Sherlock & Sebastian (violent)

"What?" Sherlock pulled a face in disbelief. "And you never thought to mention any of this before? You've just been...sneaking off...having dialysis...are you mad? Why didn't you tell me?"

With surprise Sherlock realised he was quite angry. John was his best friend, his only friend, and yet he hadn't confided in him until now. What that actually meant he wasn't really sure, but he knew it couldn't be a good thing.

John opened his eyes a bit, guilt pooling in his stomach. "I didn't think you'd care," he answered sincerely. "You were always working... and... well, you never asked me how I was... what was I supposed to say? And I didn't sneak off! I told you I was going to the hospital, but you didn't notice I was gone at all..."

He frowned, realizing he wasn't choosing his words well. "I mean... I know you care... it's just... I was fine, I didn't think... this was going to happen... there was no point in worrying..." Or maybe he had been scared stiff Sherlock would turn out not to care at all.

Sherlock couldn't believe what he was hearing but he reasoned he hadn't exactly been the most caring friend in the world at all times...it just wasn't really his area.

"Of course I care," he said automatically, although John had already answered that. Of course John knew he cared....

Sherlock leant forward and placed his hand carefully on top of John's. "You know....you can tell me anything...really." He gave John's hand a quick squeeze then stood up again quickly, staring at the door.

"It'll be OK," he stated calmly. "I'll make sure of it."

There were a lot of things that John wanted to say to Sherlock, but he didn't think he could bring himself just yet, or maybe ever. He knew confessing his feelings would mean he was giving up on life, it'd mean he had nothing left to lose.
"I am not sure about that," he mumbled under his breath, looking at his hand once Sherlock had moved away from it.
Such a passing touch, but it lingered on his skin.

He sighed at Sherlock's words: "Of course I will be okay," he muttered, nodding his head. John surely wasn't the type to despair, and he surely wasn't going to do it in front of Sherlock.
"You don't have to do anything... and I would appreciate it if you didn't drive the nurses away..."

Sherlock walked to the door and stared out through the small window, watching the doctors and nurses milling about, without a care in the world. His head was swimming with a thousand questions and thoughts, all fighting to get out. His first instinct was to protect John, but in order to do that he had to know what was going on.

"So what's going to happen next?" he asked. "What will be...what will be the next procedure? Will you have an operation or...how do they make you better? When can you come home John because....because...."

Because I need you, he thought silently.

Sherlock's naivety touched John's heart, he looked at him, standing by the door, he could see the tension in his muscles, he had been right not to tell him, he didn't like seeing him worry.
"I will have an operation when they find a donor," he said, wondering if there was a way to put this that wouldn't sound as scary as it actually was. He did avoid putting if instead of when.

"Other than that, I will just have to continue dialysis..." So they can keep me alive until then. His gaze turned sad, he didn't think he would get discharged any time soon.

"I will come back to Baker Street if they... well..." don't find a donor.
No, he wasn't supposed to think that, he was fine, they didn't even start the first dialysis, he was going to be okay.
"I will ask the doctor if I can come home soon..." he said with a grin, brave.

Sherlock realised he had been clenching and then unclenching his fists. Some kind of nervous habit. He forced himself to stop and sit down, only to find his leg begun to jig up and down.

"Let's ask the doctor now," he cried and leapt up again, heading to the door. He opened it and leaned out.

"Excuse me..." he collared a passing doctor. "We need to speak to you about this man's condition."

"Sherlock!" he exclaimed, trying to stop him, looking apologetically at the doctor who seemed to be rather frightened by Sherlock's movements.

The middle aged man looked at John, then at Sherlock, and frowned. "He's not my patient, the doctor who is in charge of him will come around in a few hours, I suggest you calm down, you aren't helping your friend aggravating him like that," he said confidently, trying to struggle against the detective's grip. "I have no way to help you, young man."

The doctor broke free of Sherlock's grasp and practically ran out of the room and up the corridor, looking quite panicked. Sherlock spun round and lashed out, kicking the chair over in anger.

"Damn it!" he shouted. "Why won't he help us?" He ran his hands through his hair and begun to pace the room frantically. This was no good. No good at all. He needed John better now. Not next week or the week after that. NOW.

John started when he saw Sherlock kick the chair, he had never really seen the detective lose control, other than when they were chasing the hound, but nothing horrific was in sight now, well, other than John's possible death, that is.

"Sherlock," he muttered calmly, not sure how to approach this.
"I am going to be okay, but you can't do anything about it right now," he tried to explain.

"Can you calm down? I don't want them to call security on you..." he insisted, sighing. "You can see I am still perfectly fine, I can wait for the transplant... true, you are going to have to work on your own for a while, but maybe you can have Lestrade help you? Or you can look for a new PA, I wouldn't be offended, I understand..."

Sherlock took a few deep breaths to try and steady himself. He needed to stay calm. He had to stay calm for John. But the thought of anything happening to him was torturing his insides. He grabbed the chair and put it on its feet again before slumping into it.

He made an effort to smile. "Of course. Of course this will be fine John. But...I'm afraid I can't leave you. Not until you're fixed."

John looked at Sherlock suspiciously, the smile didn't convince him, but the words were what actually surprised him. "What do you mean you can't leave? You can't possibly stay here the whole time! Sherlock, it's going to take... months..." he muttered, and his heart clenched in his chest, one part of him couldn't cope with the idea of Sherlock sacrificing anything for him, but the other knew that his condition was going to get worse, and he was going to feel incredibly lonely.

"You would get bored in a few hours..." he tried to joke.

Months? Sherlock felt a little sick. He could feel his stomach twisting up in knots as if someone was squeezing it. The idea of John stuck in here for months on end just...waiting...and him not being able to do something. He felt so helpless and he hated feeling out of control of a situation. It made him...edgy.

Sherlock smiled sadly, knowing John was right. He /would/ get bored just sitting around the hospital all day every day. He was starting to get restless already if he was telling the truth, and he was fairly sure if he'd go out of his mind if he couldn't solve crimes and do his experiments. But then to think of doing those things without John by his side made him feel...sad. He couldn't imagine it.

He looked out into the corridor and saw all the doctors and nurses going about their business, not even bothering to come in and check on how they were doing. They didn't care about John. Not the way Sherlock did. They couldn't care less, he thought bitterly, and he began to resent them in his heart, hate them even. What right had they to look after John, his John? And then suddenly a little idea began to form in his mind...

"John..." he began carefully. "Why can't you...why can't you come back to Baker Street? I can look after you from there. You don't need all these people..." he waved his hand dismissively at the hospital surroundings. "They don't really care about you John...not...not like I do...."

John observed Sherlock silently for a long moment, apparently the detective had only now realized he needed to stay here for a few months. He didn't expect the suggestion that came next, and he felt his heart clench in his chest, Sherlock still had no idea what this was going to do to him.

"You can hardly take care of yourself Sherlock, how do you think you can handle me being sick?" he asked, feeling guilty as soon as he realized he sounded accusing.

He sighed, his heart beating faster in his chest, Sherlock had said he cared, it meant a lot to him.
"You are... very nice to offer... and... it's nice of you to admit you care a bit about me... but... I will need dialysis often, and sometimes I might not be able to move, I... it's going to be very embarrassing for me, and you would hate me at the end..."

He glanced at his hands. "Those nurses might not care, but they know how to do their jobs... it might be a bother for you now to get used not having me around any more, but time will make it easier... and maybe you can really find another PA who can help you out like I do..."

Sherlock listened carefully to John's words, saying nothing. Then they sat for a while in silence, Sherlock desperately trying to think of a way out of this, something, anything...but deep down he knew it was hopeless. John was right. He wasn't a doctor...he couldn't do anything to help except...make cups of tea or something, and he wasn't even very bloody good at doing that.

Finally he sighed heavily and said, "OK fine. Maybe you should stay here. But I'm going to visit you every single day and sit here and make sarcastic comments and annoy all the nurses and nag all the doctors until they make you better and you can come back to Baker Street where you belong, and I am NOT going to find another PA, it's not just about that John, you're much more than just my assistant or my blogger you're....well...no one can replace you so there's no point me even trying to find someone. All right?"

John looked at him with a smile: "I give you one week. Then you'll disappear into thin air too bored to set foot here again," he teased him, reaching out his hand, but realizing that he couldn't get to Sherlock, he was too weak, God, he felt like he had just been run over.

"I am your friend, that's the word, Sherlock," he muttered, and sighed sadly. "One can have more than one friend though."

"No," Sherlock protested, "No I won't. I'll come every day. I swear it."

He noticed John unable to reach out to him. Was it really that bad? Surely he was just putting it on? To get sympathy? No...John wouldn't do that. Sherlock felt a dull pain in his chest as he grabbed John's hand and squeezed it maybe a little too hard.

"It'll be OK John....I will look after you. And yes, you're my friend...but you're the only one I need. Why would I want another one anyway? It would be pointless. None of them would be as good as you, therefore a waste of time."

John realized Sherlock noticed his lack of strength and it aggravated him. "I am okay, just weak, it's normal, don't worry," he tried to find excuses, they were good excuses though. He grimaced slightly when Sherlock squeezed his hand, and also blushed, the touch able to send his heart into somersaults. God, he was doomed.

The rest of Sherlock's words didn't help any, his eyes saddening and he felt guilty for doubting Sherlock's attachment to him. "I... I had no idea you felt that way..." he muttered, looking at their hands. "You... seem so distant at times... I thought..." he shook his head, biting on his lower lip. That you'd grow tired of me.

"You are my best friend Sherlock, I do care for you... I kind of... you know... love you..." he confessed with a very feeble shrug. "I will do my best to get better and come back to you as soon as possible..."

Sherlock lowered his head sadly and stared at one of the stitches on John's sheet. He didn't like the idea of his friend being weak. He always saw him as strong...brave...incredible. He continued to squeeze John's hand and not let go. He didn't really care if John thought it was weird or innappropriate. They were friends after all, and friends were allowed to hold hands.

"Of course John...I....I thought I'd made it perfectly clear to you how I felt," Sherlock replied. And honestly, he had thought that. He knew he wasn't very good at expressing his feelings, maybe John had failed to pick up on the subtlety and complexity of his emotions. He always imagined John to be able to read his mind. Perhaps not.

Love? Sherlock lifted his head up and studied John's face carefully. What did he mean? Love was irrational, dangerous, stupid, weak...love was....love was....Sherlock knew that love meant caring about someone and certainly he cared about John. In fact, John was pretty much the only person he did care about...but love...love was something different entirely...more complicated, more....something....

"John...." he asked slowly, "What...what do you mean by love? I mean...how do you define love?"

"No, you definitely didn't make that clear," he exclaimed with a soft laugh, slowly allowing his fingers to wrap around Sherlock's hand, hoping his heart wouldn't burst for it.

The detective's words brought him back to earth though, he blushed furiously and his heart clenched in his chest. What was he supposed to say to that?
He panicked.

"It's nothing. Ignore it. I am sorry," he said, hiding his gaze because he knew hat he couldn't help showing just what he felt. "It was out of line for me to say that... just... forget about it, yes? You don't need to worry about love or such... it's silly..." he rambled quickly, even though it hurt.

"Oh-kay..." Sherlock said slowly, confused and frowning slightly. Why didn't John want to talk about it anymore? He was trying to change the subject. And why was he blushing? Sherlock gently manipulated his fingers round to feel John's pulse. It was quite a revelation.

"Are you...all right? Your heart rate is almost double what it should be..." But before John could answer he added, "I do care John...you know....I care...about you."

Now it was Sherlock's turn to blush. He felt his cheeks go warm and he averted his eyes, hoping John didn't think he was behaving too oddly.

John felt betrayed by his own body, and his instinct was to pull his arm away, but it was weak and he could move it only very slowly. "Don't-" he pleaded, he didn't want Sherlock to read him, he knew it would be too humiliating if the detective discovered his feelings in such a way.

Why can't I calm down?
He thought, feeling himself lose control over his senses, he didn't even notice Sherlock shy behavior.

"Now I know you do, it's good..." he said, looking at his lap, glad Sherlock wasn't looking at him at all. "I am glad... it's good..." he repeated, betraying again just how much the subject affected him.

"Good," Sherlock muttered, repeating John's word. Why had John been repeating himself anyway? Odd behaviour. Sherlock eyed him suspiciously, not quite sure what was going on here but not entirely comfortable with it. Then again, not entirely uncomfortable either.

He got to his feet slowly, still holding onto John's hand. "Hmm. I...I suppose I'd better...go..." he shrugged. He didn't particularly want to go just yet but it was hard to tell whether John wanted him to be there or not. He appeared to Sherlock to be rather embarrassed about something. Talking about love? Why should it embarrass him?

"You know you shouldn't be embarrassed," Sherlock was surprised to hear himself speaking his thoughts out loud. "If you mean something you should say it regardless of what other people may think of you."

John looked up at Sherlock surprised when he spoke, he hadn't expected him to pry, the detective never really did ask him anything, he just deduced. He saw stand up, ready to go, but his hand was still grabbing his, and he felt that maybe Sherlock didn't want to go?
Was this wishful thinking?

He sighed tiredly, his voice very low when he finally decided to reply. "I don't care what people think, but I care about what you think..." he muttered, and looked at him sadly. "And I don't want to scare you away..."

Because I stop functioning when you are gone...

Sherlock squeezed John's hand again, looking down into his eyes, searching them for any clues as to his emotions, his feelings, his thoughts. He looked....tired, and perhaps a little sad.

"Why do you care what I think?" he asked, genuinely interested. "Do I really mean that much to you? Does my opinion count?"