John, wake up. "Please"

Prequel

He'd been asleep now for two weeks. The detective hadn't left his side. He hadn't opened his eyes since he'd squeezed them shut, curling his body round his daughter as the car veered into another. His daughter was fine, with only a scratch to her brow. But the doctor wouldn't wake.

The detective hadn't moved, he'd stayed in the plastic chair next to the bed, clasping at the tail of the hospital bed, whispering and pleading with the patient to just open his eyes one more time.

"John, wake up. Please." The detectives voice broke into a sob and he had to clench his eyes shut a she willed for John's to open. Biting down on his bottom lip and drawing blood.

There was a bandage across the soldier's forehead, covering the stitched to the gaping cut that had knocked him out. Put him in a comatose dream.

Sherlock couldn't help the tears at the memory of how he found him.

He'd heard the massive crash just down the road from Baker Street and in his curiosity had fled from the flat, leaving his coat and scarf behind. He'd felt calm and collected until he heard the high pitched wail of a baby girl. He'd been excited until he saw the registration number of the upturned Audi.

The calm and collected appearance became one of dread and fear and the excitement became adrenaline, cold and angry adrenaline that burned through his blood stream and cauterized his raw throat as he screamed out John's name.

His breath was gone when he saw John's wife. Mary was the image of death, her once rosy skin now pale and bruised, blood trickling from her mouth, nose and forehead, her hair becoming matted and sticky with the crimson horror that portrayed the once lively woman.

He reached out to her neck for a pulse and when he felt none he let loose a small sob of agony before he turned to see John, his back towards the impact and the child's crying muffled by his chest.

"Rosie?" Sherlock questioned in fear, he tried to pull John's body away from her and although he felt a pulse there was no response to his request. "John?" Sherlock whispered. No reply.

"John!" He demanded more desperately. "John!" He shouted. John stayed lifeless. "Wake up John!"

He lost track of time after that. He didn't remember managing to drag John's battered body out of the upturned at, how he somehow managed to unbuckle the seat belts and free his friend. He didn't remember how he somehow managed to get Rosie out, only a small cut on her head.

He didn't remember getting Mary's corpse out of the drivers seat. He didn't remember what he did. But he remembered the blood. So much blood.

He didn't remember screaming for John to wake, for John to be okay, the apologies that he couldn't save Mary, the sobs of agony. He didn't notice the deep gashes inflicted to his own body from the broken glass when he had reached through the window to reach out to John, one long gash on his hand and a deep one from wrist to elbow.

He didn't notice he was bleeding out, adrenaline keeping him alive.

When the ambulance and police had arrived, what greeted them was a car, still full of passengers, two young boys but still alive just shocked and a few scratches, an upturned silver Audi with no passengers but instead a smashed windscreen from where someone's head had collided with it, blood spattered all over.

The thing that shocked them most was the bleeding detective, sobbing and cradling his goddaughter and only friend in his arms, unwilling to ever let go. And what made lestrade's heart clench was the fear and utter agony that was practically pouring from the young detective.

Lestrade phoned Mycroft before going over to the detective and delicately removing his arms from John's body as someone else carefully took Rosie out of his hands. Lestrade escorted him to the back of an ambulance and maybe Sherlock would have smiled fondly at the feeling of de ja vu. But this time when the orange blanket was draped over him and his arm was sewn and bandaged. He truly was in shock and the blanket helped.

He didn't notice the world around him, he only saw John's body carefully deposited on a stretcher and soon Rosie being carried by a medic and then the ambulance was gone.

He was shaking and tears fell silently.

When they cry silently it's because they can't stop.

He felt an arm over his shoulders and was escorted to the back of a black car. He couldn't remember what. His brother was sat next to him and the lestrade on his other side.

"John?" Sherlock questioned and neither had ever heard him sound so broken.

"He'll be okay" lestrade assured. "Mycroft?" He looked up at the older Holmes who was looking uselessly at his younger brother.

Mycroft slowly came out of his daze and commanded the driver to get them to the hospital. The pedal was pressed, the clutch released as the car was moved into first and they were off.

He didn't remember being guided to sit in a waiting room as shrapnel was removed from John in surgery. He didn't remember what had happened to Mary, how her body had been taken away in s private ambulance after being put into a black body bag. He missed everything but John.

"Mr Holmes?" A doctor asked, Mycroft looked up and gently nudged Sherlock but received no answer.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft whispered in his brothers ear until Sherlock mournfully lifted his head to look at the doctor but unable to make eye contact.

"Mr Holmes, mr Watson is in a coma as if present but rest assured he will wake up, it is just so the body can recover. He will wake up when he is ready. Also Rosamund Watson is well and in the child ward room 281. You can visit her under supervision."

Sherlock nodded minutely and the doctor walked off leaving himself, Lestrade and Mycroft alone in the waiting area.

"See, he'll wake up, he'll be okay" Lestrade assured giving Sherlocks arm a comforting squeeze.

It was over two hours later they were allowed to visit John but only two visitors at a time. Lestrade had insisted Mycroft but the older Holmes talked him into going with Sherlock.

"You were better family to him than I could ever be, he needs you" Mycroft insisted softly before he took residence on the blue plastic bench outside the room. So lestrade nodded to the elder Holmes with a tight lipped smile and followed Sherlock in.

Sherlock walked in a daze, his eyes never focused until they fell on John. A silent, heart wrenching sob before he flew over to John's bedside and dropped to his knees clutching at the bedpost. Begging for him to wake. Lestrade placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder as he took a seat in one of the blue and white chairs.

It smelt of disinfectant, a slight metallic tinge of blood from Sherlock and John combined, and the strange smell that was like nail varnish remover which was produced by the iodine used on both John's and the detectives wounds.

"John I'm sorry, I'm so sorry" Sherlock was muttering, more to himself than anyone else, he was shaking again but Lestrade couldn't comfort him because his pain was psychological and he couldn't protect him from his own mind.

That memory was constantly replaying in Sherlocks mind. And said memory wouldn't leave. John stayed unresponsive.