So here it is, the chapter you all have been waiting for (I think). I've spent days trying to get this right, and I think this is as good as it's going to get. Enjoy.

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John spent the entire cab ride in a heightened state of anxiety. His eyes darted back and forth between the two windows at his side and his fingers continually danced across his knees.

Sherlock was in trouble. Sherlock was in A&E. Mycroft had told the hospital to contact him, knowing they weren't even together anymore, and wouldn't explain why. Something was very, very wrong.

John threw a few notes at the cabbie and climbed out of the car before it even came to a full stop and all but sprinted through the front doors of the hospital. There were several people standing around the front desk that he pushed past to speak to the receptionist.

"Hello my name is John Watson-Holmes and-"

"He's been admitted. Room 221." John didn't bother to thank the woman, just nodded and sprinted off in search of Sherlock's room. His heart was pounding and his brow was covered in a thin layer of cold sweat but all he could think about was Sherlock.

Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock.

What on Earth could have happened to him? Something so terrible even Mycroft was worried. Something that warranted him being contacted despite the fact that he and Sherlock weren't even living together anymore. Something so important that all he needed to do was give the receptionist his name and he was allowed access to information he should not have gotten so easily. John suspected that was Mycroft's doing. He'd forgotten how convenient it was to have the British Government as your brother-in-law.

John sprinted through the halls of the hospital desperately trying to remember the layout and how to get to room 221. Admittedly, it had been a while since he'd last been here, but now certainly wasn't the time for his memory to fail him.

The door to Sherlock's room was closed when John approached it, and for a moment he hovered in the hallway trying to muster up the courage to step inside. After not seeing Sherlock for months he was more than fearful of what he may find when he entered the room. He thought back to the last time he'd seen Sherlock, and remembered how frazzled he had looked then, and swallowed hard.

He raised a shaking hand and opened the door. In the pale light of the hospital room John could make out Sherlock's still form lying on the hospital bed beneath the pristine white sheets. There were the usual hospital accessories, IV drip, heart monitor and such. But there was also a ventilator beside Sherlock's bed, pumping oxygen into his lifeless body.

John's eyes remained fixed on Sherlock's face as he approached the bed, and when he stared down at him his eyes burned with the tears he refused to let fall.

Sherlock looked so much worse than when he'd seen him last. He looked like an empty shell of the magnificent man he once was. Broken beyond repair, with dark circles beneath his eyes and skin so pale it was nearly translucent. His already prominent cheekbones had become even more so with Sherlock's face sunken in as it was. The corners of his mouth were turned perpetually downward, and there was a crease between his eyebrows that looked like it had been there for months.

His lips were blue and his hair had lost all it's shine. His once perfectly-coiffed hair now hung in greasy, loose strands across his forehead and stuck to the clammy skin there. Sherlock was the perfect picture of death, and if it weren't for the steady, if a bit slow, beeping of the heart monitor John would have guessed he was looking at a corpse.

He brought a shaking hand up to his mouth to muffle the sob that rose to his lips, and used his other hand to push Sherlock's hair back from his forehead. He allowed his fingers to linger for a moment, let his fingertips trail down the side of Sherlock's face before he pulled away.

He walked around to the other side of the bed to sit in the chair that had been placed beside it. Either someone else had been in this room or they had been expecting John's arrival. He planted himself in the seat and reached out to grab Sherlock's limp hand on the bed.

John didn't bother checking the time, so he had no idea how much time had passed before he heard someone enter the room.

"Um, sir, you can't be in here." John lifted his eyes from Sherlock's face to look at the nurse who had just entered. She held a clipboard defensively against her chest and was giving him her best authoritative look. "Only immediate family members are allowed to visit patients in critical condition." John stared at her for a moment, before looking back down at Sherlock and stroking his hair.

"I'm his husband."

The silence that followed his statement hung in the air long after the words had left John's lips. He continued to stare at Sherlock's face even after the nurse muttered her apologies and came to stand by the bed.

"I just have to check his vital signs. Make sure the naloxone is working." John didn't even hear her. He just nodded his head and allowed the young woman to do her job. It took only a few minutes before she stepped back and began scribbling something on the clipboard in her hands.

"Everything looks alright," she said, looking up at John.

"Then why isn't he waking up?" John asked quietly, tearing his eyes away from Sherlock. His eyes met the nurse's and she gave him a pained look. A look that went further than just sympathy. Perhaps she had been in a similar situation? If Sherlock were conscious he would have been able to deduce it. John turned back to stare at his face. He looked like he was simply sleeping, rather than lost somewhere in the abyss of unconsciousness.

The nurse slipped out without another word, leaving John alone with Sherlock. Everything in John's mind was screaming for him to leave right then. He could see that Sherlock was going to be alright, but he couldn't bring himself to leave. So he remained by his bedside for the rest of the night, falling asleep with his head resting on the mattress beside Sherlock's hand.

When he awoke the next morning there was another figure in the room. It took John a moment to realise it was not a doctor or a nurse, but Mycroft standing at the foot of the bed, watching Sherlock with what anyone else would have called a detached expression on his face. John, however, had been around the man enough to tell when he was showing genuine concern or worry, and Mycroft was showing both emotions by the bucket full. The fact that Mycroft was so very disturbed by what had happened to Sherlock was torture to John. Calm, cool, collected Mycroft Holmes was standing at the foot of his brother's hospital bed with a look of pure anguish on his face. Well, as close to anguish as his haughty features would let him show.

A doctor and nurse appeared shortly after John awoke, to deliver the prognosis and check Sherlock's vital signs. The nurse soon disappeared, and Mycroft spoke with the doctor for a while, and John remained frozen in his seat, unable to speak after hearing the news he had just been told.

Overdose, the doctor had said. Apparently it was a miracle Sherlock was still alive. The doctor said Sherlock had taken a strong enough dose to kill two people. It was a good thing John had already been sitting because otherwise he would have collapsed upon hearing that.

He remembered the young nurse saying something about naloxone. He should have realised it then. He was a doctor,for crying out loud. He should have been able to figure out what had happened. He supposed his judgement had been clouded from the moment he stepped into the room and laid eyes on Sherlock.

"You should eat, John." Mycroft's voice cut through John's thoughts and he wrenched his eyes away from Sherlock's face. He hadn't even noticed the doctor's departure he had been so out of it. John stared blankly at Mycroft, whose eyes remained on his brother.

"You haven't eaten in roughly twenty four hours. There's a cafeteria here. Just give them your name and you shouldn't have to pay for your meal." John's eyes grew wide as he stared up at Mycroft, his heart rate began to accelerate and suddenly his lungs were forgetting how to function. Leave? How could Mycroft ask him to leave Sherlock, after he was the one who called him to the hospital in the first place?

"I'm not leaving him."

"Relax, John. It's not like he's going anywhere." John fought the urge to stand up and slap Mycroft right then and there. How could he say such a thing about his own brother, who was lying comatose in a hospital bed. How could he suggest that John leave Sherlock while he was in this state? John looked down and shook his head.

"I can't leave him."

"You have once before." John's eyes snapped up to Mycroft's face and his jaw dropped. Never before had he heard Mycroft's voice sound so bitter and resentful. Then again, why would he not be angry at the man who walked out on his little brother. John knew Mycroft was alluding to their separation. Technically it had been John who left all those months ago.

"What-"

"I can assure you he will be here when you return. Don't let yourself go to waste as well."

As well.

There were so many things John wanted to say in that moment, but his train of thought was derailed by the sound of his stomach gurgling, and with one more longing look at Sherlock, John decided that yeah, he should probably go get something to eat. That didn't mean Mycroft wasn't going to get an earful the moment he returned, though.

John hurriedly made his way down to the cafeteria and scarfed down a deli sandwich so fast he was sure his stomach would be aching later. He then grabbed a bottle of water to keep in the room with him and made his way back to Sherlock.

Mycroft had taken the seat beside Sherlock's bed, and was busying himself with something on his phone.

"I'm back now."

"Yes, I can see that." Mycroft said, still not looking up. Once again anger flared up in John's chest, but he quickly squashed it when Mycroft lifted his eyes to look at Sherlock. John understood suddenly that Mycroft was in fact scared for his brother. Of course he would be more of a pain in the arse than usual. He wasn't used to having to deal with emotions, so he was simply shutting down. He and Sherlock apparently had more in common than they'd both like to admit.

John made his way over to stand at the side of Sherlock's bed, opposite Mycroft. A semi-awkward silence hung in the air, but for some reason John didn't want to break it. Still, he had a million questions running through his mind, and he knew at least one of them could be answered by Mycroft.

"So um, why did you call me here?" Mycroft didn't respond for a moment. He sat staring at Sherlock, then sighed and stood.

"I'd better be off. I have some urgent business to attend to. I trust you will remain here? And let me know if there are any..." he trailed off and glanced at Sherlock. "Developments?"

"Yes, of course, but why-"

"Good afternoon, John."

John watched slack-jawed at Mycroft strolled out of the room, then turned his attention back to the man sleeping in front of him. He reached a hand out and placed it over Sherlock's. The skin was still cool to the touch. John found himself wishing desperately for Sherlock to just stop this and wake up. He had so many questions. Why had he started using again? How had he been so careless and overdosed? Why on Earth would he not wake up?

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It was another week before Sherlock woke up. A week of sleeping mostly upright in the chair beside Sherlock's bed, of pretending to be sick to avoid going into work, of giving Ollie excuses as to why he had been absent lately, of sitting there staring at Sherlock willing him to just wake up. For an entire week he had laid there, eyes closed, chest rising and falling rhythmically. After three days he was taken off of oxygen supply. According to the doctor the naloxone had worked perfectly, and there was absolutely nothing wrong with Sherlock.

"Except for the fact that he's unconscious," John had said bitterly.

Mycroft popped in at regular intervals. He never spoke. He only gave a small nod of the head in acknowledgement to John every time he entered the room. He always stood at the foot of the bed, his eyes trained on Sherlock. John knew Mycroft wanted Sherlock to wake up just as badly as he did, that he was just as worried. Still Sherlock's eyes remained closed. The longer they stayed closed, the less hope John had for a positive outcome.

John had been sitting in his chair trying not to fall asleep when he'd heard the telltale rustling of bed sheets, and a groan that could only have been produced by the vocal chords of the world's only consulting detective.

"John?"

Sherlock's voice was hoarse from disuse, but that didn't matter because Sherlock was awake. John's eyes flew open and his head snapped up so fast he was sure he had given himself whiplash. However, the only thing on John's mind was the fact that Sherlock's eyes were open. They were open, and staring at him. For the first time in months, John found himself eye to eye with Sherlock. All of a sudden he was incredibly aware of how disheveled he must look.

"What ... " Sherlock paused and coughed, and John realised his throat must have been painfully dry. A sad smile slowly spread across Sherlock's face and his eyelids gently fell shut. "Have I somehow managed to make it into heaven?"

"What, no, Sherlock, you're in the hospital." Sherlock opened his eyes and narrowed them at John.

"What are you doing here then? What am I doing here then?"

"What, in a hospital? Do you not remember?" Sherlock frowned and shook his head.

"No, I meant what am I doing alive?"

"What- alive? Sherlock-"

"John, a word."

Both John and Sherlock turned to see Mycroft standing in the doorway, umbrella in hand, stony expression on his face. John glanced back to Sherlock, who immediately ducked his head down, then stood from his seat. He cast one more look over his shoulder at Sherlock, who was watching him cautiously, before following Mycroft out into the hallway.

"Okay, look. It's been a week now. He's awake, and I want to know what's going on. What does he mean why is he still alive?" John was livid by this point and was practically shouting, but he didn't pay any mind to the strange looks he was receiving from Mycroft and those nearby.

"John." Mycroft spoke with the usual detachment in his voice. John stared at him and wondered if this was the same man that had spent hours at the foot of his brother's bed while he was unconscious. John figured Sherlock would never even know Mycroft had come to visit him. John decided to think about how sad that was later. As for now, he wanted answers.

"I demand you tell me what's going on? What does he mean by that? Why did you have them call me?"

"He left a note, John."

The words that John had been preparing to say died in his throat. All of the heat drained from John's face. What he had begun to suspect was apparently true. This hadn't been an act of carelessness. This had been a planned suicide attempt on Sherlock's behalf. John wasn't sure which would have mad him angrier, but he knew that he was beyond pissed that Sherlock would do such a thing to himself.

Mycroft reached inside the pocket of his trousers and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He handed it to John, then turned and walked away. John watched him disappear down the hallway, then turned and looked through the door at Sherlock. He was sitting with his hands folded in his lap, glaring at nothing.

John unfolded the note. There were only two sentences written in excessively sloppy script. John figured Sherlock had written this with the drug already coursing through his veins. As his eyes scanned over the words he felt his face flush and he was sure he was red to the tips of his ears. The note simply read:

I can't go on like this anymore. I am so sorry John.

John crumpled the paper in his fist and stormed into the room, almost throwing the balled up note at Sherlock when he finally reached him.

"You want to tell me what the hell this is?" he asked, holding up the offending piece of paper. Sherlock didn't even bother with a glance at the paper before shrugging and looking away.

"I'm sure you can recognize a suicide note when you see one." John couldn't believe how flippant Sherlock was being about this. John was unable to even begin to wrap his mind around what was going on. Apparently Sherlock was suicidal. That much had been made glaringly obvious. But there was so much that was still a mystery to John, and he hated it.

"Sherlock ..." John sighed and ran a hand down his face. Perhaps it wasn't the best idea to yell at Sherlock when he was in such a state. "Why ... what ... I don't even know where to start."

"You want to know why I did it."

"Yes."

"Because I no longer enjoy living. Next question."

"Why do you ... what happened that's got you like this?" Sherlock briefly met his eye before biting his lip and looking away.

"I'm not sure you want to know."

"I wouldn't have asked if I didn't." John leaned against Sherlock's bed, and Sherlock scooted over to make room for him to sit on the mattress. In that moment all of their past arguments and current drama flew out the window, and all for a moment John actually forgot that this was a man he was to be divorcing in a year. Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed, and John sat quietly. He knew this was going to be a tough conversation on a delicate subject, but he knew he had to get Sherlock talking.

"It started many months ago. When we ... well, when we had our last argument as a couple." Sherlock looked down and began toying with the sheets he was laying beneath, obviously trying to hard to appear nonchalant. "I remember you said ... when you said our marriage needed saving I-" Sherlock broke off suddenly and turned his head. "I didn't know what to say." John looked down at where Sherlock's hands were gripping the sheets, and noted how tightly he was holding them. His knuckles had gone completely white, and when he spoke there was an obvious tremor in his voice. "I remember how tired you looked. How unhappy you were. And I was the cause of it."

Sherlock then looked up and met John's gaze. His eyes were red rimmed and watery, much like John's own. He'd tried so hard to avoid thinking about that dreadful argument for months, repressing any emotion that arose when the argument even began to cross his mind. Of course that was impossible to do now. Sherlock swallowed hard and shook his head, looking away again.

"I tried, John. I really did. But I knew then that I would never be good enough for you. I act normally and you accuse me of not sharing enough of my life with you. I try and make a romantic gesture and it all goes to shit. I realised you would be so much better off without me, so I let you go. There is an old saying that begins with the phrase if you love something, you set it free. That's exactly what I did. I disappeared, stayed away from Baker Street as long as I could because I couldn't bear the thought of being there when you weren't, and- John?"