Sherlock & Sebastian (violent)

"You're not lucky, John," Sherlock muttered, then chuckled slightly, allowing themselves a joke. "If you were lucky we wouldn't be lying here in hospital, would we?"

He shuddered at John's small touch on his cheek, wondering whether it would be approproate to kiss him again. How often did people actually kiss? Sherlock hesitated, the urge almost becoming overwhelming, his chest tightening. He quickly moved in and gave John a small kiss on the lips, then got out of the bed hurriedly, wincing as he forgot his injuries again.

Sherlock wandered out into the corridor and approached the reception desk. "Um...I'm in room 4 with John Watson. The name's Sherlock Holmes, I'm waiting on some results." The receptionist tapped some buttons on her computer. "Ahh yes. I'll send someone through immediately."

"Thanks," Sherlock mumbled and returned to the room.
"They're sending someone through," he explained, turning his attention to the old creaky campbed he never slept in and folding it away. As he was doing so, the Nurse came in carrying a tray with John's breakfast on. She set it down on the table.

John felt cold seep into his muscles as Sherlock moved away, his whole body relaxing back on the bed, but as soon as his friend was out of the room, his chest filled with dread and fear. He looked up at the ceiling, willing himself to be strong, but the truth was that he just wanted to cry. How could he get what he wanted only now? He was trying very hard to be strong for Sherlock, but he felt like the whole situation was killing him even faster than his damaged kidneys.

He schooled his features as Sherlock came back in. "Mm? Oh, alright..." he muttered, and reached out his hand, somehow wanting to call him closer, he was going to get what he wanted for as long as he could at least, and he wanted Sherlock's touch and kisses, it didn't matter who was in the room.

"Thank you, Hannah," he said, even though he really wasn't hungry. No surprise there, he didn't even remember what hunger felt like.

Sherlock stood back and waited whilst the nurse set John's breakfast down on the side table. She left the room and the detective pulled up a chair to sit next to his friend's bed, placing his hand om John's arm and giving it a squeeze. "You'll be alright, John," he said confidently. "I'm going to take care of you."

The nurse returned moments later carrying a clipboard and a sheet of paper on. "I've got your results here, Mr Holmes," she announced, and Sherlock looked up hopefully. His expression fell slightly when he noticed the nurse's face. She looked as if she was about to deliver bad news, not good.

"I'm afraid you're ineligible for donation due to your recent history as a drug user," she smiled apologetically.
"It's not recent," Sherlock objected. "I've been clean for seven years!"
"That's still recent as far as this is concerned, Mr Holmes. It would have to be ten years before we'd even consider it. I'm sorry."

Sherlock buried his head into the bedclothes, feeling ashamed. It was all his fault. His only friend was going to die because of his own stupidity, because he'd wanted to get high. Tears prickles his eyes and a sob escaped the back of his throat.
"John..." he choked, wanting to apologise but unable to say anything except his friend's name. John. The man he would gladly give his life for. The man he treasured and loved more than anything. He felt so helpless and desperate.

John knew good news were not in order, it was obvious by the fact they had to prod about the results, but it still felt like time ticked more slowly when the nurse came in with the clipboard. He just wanted good news, he needed good news, they both needed them, but it was useless really.
He was a doctor, he knew how these things worked.

He sighed, laying back on the bed, his eyes moving up to the ceiling, but he wasn't really looking.
Why did it have to be like this?
Not that he would have wanted for Sherlock to go through a kidney transplant, but if it was his only choice...
Sherlock...
He reached out his hand, running it through his hair.
"I'm sorry, Sherlock..." he whispered, his voice breaking without his control. "Don't... we can't... do anything... it's... okay..." he whispered, trying to motion him to come closer, he wanted to hug him, he wanted to feel him close.

He knew that John would forgive him of course, that he wouldn't blame him, but that was John, that was what he was like, and it didn't make it any easier for Sherlock who still felt utterly awful, using all his mental strength to stop himself crying.

Eventually he sat up from hiding his head and wiped his eyes quickly with the back of his hand. "We'll think of something else," he muttered, trying to stay positive. "I'll think of something, John, I swear."

The nurse looked at them sympathetically. "I am very sorry," she sighed, then collected her notes together and left them alone once again.

Sherlock clambered back onto the bed and wrapped his arm around John, just wanting to cuddle and comfort him, no longer embarrassed or made awkward by physical contact between them. They were the best of friends, always had been and always would be, and there was nothing to be ashamed about wanting to hug your friend. Sherlock nuzzled his face into John's neck, suddenly craving everything about him, wondering whether they might kiss again.