Sherlock sat on the cold bathroom floor, staring at the blood that was running freely from the hole he had pierced in his arm, his head feeling light, and the colours around him merging into a haze.
He had heard John banging on the bathroom door, of course he had - with the volume of the knocking, and that it wasn't stopping, it was quite hard to ignore it. And it certainly helped forget the pain.
"SHERLOCK!" John shouted again. "SHERLOCK! I WILL BREAK THIS DOOR DOWN IF I HAVE TO!" He threatened. "MRS HUDSON!" He shouted. "I'M KICKING THE DOOR IN!" With a hit from his boot, the bathroom door swung from its locked state, hitting the radiator with a crash. "What the hell have you done?" He asked, throwing himself down next to Sherlock, who was becoming increasingly paler by the second, and still had a hold of the knife he had used to cut into his wrist. Grabbing a clean shirt from the side of the bath, like the doctor he knew he was, he wrapped it firmly around Sherlock's wrist, ignoring the attempts to get him to stop. "No," he said, almost as firm as he tied the shirt, hitting Sherlock's hand away, trying to stop himself from crying. "NO!" He shouted again, dragging the tall, pale, man down from a sitting position, into what he could manage of a recovery position, since Sherlock was being uncooperative, and had made his legs rigid, so that John wasn't able to move them at all.
By now, John had noticed, Sherlock's breathing had become slower and shallow, but his mind wouldn't work properly, and he before he knew what he was doing, he had found himself lying on the floor next to Sherlock, both men were crying, Sherlock doing so silently, occasionally taking large gulps of air, fighting for life.
Having managed to alert to what was happening, hoping she had called for some sort of help, medical or not, he didn't know, he had found himself sat upright, leaning against the bath, and Sherlock's head resting on his knee. Both men still crying, John even more so than before. He didn't want to admit it, once that help had arrived, but he feared that he might have been losing Sherlock, their last conversation having been an argument.
It had been some days - for Sherlock, some heavily sedated days - and John was himself, starting to feel that he too might soon need something to help him sleep and numb the guilt he felt. Every time he had tried to sleep, he had been woken by visions of what could have happened, what might have happened if he hadn't noticed that the bread knife had gone missing.
"John," a voice had said. It was 3am, dark, cold and the hospital was eery and quiet. "You're staring."
"Hm?" He asked, yawning. But no reply came, just a heavy snore. One he hadn't heard for a few days. He rolled his eyes, his head fell back, and he fell asleep. This time dreaming of knowing that the worst was finally over.