Adrenaline was pumping through Sherlock's veins as he sprinted through the forest. His lungs were on fire and he was almost certain he sprained his ankle during the chase. None of that mattered though, or at least not as much as what, or rather who, he is running for.

John.

They've taken him... tied his hands together behind his back and put a gag in his mouth so he can't scream for help. They leave the field and somehow end up on a busy street, and Sherlock felt his stomach lurch at the sight of John being thrown into the back of a van with his eyes wide and pleading for Sherlock to help him.

He had to save him. His legs were moving before he even told them to and he sprinted towards an open cab door. He shoved someone out of the way and climbed in, throwing some money at the cabbie and telling him to "follow that black van!"

Pleased with the large sum of money that had been thrown at him, the cabbie complied and tires screeched as he weaved through traffic. Sherlock spent less than a minute in the back of that taxicab, but it felt like an eternity by the time the van pulled onto a side road. Sherlock's cab followed and soon the two cars were speeding down a dirt road towards an unknown destination. Sherlock's eyes hadn't left the van since he climbed into the cab. He saw the back door open and just as he yelled for the cabbie to stop someone is thrown into the road. Someone with light hair, who has their hands tied together.

"John!" Sherlock shouted, opening the cab door and tumbling out onto the road. Luckily, the cab driver swerved just in time, and John is unharmed. Sherlock crouched over him, vision now blurred with hot tears and hands shaking violently.

John's eyes were closed, and he wasn't breathing.

"John!" Sherlock shouted before he placed an ear to John's chest to listen for a heartbeat. He placed two fingers just below John's jaw, and felt nothing. He frantically tried to give him CPR, pressing down on John's chest several times before he placed his mouth over his. This might be his first and last chance to do this, to feel John's lips against his own. The thought of it is enough to break his heart.

Sherlock felt a pair of hands on him, and immediately shook them off. The hands persisted, grabbing his shoulders and pinning him to the ground, and for the first time in his life, Sherlock has lost control of his emotions. He is terrified, he is indignant, he is devastated; He is feeling so many emotions he cannot keep track of them all, nor does he want to. He takes one last longing look at John's lifeless form.

"Sherlock, are you alright?"

At the sound of John's voice, Sherlock's eyes flew open and he found himself staring into the kind blue eyes of none other than John Watson, who Sherlock could've sworn was dead just moments ago.

It had only been a dream. Sherlock let out a sigh and felt his entire body relax.

"Oh, John," he said, "thank God." Sherlock almost added 'you're alive' at the end of his sentence, but stopped himself. It would only warrant questions from John that Sherlock didn't feel like answering.

"What is it Sherlock?" The concern in John's voice was heartwarming, and it only added to the pain Sherlock already felt at believing he had lost John forever. He sat up straight and covered his face with his hands so John wouldn't see the tears that were beginning to form and threatening to spill over his eyelids. He took a moment to breathe and collect himself, then looked down at John, who was kneeling before him on the floor, staring at him as if he were afraid Sherlock would explode any minute. "Are you alright Sherlock?" he asked, his voice as gentle as ever, perhaps even more so. Sherlock faked a yawn and nodded, hoping that it would suffice as an answer to John's question, and prevent any more from being asked. He could tell by the look on John's face that he wanted to pry, but was trying to restrain himself.

"What time is it?" Sherlock asked, hoping to take John's mind off of whatever he had just witnessed. John looked around the room for a bit, then grabbed Sherlock's phone and stared at the screen.

"It's only about eight or so." Sherlock sighed and nodded, feeling another wave of pain washing over him as he recalled the events of his dream. He shifted on the couch into a more comfortable position, and allowed his head to roll back as far as his neck would allow. He closed his eyes and tried to keep his mind blank, but that always proved to be an impossible task.

"Are you okay?" he heard John ask, still sitting on the floor it sounded like. Sherlock sighed heavily, wishing John would just let it go, and knowing that his compassionate nature wouldn't allow him to.

"I'm fine John. I was just having a bad dream is all." It was much more than a 'bad dream', Sherlock told himself. It was the worst dream he'd had in years, possibly his entire life. He'd lost John. He lost what he cared most about in the entire world, he lost the man he loved, and the worst part had been, he hadn't been able to tell John how much he loved him...

But it was only a dream.

John seemed to get the hint that Sherlock didn't feel like talking, and offered to leave. Sherlock heard himself ask John to stay, and much to his delight, John did. Sherlock could feel the heat radiating off of John's body as they sat side by side on the sofa, and though his body relaxed his mind did the exact opposite. No matter how hard he tried not to, Sherlock couldn't keep himself from reliving the erroneous memory of seeing John's lifeless form thrown from the back of that black van, from staring down at his inanimate body, and trying unsuccessfully to revive him.

He felt a hand on his knee and started slightly, wondering if it was an attempt at consolation by John. It wasn't, and Sherlock had to admit he was a bit disappointed. Of course John had meant to place his hand on his own knee. Why on earth would he touch Sherlock like that? They weren't physically intimate, and knee touching was a gesture reserved for those who were. He sighed and covered his face to hide what he knew was a disappointed expression and leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. He thought he felt a hand on his back, but he wasn't sure until he felt it begin to move slowly up and down his spine, seemingly caressing each individual vertbrae. He found himself leaning towards John, hoping he wouldn't be pushed away. Surely John wouldn't turn away a friend in need of consolation.

Sherlock's head came in contact with John's shoulder, and then John's arm was around him. Sherlock knew he should've stayed there longer, he should've remained still and allowed himself to simply enjoy the feeling of having John so close, but he knew he couldn't. Not when it was only a friendly gesture to John, when it felt like so much more to Sherlock. He stood up, instantly becoming colder when he felt John's arm slip from around his shoulders. He fought back the involuntary shudder and began pacing, trying to figure out just what it was he needed, and what he decided was that he needed to think. As soon as John went upstairs for bed he would get out his violin, and hopefully get some things straightened out in his mind.

He didn't have to wait long for John to dismiss himself, and after a short trip into his room to retrieve his instrument, Sherlock returned to the empty living room and stood by the window. He waited until he heard no more movement coming from John's room, then began to play.

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"I'm afraid there's not much more we can do. He sustained a substantial amount of injuries. Life support may be the only thing keeping Mr. Watson alive."

"It's Doctor Watson you twat," Sherlock spat, glaring up at the man standing on the other side of John's hospital bed. His eyes softened as he looked down at John's face. His eyes were closed, and he was breathing steady, but only thanks to the giant machine he was hooked up to. If it weren't for that machine, there most likely would be no John.

Not that there was much of a John laying before him. The body in that bed was nothing more than an empty shell in which the magnificent soul of John Watson used to reside. He looked so peaceful, as if he were only asleep, and not in a coma that he would most likely never wake from. Sherlock reached out and touched his cold hand, pale from not being out in the sun for months. A single tear slid down Sherlock's face, tickling his chin before landing on the floor in front of him.

"Are you sure there's nothing you can do for him?" The man in the white jacket took another look at his clipboard, then ruefully shook his head.

"The only thing we can do is unplug the machine and end his suffering." Sherlock felt as if he'd been slapped. How dare this man suggest such a thing? Unplug the only machine keeping John alive? The very idea of it was preposterous!

"End his suffering?" Sherlock growled, his voice and hands now shaking. "End his suffering? How do you know he's suffering? He's fine. He'll be fine." The man in white only stared at Sherlock, his eyes tearful and full of pity for Sherlock. "Don't look at me like that. I don't need your pity." He stared back down at John, at his closed eyes and thin lips that used to be pink, and felt his heart shatter. "I only need him."

"I'll leave you to think it over. You seem like you might need a moment."

Sherlock didn't even respond. He just grabbed John's hand and sqeezed it tight, but not too tight as to not hurt him. With shaking hands he brought John's hand to his lips and placed a tender kiss on each knuckle, a single tear falling from his eye with each kiss he placed. He placed John's hand back on the bed beside him, then leaned over to kiss his forehead.

"I'm so sorry John," he sobbed. "I couldn't protect you. I couldn't save you." He covered his mouth with his hand as he chocked out another sob, tears now flowing freely from his eyes. " I- I'm so sorry, my love." It was getting harder to breathe. Sherlock felt as if his lungs were collapsing and all airways were being shut, and he could barely get his vocal chords to work. For a long while the only sounds in the room were the beeping of John's heart rate monitor and the quiet sobs that Sherlock was unable to hold back.

"I love you, John. I can't have you die without knowing that. I love-"

The beeping slowed.

"John?!"

The beeping continued to get slower and slower, until all there was was a continuous sound, and suddenly the world ceased turning. Sherlock shouted for help, and when the nurses came in everything seemed to go into slow motion. Defibrillators were brought out and John's hospital gown was cut open. Sherlock never let go of John's hand, even when his body convulsed from the electircity that surged through it. Each attempt to restart his heart was futile, and after several long minutes, one of the nurses called it.

"Time of death, ten fixty-six pm."

"No!" Sherlock shouted, reaching for the defibrillators and trying to place them back on John's torso. "No you can't give up on him!"

"Someone restrain him!" Sherlock fought back as hard as he could, but then he was shoved rather roughly and collapsed onto the floor, everything around him turning black.

"No!" Sherlock shouted, sitting up straight. He took a look around at his surroundings, not fully comprehending where he was.

He heard a door open, and turned his head towards the sound to see John rushing inside the room.

"Are you okay?" he asked, concern evident in his tone of voice. "I heard shouting."

"Yes, yes, I'm fine." Sherlock ran a hand through his hair and tried to slow his breathing.

"Another nightmare," he heard John mumble. Sherlock nodded and sighed. His breathing and heart rate had yet to return to normal, and his thoughts were only just starting to make sense again. He finally understood what Lucy meant. He had finally been in her place, though luckily not literally, and he knew exactly why she had said what she did.

He looked to John, who began asking him about the nightmare, and answered his questions. Then John asked Sherlock if he wanted him to stay, and of course Sherlock said yes because he was foolish and in love and would never turn down the opportunity to have John's comforting presence in his room while he tried to get back to sleep.

He had to tell him. That much was clear now. As soon as the 'right moment' came, Sherlock would profess his love to John, not caring about the consequences, because he couldn't bear to be in Lucy's place, couldn't bear to feel that way ever again.

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Sorry for any spelling/grammar/tense shift mistakes. I try my best to go over what I write and edit it but I always seem to miss something.

Anyway, thanks for reading, and stay tuned for the next part.