Chapter Text
POV Mrs Hudson
"Oh, Sherlock, I do wish you'd come home," Mrs Hudson implored, placing a hand on Sherlock's arm as he came to a stop beside her in the hospital corridor. "Just for an hour, to freshen up," she tried. She winced as she looked up at Sherlock, he was haggard, as he was when he was sick with the drugs, except minus the beard. It had only been a week or so since Sherlock had come out of the hospital himself after that nasty business with Culverton Smith and he had only just started to look like himself again. Now, he was worse than ever. And he smelled. Bad. At least with the drugs, he would stop and take a bath. Mrs Hudson had hoped that, maybe, if she came up and offered to spend the night, then he might go home for a while. He was no use to John Watson like this.
Sherlock looked at her, for a minute, with his bloodshot eyes, before his gaze lowered to the floor, and his lips trembled. "No, no, I have to be there, don't you see?" he exclaimed. Then his eyes were darting all over, as if someone was watching him, ready to shoot.
He was manic, Mrs Hudson thought.
Sherlock turned swiftly and started again down the corridor.
"Sherlock! Has he woken up yet?" she called after him. No answer. She saw him enter to hospital room, once again. Manic. "I'll take that as a no," she said to herself, before making her own way down to the room. She stopped just by the door and leaned against the frame. Peering inside, she saw poor John, lying there, bandage wrapped around his head. Her heart broke slightly at the thought that, underneath it, one eye was damaged beyond repair by that therapist's gunshot, and the other - no one would know until he tried to open it. Her thoughts turned to poor Rosie, and, although it was an unbearably sad situation, she couldn't help thinking that the little girl was lucky to have a support network around her.
"Alright, Mrs H?" came a rough bark from behind her, startling her.
With a hand clutching her heart, she turned and saw Lestrade coming over, with two cups of coffee, no doubt. "Oooh, you made me jump!" she exclaimed. A smile played briefly on both of their faces. It soon faded.
"It's a sorry situation, this, isn't it?" Lestrade muttered.
"Yes," Mrs Hudson answered, absently. She was looking at Sherlock through the glass. He was a complete mess, sitting there with manic, jiggling legs and a trembling face. Although, he had been strong, so far. There was no hint of any substances or cigarettes, even, besides excessive coffee drinking, which one may excuse, she thought. How proud she was of him. This feeling soon faded, however, and was replaced with rage, when she remembered the police inspector stood next to her. "Have you caught her yet" she asked, suddenly.
"Err, yes, we have, actually. Although, a load of government officials swooped in and carted her off to some secret prison. Top secret. Even I wasn't allowed to know." He took a sip of his coffee.
"Oh, thank goodness. You know, if you hadn't caught her, I would have taught her a lesson," the landlady replied. When she saw the bemused expression on the man's face she added: "I do know where Sherlock keeps his gun."
"Oh, right." Lestrade looked uncomfortable, and an awkward few minutes passed in silence. A phone buzzed. "Could you take this?" he asked, handing her the coffee cup and reaching into his pocket. She took it and watched as his expression changed as he read the message on the screen. "Right, I've got to go. Work," he explained. "Could you give that to him and, um, give him my best would you?"
"Of course," she said.
"As he reached the door, Mrs Hudson remembered something very important. As if on cue, Lestrade stopped and shouted back: "I told Sherlock. About Euros. Don't know if he actually registered it, but I daresay as soon as his brother gets in touch he'll know much more than I do."
"Ok, thank you dear."
"Bye, then."
"Bye." She smiled, and turned her attention back to the room, feeling concerned and keeping her hand over her heart as she watched her Baker Street boys.
***
POV John Watson
When John Watson wakes up, everything is black. He thinks that he must be dead. He does so with a start, that feeling of inertia one feels after a fitful night’s sleep. Although, his sleep was deep and terrifying. He can still feel his heart pounding in his chest, as it did during his dreams of the prison, of Euros and of Sherlock. Sherlock. His hear… was still pounding. Could it be? Yes. He could feel the soft surface beneath him, and, with titanic effort, he could just about wriggle his fingers. Also, as he tries to open his eyes, he feels a searing pain going through his right eye and something, reluctant, about the left one - such pain. Not dead, he thinks. On one of his fingers was a pulse oximeter and there was a smell that was distinctly – hospital.
This is bad, he thinks. I can’t see a thing.
The prison, that was definitely a dream. It was too bizarre, even for him and Sherlock. Before then, there had been crying in Baker Street and Sherlock’s warm hand on the back of his neck. Then the therapist – she had shot him – right through the eye.
I’m blind, he thinks. Jesus Christ, I’m blind. Rosie, poor Rosie. Fuck. Once again, he was struck by that wave of emotion; he felt weak, useless, a failure. Maybe, if I lie here and never move again, they’ll take me for brain dead and pull the plug. He feels desperate.
He sniffs, in spite of himself. Instantly, there was movement close by. John noticed the other smell in the room, stale and cloaked by the smell of the hospital, but familiar. It smelt like cups of tea and a musty old flat. Home. Sherlock.
“John.” The name hangs in the air like a question; he knows John is awake. A large hand comes to rest tentatively on his shoulder, not shaking or squeezing, but there.
“I – I can’t see – anything,” he wheezes out. He was breaking apart, a cliff face crumbling into a deep, dark sea.
Another shift, and there was a dip in the bed. They were so close now. Those long fingers find the back of his neck once again and John is lifted, slowly, until their bodies meet. John rests his head on the shoulder of Sherlock’s shirt and a second hand comes to gently push his back forwards, away from the wires still tethering him to the bed. “I know.” The voice was deep and low like it always had been, but closer, like never before.
John’s body shook with the tears that wouldn’t come. “Sshh.” It was like honey pouring directly down his ear, causing his spine to shiver. He was too vulnerable, too exposed. Surely, it had never been more obvious than it was right now. How could he hide this feeling he had in a perpetual darkness? “Sshh.”
“I – I’m blind,” John breathes.
The hold becomes more forceful, determined. “I know, but, John – Y-You can hear me, yes?” Oh, God, yes, he thinks, nodding. The hand on his back applied a gentle pressure – reassurance. “And you can feel me?”
“Yes,” he answers.
“And surely you can smell me because I haven’t showered for three days.” Sherlock chuckles, but it’s rather a rattle of shaky nerves.
“Yes,” John answers.
He was released and lowered back down onto the bed. A hand stayed on his shoulder. Contact, he thinks. They had never been so intimate. There was something blossoming between them. A line was crossed, that day in Baker Street.
“Well then, Watson. Laws of science have determined that you are most definitely alive.” Sherlock punctuates each of the words at the end, his voice now steady, assured. “Despite your therapist’s best efforts,” he continues with a voice imbued with anger and bitterness. “Mycroft will take care of her, don’t you worry. It’s up to me to take care of you. Return the favour, after all these years.”
John feels the sting of guilt, recalling the feel of his own fist connecting with Sherlock’s face, over and over again, until he lay on the floor, bloody. He would never get that image out of his head.
“It’s going to be alright,” Sherlock sooths, and John feels himself falling back into the dark void of sleep.
***
POV Mrs Hudson
As John Watson began to stir, Mrs Hudson breathed a heavy sigh of relief. “Oh, thank goodness,” she said to herself. Her heart swelled with pride once more as she watched Sherlock spring into action, immediately reassuring John in a distinctly un-sociopathic manner. Yes, he had come a long way, despite his recent relapse. She mused to herself that this may just be the thing to finally bring those two together as they always should have been. They both had changed, learned a little something about life that can only be taught through experience and, sometimes, sorrow: life is short, and you must hold onto whatever makes you happy. As such, she decided to give them some privacy; it was beginning to feel a little indecent to watch, especially from behind glass, so she moved away and leaned back against the wall, waiting.
Eventually, the door opened. Sherlock walked out slowly, stopping after a few steps, and breathing deeply. “Sherlock?” Mrs Hudson prompted as she came nearer to him.
He turned, face relaxing into a wearied but relieved expression. “He woke up,” he said simply, smiling slightly.
“Oh, Sherlock!” she cried, closing the gap between them, and putting her hands on his arms. He bent down and hugged her. He had never been a tactile person. “I am so happy for you both,” she continued.
“He’s terrified,” Sherlock answered in a low voice, pulling away.
“Did you tell him what the doctor said? About his other eye possibly regaining some vision?” she questioned.
He shook his head. “It was all too much, too raw. He needs to process everything first,” he explained. “The doctor can tell him, when he wakes up again.”
“Has he gone back to sleep? Oh, poor soul, he must be exhausted.”
“Yes. I might, uh, go to Baker Street and get a change of clothes. If you could stay here?” Sherlock said.
“Of course, dear. Take as long as you need. I wasn’t going to say anything, but there’s a reason I’m the only one stood in the corridor with you,” Mrs Hudson replied. Sherlock brows furrowed; lips began to form a question. “You smell,” she clarified.
Face showing clear offence, Sherlock turned and made his way down the corridor. He stopped with his hand on the door. “I’ll get some for John, too,” he called and then he was gone. Mrs Hudson looked back into the room at John sleeping. Even with the bandage around his head, she could see the worry lines on his forehead and knew his rest was not peaceful. The only way they could get through this is together, she thought. In her heart, she hoped this could be a start of a new chapter for them both.