Sherlock - Dangerous Mould and Shot in the Dark Trilogy

Chapter 20

John's shoulders slumped, all strength having vanished. He started crying again, quite involuntarily. It had all been a little too much, and again he had been so bloody afraid of losing Sherlock – and he still was as there could be life-threatening after-effects of a hypovolemic shock.

Before John had met Sherlock after returning from Afghanistan, his life had been empty, boring, merely pathetic and not really worth living. There had been many times when he had taken the gun from the drawer of his desk, weighing it in his hands and contemplating which was better - to live or to put a bullet in his mouth. He had been despairing, traumatized, not able and not willing to change anything in his miserable existence. He had already been dead while still breathing.

Everything had changed that memorable day when he had first met Mike Stamford and later Sherlock. All of a sudden, he had recovered his strength and he felt reborn! He didn't want to go back to those past days. He wanted to feel that he was needed, and, therefore, Sherlock had to live, being the source of John's own will to live. Not only was Sherlock his friend, he was closer to a brother than Harry had ever been a sister to him. In fact, it often felt that they were one, however conflicting, unit, the plus and the minus, the fire and the water. Their personal co-evolution had taken place very fast, they were in fact dependent on each other, John serving as a substitute for Sherlock's skull, however one that told him what was right or wrong, and Sherlock the source of constant thrill and, yes, annoyance. They needed each other, were each other's oxygen. Never ever would they speak about it, but John was sure that if Sherlock was able to put his emotions into words, the gist of them would be similar to his own thoughts.

John shook his head as if to clear his mind of these thoughts, when he suddenly heard someone coming up the stairs.

"Yoo…- My Goodness! Sherlock! John! What have you done to my carpet?!" Mrs Hudson yelled.

John tried to wipe away the tears of despair and exhaustion, but they kept flowing.

"Here," he managed to say weakly, not knowing if Mrs Hudson had even heard him.

A couple of seconds later, she peered into Sherlock's room, all colour vanishing from her face. She put her hand over her mouth in shock. John was too exhausted to walk up to her, so he simply remained sitting at the edge of the bed, looking at her with the tears streaking his cheeks.

"Oh dear!" was all Mrs Hudson was capable of saying. She knelt down in front of John, gripping his hands and looking worriedly at Sherlock. "What happened?" she whispered.

In a faltering voice John told their landlady about Sherlock almost bleeding to death and how they had been able to save him.

"Will he be ok?" she asked quietly.

"I don't know," John stammered. He was weeping uncontrollably now, all his medical and military self-control completely lost, his sorrow and fear finding their ways. "He's still in danger of renal failure as an aftermath of the blood loss," he sobbed, not even feeling embarrassed about it.

Mrs Hudson embraced the broken man, gently stroking his hair.

"He's strong, you know, John? He's been through a lot of bad things before, his will to live by then had been much weaker than today. But since you have moved in he has really loved his life – I could see that. He won't let you down, I am sure." The old lady secretly blinked away a tear from her eye.

"You think so?" John asked tentatively. He was all tears, sorrowing over Sherlock's and his own fate.

"I know," Mrs Hudson said firmly, trying to reassure him.

John sat back, attempting to regain his composure. If he couldn't control his crying, Mycroft would be proved to be right about him not being able to take care of Sherlock. So, he wiped away the tears determinedly, taking a couple of deep ragged breaths.

"You know what, Mrs Hudson? You stay here for a minute and I'll make us a nice cuppa." He tried to sound cheerful, yet didn't fully manage it. Mrs Hudson gave him a supportive smile.

When John left for the kitchen their landlady sat herself on the edge of the bed, gingerly sweeping a strand of hair from Sherlock's forehead.

What the doctor didn't hear anymore was Mrs Hudson whispering.

"Come on, love, get back to us, will you? Your friends are waiting for you."

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