Chapter Text
The voice was quiet, and not intrusive.
Normally, there were only two types of noises that could be heard from Mrs. Hudson’s flats on baker street.
1. The loud scary ones, usually caused by the police or a client or an escaped convict or something of the like. Sometimes by Sherlock himself ( god forbid he got bored and was given access to a gun or blowtorch ).
2. The calm, gentle playing of a violin and soft conversations, which was the kind of thing you only heard early in the morning or very late at night, though often for the whole day during the holidays.
If it wasn't one of those two, it was complete and utter silence.
The last two years had been full of that deafening quiet, simultaneously vacant and suffocatingly dense; which had settled there like the dust that had stuck to the shelves of 221b Baker street.
Now that Sherlock was back ( she thanked the stars he was ), Mrs. Hudson was sure the noise would return along with the excitement, but this sound… This soft, questioning, unsure voice was not like any Mrs. Hudson had been expecting.
“U-um…. Mrs. Hudson?”
It didn’t really sound like Sherlock, but it also certainly didn’t sound like John- even if it had, that would be substantially strange, considering the events of that night as Sherlock had told them.
After she had her little sit down with the man himself over tea earlier that evening, Mrs. Hudson knew there was something Sherlock had hesitated to tell her. She was by no means a master of deduction. Hell, she hadn’t even known her husband was involved in the cartel till he was connected to those murders. But Sherlock had never really made an effort to hide anything from her before.
Sure, he didn’t tell her a lot, but that’s because she didn’t ask. Telling her what all went on in his business would only worry her, and besides, it wasn’t exactly part of her job description as their land lady.
But he had to tell her why he had done what he’d done. Why she thought he’d died, and why he was back now. She deserved an explanation at the very least.
He should have given one to John too… he deserved that. Maybe more… but he wouldn’t be able to bear it if John felt even the slightest bit guilty over what ended up happening to Sherlock.
He hadn’t wanted to tell Mrs. Hudson what had happened between him and John, but she was very persistent in her line of questioning, so it was unavoidable.
He really had tried to lie when the question finally arose, but lying to Mrs. Hudson was harder than lying to the pope ( which was something Sherlock had actually managed to do once with very little difficulty ), So he told her.
And then he was telling his not-housekeeper absolutely everything because he just couldn't stop.
Telling her about the assassins- and the network- and all his worries about her and John and even George. ( “Greg, Sherlock. His name is Greg.” “Really?… he doesn’t look like a Greg. Anyways-“. ) Mrs. Hudson ( bless her ) was a very forgiving person. Really, she had already forgiven him, and hearing why he did it, the real reason he did it, as well as where he ended up because of all of it, just made her feel sorry for the boy. ( really, Sherlock was a man, and he would have corrected her if he could hear her thoughts ).
Sherlock was deeply ashamed to admit to himself that talking to Mrs.Hudson did provide him some comfort.
She didn’t need to know about Serbia. About any of his missions- but he hadn’t told another living soul about them- and she had actually made a few pretty good points.
He stored the mental recording ( yes, of course he had been mentally recording a matter of this importance ) of the conversation in a room he was creating specifically for when he needed to be calm. To feel safe. To remember he was human.
“You traded your life for the lives of 3 others.” The recording went. “To me, that’s as selfless as it gets, Sherlock. The fact you're still alive… well that makes it even better.”
“Mrs. Hudson, I still had a pulse. I didn’t trade any life for anything-“
“-Yes, you did.” She interrupted him “You left your home, here, for two years. You left John, your work- you left everyone and everything you care about- and you know what? What you gave up was more of a life than a simple pulse could provide.”
She said it as if it had been the most obvious fact in the universe- but it hadn’t been, especially to Sherlock.
It took him a little while to understand what she was trying to say, but Mrs. Hudson was patient. There was no need to rush this conversation, they had all the time they needed.
Sherlocks mind was busy turning over Mrs. Hudson’s statement. Analyzing it and taking it apart, applying it to different metaphorical situations to see if it held up.
When he finally spoke again, he was not looking at her. “…. I don’t think John would agree with you.” He muttered, stretching the skin of his hands over his bones, rubbing his joints and popping his fingers. Mrs.Hudson had never seen him so… distraught? Was that the right word? Honestly Mrs.Hudson didn't know, but she did know he was upset, and that was unacceptable.
“Well… You haven't told him what you've told me.” Mrs. Hudson had supplied, keeping her voice light and optimistic.
The age was seeping into her tone, making it crack in nearly every sentence, and it was very comforting to Sherlock. In order to survive Serbia, he was in his mind palace a lot- and Mrs. Hudson appeared there once or twice, but he was never really able to get her voice right. So this time he was taking mental recordings, memorizing the breathlessness and heartfelt safety of her every word.
“He doesn’t know how much you’re hurting. Mostly because you don’t want him to. And, you know, that’s your decision… but I think… I think maybe you need to tell him… he knows better than any of us how you feel Sherlock, even if you refuse to share it with him. I know you think he knows too much- and maybe he does. But that’s exactly why you need him-“
“-It doesn’t matter whether I need him or not!" Sherlock practically spat the words, leaving the lingering taste of coarse regret on his tongue- like gravel. He hadn't shouted, but he was louder than before, more stubborn, and suddenly his face had changed to one Mrs. Hudson couldn’t read, eyes glassy and distant.
He was lashing out, he knew he was. At Mrs. Hudson of all people- she did not deserve it. He needed to calm down. He needed to leave…
“… he won’t speak to me.” He then promptly got up and began to storm off, quickly crossing the length of the small flat in long strides, before stopping himself in the doorway to the kitchen and turning around.
“But um… thank you. Mrs. Hudson. I think maybe I… I deserve to bear this guilt for a while-“
“Oh nonsense Sherlock-“
“No-No- I really… I really did mess it up this time…”
he looked rather sheepish at that. He was never good at admitting to being wrong.
“But I-… You’re a…” he took a gulp. “You’re a good friend, Mrs. Hudson. I’m sorry if I.. if I don’t tell you enough.”
And then he was gone.
The mental recording was 3 minutes and 52 seconds, and it joined the other recordings Sherlock had moved into the ‘Poof I’m Human’ room of his mind palace. Many of the recordings, photos, files - memories - in there used to be housed in random shelf's and file cabinets labeled with question marks, because he could not for the life of him figure out why he had saved them; and yet, he could not delete them.
Among this small assortment of memorabilia, were many of his and John's conversations. The giggles at crimes scenes, the late night whispers they shared after cases that had frankly scared them both to death. The call he had shared with John before-…
Perhaps he should delete some of those.
As Sherlock whisked himself away and up the stairs, Mrs. Hudson tried calling after him but it was no use. He’d barely drunk any of the tea she’d made, which was unusual, ( then again, so was coming back from the dead, so she figured there was nothing usual about any of it to begin with ) - but she didn’t worry too much. Sherlock could handle himself; in fact, he preferred to.
And yet, right now, Sherlock was standing outside her door, voice light, hoping not to wake her up for no clear reason.
When Sherlock wanted something, he shouted. As loud as possible, and more often than not he wouldn’t move from where he was to get anyone's attention. Sometimes, if the matter wasn't too pressing, he would just appear in the shadows of the room and wait for her to notice he was there- like a toddler coming to tell you they couldn’t sleep. He never knocked… But now he was speaking quietly, and had gone through all the trouble of moving down the stairs to fetch her…
Something was wrong.
She was beginning to feel something of a panic. Had Sherlock been a normal person, Mrs. Hudson would have assumed he just needed to talk, perhaps finish their conversation from earlier. But Sherlock wasn’t a normal person. He didn’t like to talk about… well, about feelings or guilt or anything of the sort. And even if he did, he wouldn't walk all the way down the stairs to do it. Nor would he knock. So why would he approach her like this, at this hour?
Luckily, she hadn’t been sleeping when he knocked, as their earlier conversation had her staring at her ceiling, attempting to solve the much too complicated equation that was John and Sherlock's relationship.
Her home hadn’t felt right with both of them gone. She missed the rush. She was a lot like John that way- she was attracted to dangerous people and situations. And in her age, the closest you could get to that whirlwind of excitement without dying was living with Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson.
Sure, Sherlock was dangerous enough on his own, but there needed to be a safety net. Someone that could make sure Sherlock didn't fall too far ( for real this time ), and injure himself in the process.
The past 2 years were boring, dull, and downright positively decent, which just made her sick.
She needed them to be home again… She needed to press her ear to the door and hear their conversations when they thought no one was listening… needed to walk in on them learning how to waltz together, needed to hear Sherlock’s violin playing a soft, joyful tune; the kind that only played when Sherlock was thinking of John. Needed to accidentally interrupt Sherlock reenacting a murder- John being the victim and Sherlock the murderer, leaving both of them in a rather compromising position that the press would have an absolute field day with.
She needed to see the infatuated and amused smile on John’s face when he was sure Sherlock couldn’t see him. Needed to see Sherlock's almost identical expression when John was otherwise preoccupied.
So, of course, she had been up scheming when the soft knock and call came. She caught up with the moment, recognized the strangeness of Sherlock’s current behavior and jumped out of bed as fast as he could, scurrying to the door, grabbing her robe and pulling it on just as she was opening it.
“What’s wrong de-….” She froze.
What could she possibly do with this?
Sherlock was crying.
Oh dear-
Sherlock, always trying to barricade away his emotions-
Sherlock, "I don’t feel things like that"- bollocks, Holmes-
Was crying.
And his hands- oh his hands; they were trembling something terrible, and were slick with blood.
Mrs. Hudson’s wouldn't be ashamed to admit that she had to lean unsteadily against the door frame for a moment at the sight, but quickly oriented herself. Her first ( and most frightening ) thought was that there had been an attack. “Oh, Sherlock, are you o-?“
“Help… please?” He didn't let her finish. It was probably for the best. She knew the answer, and knew just as well that Sherlock wouldn't say it. His voice was still small and weak - impossibly fragile; a part of her broke at the sound. it was … uncomfortable to see Sherlock like that.
She’d seen him act before. Throughout her husband's case he had been running around lying this way and that to get what he needed, but this was different. And the difference lay behind his eyes.
They were hyper-aware, alert and panicked, darting everywhere- moving far faster than the rest of him and shaking in a way eyes probably shouldn't. Had it been someone else staring into those wide, terrified eyes, they might have thought he was high; Mrs. Hudson, however, happened to be one of the (very) few people who had seen Sherlock with the vacant look he got when he gave into his vice, out of frustration or sheer desperation, his expression seeming to be overtaken by a dull, hazy fog. These were not the dark eyes of a Sherlock who had been propelled into the deep, dark recesses of his mind.
This was the face of someone who feared having to ask for help above all else, and was now being forced to face that with nothing left to try. The dread etched itself into the crevices of his face with clear hesitance, unfamiliar and unwelcome yet so desperately heavy. An oppressive weight seemed to settle into every contorted facial feature; if a part of Mrs.Hudson had been broken earlier, it was surely shattered now- fragmented into impossibly small pieces. Sherlock's fears where meant to stay inside his head, never to be revealed or acted upon even in the most dire of situations, and yet here he was, struggling not to break down in tears in front of his house keeper. His eyes where full of a shame Mrs.Hudson desperately hoped was temporary.
“I need… I um… my bandages. I need to um… I need help- to-to re-wrap them.” He supplied, but Mrs. Hudson could only gape at him, unable to construct any kind of coherent response for what felt to Sherlock like hours, likely because his back stung more with every passing moment. The longer they stood there the more blood he knew was seeping through his clothes.
“… I’m sorry to bother you, Mrs. Hudson- but I just.. I can’t reach… I tried but it…” he didn’t want to say it. “… it hurts…” he whimpered, despite his desperate attempt to keep his voice even.
Mrs. Hudson could feel the self-hatred leaking out of every pore in Sherlock’s body, so she instantly got to work fixing whatever absolute mess he had made of himself.
“Do you have everything you need for me to patch you up upstairs?” She asked, to which Sherlock only nodded mutely in response. She began moving towards the base of the stairs, when Sherlock spoke after her "-On second thought-“ he started, but Mrs. Hudson certainly wasn’t planning on letting him finish. “No need to think twice, Sherlock, don’t be ridiculous.” She walked over to the base of the stairs and pointed up, “Get up those stairs right now, young man.” She implored, with just enough concern to make Sherlock feel even worse.
He only gave her a guilty look, before following her instructions.
She waited till he had started up the stairs before following, so Sherlock walked in front. Mrs.Hudson had to fight the urge to scream at seeing just how much blood was seeping through the back of his button-up.
Sherlock was fighting an urge as well- though his was more along the lines of intentionally throwing himself down the stairs and hoping he’d never recover from the subsequent concussion- but that wasn’t exactly logical, so he dismissed it. ( Besides, he couldn't do that without getting Mrs. Hudson severely hurt, so he was rather effectively trapped. )
The stinging of his back was even more bothersome on the stairs, as Sherlock’s skin stretched and folded to accommodate for the climb, and he was beginning to wish he’d just brought the equipment down with him. Though there had been no guarantee Mrs. Hudson would be awake- and it would be quite inconvenient had he forced to carry all of it down and then back up again, so perhaps he made the right choice.
Sherlock found himself relying on his white-knuckled grip on the guardrails to get up the stairs efficiently, because if he hadn't, he likely would've gone dizzy with pain and face-planted right in front of an already worried Mrs. Hudson. He didn't need to make her concern any worse than it already was.
The consulting detective held the door open for Mrs. Hudson when they got to the top. She quietly thanked him, walking into the flat and spying the medical equipment on the coffee table. She sat down, immediately patting the seat next to her. “...Well?” She said, waiting for Sherlock, who was standing in the doorway, unwisely trying to put this whole thing off as long as possible.
“...I know this isn’t easy for you Sherlock, but you can trust me. Let me help.” She said, patting the seat next to her again and giving him a fond smile. This time Sherlock moved to sit next to her with an unreadable expression, only giving in because the stinging pain in his back was beginning to make standing without shaking very difficult.
“I assume you got most of the bandages and you only need help with your back.” She said as her eyes caught on the used and bloody bandages on the coffee table, one of which was a lot longer than the others which she figured was used to keep all the others in place by wrapping around Sherlock's torso.
Sherlock began to unbutton his shirt and nod, refusing to look up at Mrs. Hudson. “…. This isn’t exactly in your job description, so I understand if you don't think you will be able to-… assist.” Sherlock pointed out, the word help crumbling like ash on his tongue and drying his mouth.
She registered that he was giving her a chance to change her mind and leave, to back out, but the realization was a barley distant echo, faint and muffled by her renewed struggle against her reflexes.
This time, instead of wanting to scream, she had the urge to vomit.
She knew she couldn’t be any help to Sherlock if she got sick- but his back… She never would have thought, even in her most terrifying nightmares, that Sherlock would ever have to deal with this much pain.
Most of the cuts where covered, but the bruising and the sheer amount of blood-soaked bandages alone was enough to make her gag. Mrs. Hudson was not a medical woman, but she could swear that the stitches holding some of them together had broken, which was a sign that he should be in a hospital- but the chances of him going to one were at an all-time-low.
Mrs. Hudson guessed, quite correctly, that any attempts to get him to go would be futile. And again, she was no doctor. Maybe the wounds where supposed to look like that... God, she needed John to be here. He would know what to do- what to say.
“No… I suppose it’s not. But it is the job of a friend.” She responded, taking stock of the medical equipment in front of her. Sherlock scoffed, “I don’t have-“ “Oh come off it Sherlock.” Her tone was gentle, more exasperated than actually angry.
“…. I’m gonna remove these bandages now. Let me know if it hurts too much.” Mrs.Hudson said, beginning to pick at the highest one on Sherlock’s back and work her way down, knowing full well Sherlock would not be telling her if anything hurt during the process. He just wanted this small window of vulnerability closed for good.
They were silent for a long time. They only spoke again when Mrs.Hudson found a burn that looked suspiciously like a branding on Sherlock’s lower back.
She could not make out the symbol- or maybe it was a letter? Well, whatever shape it was- It was incredibly irritated. It was one of the ones Sherlock could reach without too much struggle, as it rested a little to the side above his hip, so it was cleaner than some of the others, but the blistering and inflammation made it impossible to tell what it was really supposed to be.
John's pummeling hadn’t helped any of these heal faster, but the burn had clearly gotten the worst of it, and it was now bleeding profusely, so the ruckus must have burst it. She was not sure if there was anything specific she needed to do for burns- but she new John would. He should be here- Mrs. Hudson wanted to help as much as she could, but Sherlock needed a doctor.
Would John have still… Would he have done all that if he had known Sherlock was already hurt?
“… Does John know?” She asked, very carefully cleaning up the blood from the rather nasty burn, which had Sherlock hissing through his teeth and gripping the couch like a lifeline. He probably would’ve ripped the leather if the Serbians hadn’t been clever enough to cut all of his nails down to prevent him from scratching them. They were growing back of course, but not nearly fast enough.
“… why would he?" He said through clenched teeth. "Our conversation, if you can even call it that, never really got to that point..” Mrs.Hudson hummed thoughtfully.
“… It’s just that- well, your stitches- I think you might have opened some of them up. He’s a doctor- I don’t think he would’ve done all that if-“
“Why not?” Sherlock objected, not letting her finish, as usual.
“It’s not as if I didn’t deserve it. I barley apologized. And even if I had done a better job at it… well, even I know that what I did was… for most people it’s unforgivable.” Sherlock said, having thought a lot about this since his brief conversation with Mary.
“Saying sorry won’t be enough… I don’t think it ever will be.” Sherlock said under his breath.
'It's not as if he's most people…' Mrs. Hudson considered pointing out, but something told her that was not the right thing to say. She sighed, beginning to clean some of the other wounds, her method of distracting him from the pain a success. “I know you seem hell bent on not telling him. I know there’s a lot you don’t tell him… a lot you didn’t tell him, even before the fall. But I think you ought to tell him about this."
“What good could possibly come from that?” Sherlock asked, throwing his hands up in exasperation, and causing a startled Mrs. Hudson to tut him to stay still as she began to wonder what she was meant to do about the bruising. “Well, for one, you’d have someone to fix up these stitches-“
“I really don't think I'll be able to get him to care. But even if he did forgive me, even if talking to him could help, which I doubt it would, all it would do is repel him..” he said.
‘What a strange choice of words…’ Mrs. Hudson thought to herself.
“You say repel, Sherlock, why would any of this repel him? He’s worked with you- he knows the kind of people you get yourself mixed up with. He’s a doctor for Christ's sake-“ Mrs. Hudson said with a short laugh, “It’s not as if he’s never seen wounds like this before.”
Sherlock was staring off again at that. It seemed to have triggered something in him, as he tensed up all over, his legs curling in on themselves just a tad. "… he's never seen them on me… He's never-.." Sherlock took another gulp. "…He's never seen me like this. I would really prefer if he never did."
“…. Sherlock, please relax. You're only opening them up more.” Mrs.Hudson said gently, having just finished cleaning off the majority of the blood, moving on to disinfecting the wounds using small cotton balls and iodine.
Sherlock did relax, muttering an apology.
It didn’t take very long for Mrs. Hudson to piece together specifically what Sherlock found repelling about what happened to him. The bruises in the shape of hands and where they were was pretty telling, as was the branding and description of human trafficking she’d already heard about. That plus the cuffs and the way he curled around himself- it was all very telling- and Mrs. Hudson almost wished she couldn't see it.
But, she was a woman, after all. Women are forced to think about things like that far more often than men, so it honestly wasn't surprising that she'd caught on quick.
“…. This wasn’t your fault, Sherlock.” She wasn't sure if it was the right thing to say- wasn't sure if Sherlock really blamed himself. But it was what you where supposed to say, or so she'd been told.
He responded, but it was just barely above a whisper, as if he was breaking some kind of unspoken rule by saying it. “I… I don't know… I guess it wasn't but I-… I don't really understand what I was expecting, Mrs.Hudson. Of course he wouldn't just-"
“No- let's not talk about John for a second.” Mrs. Hudson said, which Sherlock raised a questioning eyebrow at.
“You’re the one that mentioned-“
“Oh, that was ages ago! I’m talking about what happened to you in Serbia. None of it was your fault.”
Mrs. Hudson said as she finally finished cleaning and disinfecting the wounds, moving on to rolling out fresh bandages and finding out which ones went where. She figured not staring at him made it easier for him to open up- just talking about these things as if it was another case.
“Of course it wasn’t… Even I can understand that. I had only been trying to get the mission done and come home. It was the last of Moriarty's organizations and contacts- I had to bring it down. I didn’t have a choice…. We just hadn’t expected….” This was the second time he had told this story to Mrs. Hudson today, so he didn't need to give her the specifics.
“My brother was able to use the information I’d gotten to bring them down from the outside, but we were still so unprepared … even after they’d been disassembled , it took them forever to find where they were holding me, on account of the holding cells being in a completely separate facility in the middle of the forest- in order to make escape more difficult, you understand." Sherlock said, his voice breaking at the end due to the sudden, chilly reminder of the cell…
No bed, his arms chained up across the room, and no movement in anything other than his legs. Sitting hurt his arms, but standing for too long made him nauseous, and if he did throw up, sometimes it could go uncleaned for days.
Even now it was torture. There was no such thing as ‘comfortable’ for him now. The second he had something close to what he might call relaxation, he would remember the cell due to its direct contrast, and his legs would ache and his back would sting and he would smell the sharp metallic, pang on blood , mixed with the smell of sweat and the cologne of people he did not know and did not ever want to know… Then the walls would start to close in on him, and the lights would dim until could no longer apply the word 'comfort' to the situation.
“… I had never been more thankful to see Mycroft in my life,” Sherlock said, before he could stop himself. Sherlock froze and looked over his shoulder, his face dead serious. "You absolutely can not tell my brother I said that."
Mrs. Hudson smiled and rolled her eyes with a found exasperation. "Oh don’t worry dear- I won’t tell him. I know you two have that weird rivalry thing going.” She said as she finished using the wound closure tape on Sherlock's- still huge and rather scary looking, but now clean and it least relatively closed up- wounds, which where bleeding significantly less, much to her relief. She grabbed a small cardboard box labeled 'multi-purpose, assorted bandages' that was full of different kinds and sizes of band aids that she reckoned she could use on the smaller cuts and wounds.
“… But it still feels like I’m there sometimes…” Sherlock said after a beat of silence. “I keep waiting for them the kick down the door and take me back… I know Mycroft has them locked up somewhere- he might have already had them killed- but I just… it’s so frustrating. I know it makes no sense- I’m safe. I know I am. I just… I can’t seem to…” The more he talked the less it seemed like he was talking to Mrs. Hudson and more like he was talking to himself.
Because of the way he had chose to live his life ( before all of that ), there was always some reason to be on guard- An old enemy could pop out of nowhere at any time and attack- but that felt different.
He knew this wasn’t rational. But every time he thought he was safe, he got a very deep feeling that something was wrong, that settled deep in his stomach, and stayed there as if it had the right to do so.
He’s used to that feeling being the right one. His subconscious is normally right about most things, but he was pretty sure this wasn’t his subconscious. In fact, it was his subconscious that dismissed the idea that they where in the presence of danger- citing all the facts and data and evidence of the situation to prove there simply couldn't be any. But all it did was make him feel insane. Not even his subconscious could silence the very insistent voice that told him to run and hide.
Just two insufferable voices that sounded like his own talking over each other every chance they could get. 'At least they don't sound like John.' A third, very low and very tired sounding voice said from the very back of his mind, reminding him of all the horrible things his mind could make John say to him.
“I'm sorry, dear.” Mrs Hudson said, putting a band aid on the last of the uncovered wounds, which looked like a small burn on his shoulder, like from a cigarette, that had healed rather well, but could still do with a touch of help. Something to shield it from the treacherous life it was now involved with.
Sherlock, without even really noticing, grabbed the roll of gauze bandages he used to wrap all of the plastered wounds up and keep them in place, and handed it to Mrs. Hudson.
She handed Sherlock the beginning of the bandage, praying that she could do this right as she wrapped it around his torso, providing her input to draw him out of his head again.
“It’s going to be like that for a long time… I know it’s not exactly the most comforting thing to hear, but I don’t know if you’ll ever get over it. Plenty of people don’t… but I think- and don’t talk over me now- I think that’s why we need to get John back in this dusty old flat.”
Sherlock was surprisingly quiet as Mrs. Hudson talked. He would be lying if he said he didn't want John back, and if Mrs. Hudson knew how to do it, he would listen.
“I love you dear, but I am not your mother. And I certainly won’t be around as long as John will… I truly believe he cares about you much more than you could know. And before you say ‘not anymore’ let me just tell you- feelings like that don’t just go away. They can get buried under anger and sadness but they are always and forever there. Even if you begin to have feelings for someone new, those new feelings for new people are comprised of something entirely different, which means the others are still in there somewhere. What makes the difference, is who you feel strongest for. And I think John’s feelings for you, be they as platonic as you two insist it is, or something more, are the strongest feelings he has.”
Sherlock thought it over.
‘This is just wishful thinking’. John’s voice said, as if bringing it up earlier had willed it back into existence.
‘I will never want to be near you again. Ever.’
“…. I’ll give him time.” Sherlock said, ignoring the voice that had effectively silenced all the others.
Even before Serbia, before the fall, John's voice always had that effect. It didn't matter whether it was real, or just something Sherlock had imagined. If he heard John's voice, all other noise faded away.
In this case, that wasn't necessarily a good thing…
Mrs. Hudson could tell that she was losing him again- She could see the way his shoulders tensed and his head dipped. She also understood that 'I'll give him time' meant that Sherlock simply would not talk about anything unless John directly asked him about it.
“I can talk to him if you want-“
“No. That would only upset him…. It would be like telling my mother on him.“
“I’m only helping you this once, dearie. Remember, I’m not your mother.”
“Or my housekeeper.”
“Yes, or your housekeeper.
Sherlock smiled at her as she looked him over once more to admire her work- he looked in much better shape. It was a smaller, softer smile she didn’t see often. It gave her the distinct impression he was… content, for sure, but also exhausted.
She checked the time. “Oh dear me- it’s nearly two in the morning!” She said. “You best be off to bed now- go on! Off you get!” She held her hand up to pat him on the back but decided against it, remembering the deep purple color she had seen splayed out across it, like spreading ink.
“Ah.. yes it is rather late isn’t it…” he muttered in response, standing up and grabbing his blood soaked shirt from where he dropped it. “… Thank you Mrs. Hudson. I-… you didn’t have to-“
“I know, dearie. You’re welcome.” She said, standing up and walking herself to the stairs.
“If there’s anything you need- I owe you.” Sherlock said as Mrs. Hudson reached the door and he began to pick up the medical supplies.
She turned around to speak to him again. “I’m far from repaying my debt to you Sherlock. If you want to do something for me, sleep for a good, long while tonight. Don’t stay up distracting yourself with cases, or mysteries, let yourself rest. And try not to move around too much or get into any more brawls. I don’t want to have to fix you up again, I’m not your-“
“Mother or housekeeper, I know.” Sherlock responded, giving her a weak smile.
He couldn't make her any promises, but he'd try.
Written by a human in Ellipsus.