Johnlock Fluff (mostly) Oneshots

Happy Endings

Hey guys, I have 2 other chapters I'm working on, one a request and one from a prompt, but what did I decide to do? Write a completely different chapter XD. So, in this chapter, I'm going to break your puny human hearts and then (if everything goes to plan) fix them with the ending. Hope you enjoy.

Sherlock's POV
I ran out of the flat, hailing a cab as quickly as I could. It was freezing cold outside and I left my coat inside, but I barely noticed or cared. All I cared about was the fact that I had just been notified that John had been admitted to St Bart's after being in a horrendous car accident. 

According to Mycroft, John was alive, but he didn't have the details of how bad his injuries were. A car had apparently driven into the side of the cab that John had taken and that he was lucky to be alive. Tears blurred my vision as I got into my own cab and told the driver where to go.

This was my fault. I had been the one to start the argument that made him mad. He said he was just going out for a bit and that he would be back when he calmed down. What I would have goiven to go back in time to fix everything, to stop the argument, to make sure my husband was okay. 

As soon as we got to the hospital, I payed the taxi driver and ran out, not even stoppinng to thank him. I went straight to the receptionist, who looked incredibly bored. My mind was so clouded with worry for John that I didn't even have the brain to deduce her.

"John Watson-Holmes, where is he staying? Where is his room?" I yelled at her. I knew that this wasn't the 'proper' way to treat people, but I didn't care. All I cared about was my husband's safety.

Eventually, after what seemed like an eternity, but what in reality was only probably 3 minutes, the receptionist finished tapping away at her computer and told me the room. I ran straight there. 

When I got to the correct door, I didn't stop to knock or anything, I just barged in. John was in the bed, and a nurse was at his side, fiddling with his medicine.

As soon as the nurse saw me, she left the room, patting me on the shoulder as I went past. I took this as bad news. I ran to John's side and took his hand, sitting in one of the uncomfortable hospital chairs next to his bed. 

Thankfully, he was conscious. 

"I'm so sorry John, this is all my fault" I wept, clutching his hand tightly, just shy of too hard. 

"I-it's okay, Sherlock, it's-" He broke off, coughing badly. "It's not your fault. I was the one who left in a huff."

"I was the one who made you leave in a huff." Tears were still sliding down my face, and I could see John was trying not to cry.

He shook his head. "Don't-" His harsh coughing cut him off again. "Don't blame yourself, Sherlock. The one thing you mustn't blame yourself for this, ever, okay?" I nodded.

"Okay" I whispered hoarsly. "I'll be back in a second." 

I left the room and found his nurse right outside.

"What is wrong with him?" I asked, going straight to the point. There was no time for small talk, not while John was here. 

"He inhaled a lot of smoke from the fire. His wrist is broken in 2 places (this happened to me when I was 7 and it hurt like a bitch. 3 operations and 1 three-inch scar later, here we are. I've broken both my wrists, and rather strangely, they both click every time I turn them and it freaks people out) and he has a hairline fracture in his leg."

"The smoke, any permanent damage?" 

Her whole face drooped at that. 

"I am so sorry, Mr Watson-Holmes, I didn't want to be the person to tell you this, trust me, I didn't, but your husband only has a few months to live unless he can get a lung transplant. The waiting list is about 2 years."