A/N So this takes place during The Final Problem. This is what I think really happened so if you haven't seen the new season then don't read this one. I read some theories on Tumblr that I included in here. The theory is that John has lost his eye (due to the fact that little victor -who is pretty obviously a John mirror- wore an eye patch as well as some unusual shots of John's eyes throughout the episode) when he was shot by Eurus and that he is currently in a coma. Another theory I saw is that John was taken prisoner during the war and was tortured (waterboarding) and now has an intense fear of water. (I recommend looking up some of these theories, they are fascinating) Enjoy <3

 John's P.O.V

"Let's put a hole in it." The gun went off and John felt the force of the bullet connect with his skull. Pain flowered in his left eye as he hit the floor. He could hear the woman, Eurus, laughing as his vision faded.

"John!" He could hear the familiar voice in the distance, he was so far away. Sherlock, he tried to cry out to his friend, but his thoughts faded away before he could.

Sherlock!

Sherlock's P.O.V

"John!" He stumbled into the room in time to see his friend's body hit the floor. The woman with the gun was laughing as he watched the blood spilling from the open wound on John's face. He felt the blind rage filling his body as he pulled the gun that was concealed in his belt. The woman turned to face him and he felt his stomach drop. Eurus. He remembered her, vague memories from his childhood. The sister they never discussed. She was still laughing, mocking the gun in his hands.

"You wouldn't kill another human being. You are weak, run by your emotions-" He cut her words off with a bullet to the heart. He ran to his friend, inspecting the horrific wound and trying desperately to remember any First Aid he could. Everything was gone; his body was panicking as he tried to find any signs of life in the limp body in his arms. He could hear the sirens as emergency crews pulled up to the house. He heard the sounds of people and he cried out for them as he felt the faint pulse in his flatmates wrist.

"Hold on, John. Hold on for me, please." He whispered in his friend's ear as the people surrounded them. He was pulled away from John, forcing himself to release his jacket as he was stood.

"Sherlock," The familiar voice of the Detective Inspector cut through Sherlock's frazzled thoughts. "Sherlock, what happened? Are you hit?" He felt hands on his shoulders and forced his eyes from John's body. Lestrade was close, way closer than he would normally allow him to be. But right now he couldn't bring himself to care. Lestrade was still asking if he was hit. Why would he ask that? He looked down and saw the blood. John's blood, his clothes were stained with it. He felt his chest tighten and his breathing quickened.

"John," his voice cracked, "she shot John." He was feeling dizzy. Lestrade's face fell and he pulled Sherlock in for a hug, trying to calm the taller man. Sherlock allowed himself to be held by the DI, using the other man's strength to ground himself. The medics started to remove John from the floor and haul him to the ambulance. Sherlock rode to the hospital with him, refusing to leave his side.

John's P.O.V

Sherlock wanted to talk to Mycroft, so John convinced him to really freak him out. Something was wrong though, nothing felt right. Everything was just slightly wrong. Something had happened, but Sherlock was racing from Mycroft's house and John had to follow. They had to find this Eurus. She shot John, but just with a tranquilizer.

Sherlock's P.O.V

The machines incessant beeping was keeping Sherlock awake. Each ping a harsh reminder that his friend was being kept alive by these offending devices. He looked at the still form on the bed, once more trying to will the body to consciousness. For more than a week he had sat like this, watching as he beloved friend deteriorated before his eyes. There were bandages covering the left half of his face, but Sherlock could still see the gaping hole when he closed his eyes. The bullet had hit him at an angle, narrowly missing his brain but destroying the eye. He was lucky, that is what everyone kept saying. If he were truly lucky he wouldn't be lying in the hospital. Sherlock couldn't help thinking this.

Mycroft brought him his violin when he heard. John always loved hearing Sherlock play. In truth, if John hadn't continued asking to hear him play, Sherlock would have stopped playing years ago. Now he played for John, the sad notes of the waltz he wrote for the man filling the hospital room. He played for hours, only stopping when his fingers bled. Then he told John about his childhood, talking of his dog and his horrific sister. He knew there was no basis for all his words. He held to the hope that John was still in there, still alive within his own mind.

John's P.O.V

Sherlock was talking to Eurus, down in the depths of the prison Mycroft referred to as Sherrinford. Something was wrong. He tried to signal Sherlock, sending him the code 'Vatican Cameos' in hopes of trying to get him back. He was ignored. He could hear Sherlock playing the violin. Where did Eurus get a violin? Something was wrong. Why was Sherlock playing his waltz? Eurus must have made him. He stepped out to get some air. Looking down he saw the water, the ocean crashing into the base of the horrific prison. Memories of his time in the war came forward, sending him into a panic. Something was dreadfully wrong.

Sherlock's P.O.V

Sherlock felt his heart stop as the machines started screaming at him. John's body was shutting down. A stream of doctors and nurses filled the room, pushing him out and shouting orders at each other. He couldn't leave John. He had to be in there.

John's P.O.V

Alarms were blaring; Moriarty's face filled every screen, taunting him. He tried desperately to calm his heart, but it raced out of control. Something was wrong. Pain flowered at the base of his skull and he felt his mind slip away into the nothingness.

Sherlock's P.O.V

Sherlock was back in the room now; they had gotten John's heart working again. They had almost lost him, his heart stopping completely for a solid minute before jumping back into rhythm. He held John's cold hand in his and traced patterns against the skin. He hadn't slept a full night since John was shot and his system was showing it. His eyes were bloodshot and his head ached. He could barely keep his eyes open, but refused to close them. He couldn't stand to see the gristly images he knew were awaiting him there.

"John," his voice was raspy from disuse, "John, I don't know if you can hear me, if you are even still in there, but I need you to listen to me. I can't lose you John. Not again. Please stay, for me." He was crying, tears streaming down his face. He kissed John's hand, wishing that the skin would warm against his touch. "I-I- I love- I love you." He whispered against the skin, letting the sobs wrack his thin frame as he finally said the words he had wanted to say for so long. He repeated those three words, filling the room with the sounds of his pain.

John's P.O.V

"I love you." John felt a pang in his stomach as he heard Sherlock say those words. Molly deserved to be happy; she deserved to hear Sherlock say those words to her. John wished that Sherlock was saying those words to him, but he knew that would never happen.

Sherlock's P.O.V

The doctors were trying to convince Sherlock to let them take John off life support. He refused, feeling that same blind rage fill him as they tried to reason with him. He lost control, throwing his chair against the wall and destroying the small room. How could they ask him to let them kill the only person he had ever loved?

John's P.O.V

Sherlock was smashing the coffin. Why was he so mad? Something was wrong. John had to keep Sherlock from killing himself. He couldn't watch his friend lose himself here, not like this.

"Soldiers,"

"Soldiers,"

Sherlock's P.O.V

Sherlock had calmed down and John's room had been straightened, and now he was back by his side. Molly had brought the baby to visit, Sherlock had almost forgotten about little Rosie. He held her and talked to John, telling them stories of the adventures he and his childhood friend, Victor Trevor would go on. Molly eventually took Rosie back home, leaving Sherlock once more alone with John. He talked for hours more, eventually drifting off into a restless sleep.

John's P.O.V

Sherlock was going to kill himself. Mycroft had tried to convince him to kill him, but John wouldn't allow it. Sherlock needed Mycroft, a lot more than he needed John. Now Sherlock stood, gun under his own chin, counting down the seconds. John's heart was pounding, racing out of control. No! Sherlock don't! He wanted to scream, but his body couldn't react. Something was wrong. He couldn't stop Sherlock. He felt a sharp prick at the base of his skull and was once again drug into unconsciousness.

Sherlock's P.O.V

John's heart had stopped again, and once again Sherlock was forced out of the room. This time, Mycroft was there and Sherlock threw himself into his brother's arms. He didn't care if this was strange, he needed support. To his surprise, Mycroft responded almost immediately, wrapping his arms around the broken detective and holding him tightly as he could. Sherlock cried against the warm chest of his brother until the alarms stopped. They had saved John, once again pulling him back from death. They warned him that if it happened again, they wouldn't be able to save him. It was time for Sherlock to say his goodbyes.

John's P.O.V

He awoke in a well. More memories of the war assaulted his mind and he tried to escape. He was chained. He had to get out. Sherlock!

Sherlock's P.O.V

John's heart monitor was screaming. His heart rate was increasing. No, please God no. He prayed as he gripped his friend's hand.

John's P.O.V

The water was rising. Sherlock wasn't coming. He was going to drown. He could remember what it felt like to drown; he had almost drowned several times in the P.O.W camp. He could feel the water in his throat as he tried to scream for Sherlock.

Sherlock's P.O.V

Sherlock cowered in the corner as he watched the doctors huddled around John's seizing form. They were trying to remove the tube from his throat without hurting him. Sherlock watched in horror. He had been there before. He had felt the terrible pain that came from them forcing that length of plastic out of your lungs. He had started choking on the tubes, signifying the return of function to his lungs. Sherlock allowed himself to feel the slightest amount of hope. This could be good, if only he could keep breathing on his own.

John's P.O.V

Sherlock had saved him, pulled him out of the water. The pain in his throat was fading and he could feel warmth begin to return to his form. They were alive and together. But something was still wrong.

Sherlock's P.O.V

John was breathing on his own now. He was even starting to show signs of response when touched. Just the faintest of reactions, but enough to give the doctors hope in his recovery. They had replaced the heavy bandages with a simple patch of gauze over the empty eye socket. His fingers started warming against Sherlock's touch.

John's P.O.V

John and Sherlock started rebuilding their lives together; John moved back into Baker Street with Rosie and everything was right. Well, almost everything. Something still felt off, but he couldn't put his finger on it. They were running, chasing some criminal when his vision faded to black, then to blinding white. He could hear beeping. He could feel firm warmth gripping his hand. He was in a hospital. What happened?

"Sherlock," his voice hurt and was barely audible over the machines. How long had he been here? "Sherlock" He forced his voice through his irritated vocal chords. He felt the warmth on his hand tense.

"John, John you awake?" He heard the broken yet familiar voice of his companion and forced his eyes open. He couldn't see anything to the left of his face. He felt a slight spark of panic in his chest, before he remembered. Eurus had shot him, probably though the eye. He turned his head and saw his friend sitting there, looking relieved and sickly. He looked like he hadn't eaten or slept in years.

"Sherlock-" he was cut off by a gentle finger against his lips.

"Shush, love. Don't speak. I will get a doctor." Sherlock's voice was soft, but his words caught John's attention. He weakly reached for Sherlock's arm as he pressed the call button. Sherlock's eyes met John's and everything felt right.

"I-I love you." John whispered, knowing he would be rejected, but unable to care. The morphine was making him woozy. He closed his eye for a moment, but sprung them open when he felt another soft pair meet his in the gentlest of touches. Sherlock pulled away, tears in his eyes as he looked at the injured man.

"I love you to, John Watson." He brushed his fingers along his cheekbone and John allowed himself a weak smile. He felt Sherlock rest his head against his chest and he closed his eye once more. He was alive, and Sherlock loved him. For the first time in a long time, everything was going to be OK.

Nothing about this was wrong.