is the proper thing to do with one you love, is it not? Or do you think it rather old fashioned? Of course, if you would prefer a more modern approach we could always-"

John leaned in to press his lips to Sherlock's own, soon shutting the detective up, rendering the hospitalised man quite speechless for once. "No, it's fine." He murmured, echoing his own words from their very first case together. "It's all fine."