Author's Note: So this is kinda short, and not much really happens, but it's been way too long since I updated this and I wanted to get something else posted before the end of the year. So, here you go, and Happy New Year!

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"I wish I could say I'm surprised to see you." Sherlock rolled his eyes, starting to rethink his decision to come to this small coffee shop. Still, he said nothing and gave the woman sitting in front of him a tight lipped smile.

"I don't have much time for nonsense, Lucy. You know why we're here. You said you can help me, and I've agreed to listen to your suggestions. So, talk." Lucy shrugged and took a sip of her coffee.

"It's simple really, just...tell him."

"Okay, how?"

"I'm sure you know how to speak." Sherlock rolled his eyes but bit back his snarky comment.

"Alright then, when should I tell him?" Lucy leaned back in her seat and smirked.

"When the moment is right."

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Sherlock had always had a rather high tolerance for pain, but the throbbing agony he felt on the side of his head was excrutiating. Though when he heard John quickly take in a breath, all thoughts of any pain on his end vanished and all he could think about was John. He turned to him and placed a hand on his shoulder without thinking, asking if he was alright and mentally cursing himself for sounding so emotional.

John's eyes were screwed shut, and he was obviously in a lot of pain, but he nodded his head. Why did he nod his head? Of course, Sherlock had just asked him if he was alright. He didn't look okay, Shelrock thought to himself, but he nodded. Was he lying? And if so, why?

John opened one eye and looked down, then began cutting his jeans with a knife he had pulled from somewhere on his person, Sherlock wasn't exactly sure where. He blamed his lack of insight on the fact that he'd just banged his head into a window quite hard. Things like that tended to muddle one's thoughts. John turned to look at Sherlock with the hint of a smile on his face, but as soon as his eyes landed on Sherlock his face lost all colour and his eyes grew big.

"Sherlock, are you okay?!" Sherlock didn't fully understand John's question. Of course he was fine, didn't John see him? Sure he would have a pretty nasty headache, but that was it.

"What? Me? I'm fine," he said, hoping to reassure John. "I hit my head on the window is all, but that's not important right now. You are."

The words had been out of Sherlock's mouth before he could stop them, and he tried not to let it show on his face that he meant so much more than those trivial words let on. John was the most important part of Sherlock's life, and all else was pushed into the background in anything where John was concerned. Sherlock could feel his hands shaking, could feel an overwhelming urge to grab onto John and pull him close, promising to never let him go. He tried to keep still, he fought to keep his breathing even, he tried very hard not to think about how much his head hurt.

John reached up and brushed his thumb against Sherlock's forehead and cheek, concern evident on his face. His eyebrows were furrowed together and his eyes were wide and shining as he focused his attention on the left side of Sherlock's face, and suddenly Sherlock began to wonder if he really was alright.

"Turn your head further," John said. Sherlock refused for a reason unbeknownst to even himself, but John was persistent. Apparently Sherlock was a bit worse off than he'd originally believed. It was strange; He hadn't even felt the blood that had been trickling down the side of his face. Still, he refused to let John examine his injury and still, John was persistent. He began fiddling with Sherlock's hair and shifted slightly in the seat. Sherlock immediately noticed the harsh wince John gave and his eyes dropped to his leg. He could see where John had cut, and saw the splotches of red that adorned John's jeans. He could feel his heart sink to his stomach.

"You're hurt." Sherlock was barely aware of his own voice. What he was aware of, however, was the feeling of having John gently stroke his hair, and the way his voice had softened when he said:

"So are you."

Sherlock's heart began to ache. It ached for John and his injured leg, and it ached because this whole thing was all his fault. His heart ached becuase John's hands were on his face and it was the most magnificent feeling in the world, but he knew it meant nothing. He wanted nothing more than to lean forward and close the gap between their lips, but knew that his action would not be responded to favourably. He pulled out his phone and called for an ambulance.

He could barely bring himself to look at John. Seeing all the pain and worry in those steel blue eyes and knowing he was the reason for it was unbearable. The fact that John refused to let him take all the blame only made him feel worse.

Sherlock's only comfort was the feeling of John's hands on his face and in his hair. His only solace came from the one person he had caused so much distress. His only concern was that John would hopefully forgive him when he knew he would never forgive himself. He felt John's head resting against his chest, and realized he already had been. He wrapped his arms around John without making the conscious decision to do so, and they waited for the ambulance together.

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Over the course of his lifetime Sherlock had seen many horrible things. For example, a large part of his job was examining crime scenes and forensic evidence, both of which could be quite gruesome. He'd seen disfigured faces, bashed in skulls, and more dirt and grime than one would think possible and hadn't even batted an eye.

It was crazy to think that the one thing to disturb him the most would simply be the sight of John Watson lying in a hospital bed. The feeling of guilt that had already been stirring in his abdomen only grew when he saw John lying helpless beneath the pristine white sheet. The harsh sting of his stitches was now a forgotten memory, even as John's calloused finer gently brushed over that side of his face. Sherlock didn't have enough time to wonder what the purpose of John's action might be, because they were interrupted by a man who delivered the terrible news that John's leg was in fact broken. Sherlock was positive he'd taken the news worse than John. Sherlock admired his bravery, and was grateful for it because he knew if John wasn't as intrepid as he was, Sherlock would be an absolute wreck instead of just a miserable guilty human being.

Sherlock excused himself from the room under the false pretense that he was visiting the gift shop, and pulled his mobile phone from his pocket. Upon further thought Sherlock stuck his head back in the doorway to ask John if there was anything he wanted, just in case there in fact was, and felt his ears burning when he heard the nurse's comment about him being a good boyfriend. He felt a slight twinge of pain in his chest when he remembered that he and John were not actually romantically involved, but that pain was quickly replaced with surprise when he heard John's response.

"You wouldn't believe me if I said anything otherwise, would you?"

John hadn't denied him. In fact, he'd actually smiled before speaking. What did that mean? Was this a significant occurrence, or was Sherlock's lovesick mind looking too far into this?

Sherlock began to move away from the door, but froze when he saw John's head turn towards him. He put a smirk on his face and asked John the question he'd been planning on, and when John shook his head he left the room, holding up his phone and glaring at it. He tapped on the screen until he was able to pull up the worst text he'd ever received, the text that was the cause of this entire ordeal.

Have you told him yet? - Lucy

Sherlock scowled at his half-written reply.

No. The 'right moment' hasn't c

John had reached for the phone before he'd been able to finish typing. Sherlock angrily pressed several buttons and held the device up to his ear. Lucy answered after three rings.

"Sherlock hello! Did you tell him? What did he say? Have you kissed him? Have you-"

"Lucy." She immediately stopped talking, and Sherlock could feel the entire mood of their conversation shift.

"What happened?"

"We never made it to the cottage." There was a sharp intake of breath on the other line, followed by several seconds of silence.

"What happened?"

"Car accident. We're both okay but..." Sherlock took a moment to steel himself. "John's leg is broken."

"Oh, Sherlock-"

"Don't." He heard footsteps behind him, and turned to see John's nurse leave his room. Sherlock ducked around a corner before John emerged and saw him, barely paying attention to what Lucy was saying on the other line.

"-doesn't mean anything. Just... give me a call if you need anything."

"Why are you being so helpful?" Sherlock asked, genuinely confused.

"Because I know how much you love him, and I know that he feels the same."

"You don't know anything," Sherlock snapped, but Lucy continued.

"You two deserve to be happy, and you deserve to be with each other."

Even after their conversation had ended, Lucy's words played over and over again in Sherlock's mind. John deserved so much better than him, and Sherlock deserved so much less than what John had to offer. Was there any way to possibly level the scales? One thing was for sure, Sherlock would try and find a way to. Perhaps Lucy could help...