Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock

(I'll put an Author's Note at the end :) )

Enjoy!

November at Baker Street

The sky was mottled grey and white and a brisk November wind danced through the streets of London, and the windows of 221B Baker Street rattled under its power. The occupants, however, were warm and cosy from the homely fire that burned away in the grate. Sherlock lounged on the couch, head supported by a dozen cushions, while John rushed about gathering his essentials: wallet, keys, and phone. John would not be running late for work at the surgery if it weren't for Sherlock, but he didn't mind.

"Now for God's sake if you need something call for Mrs Hudson, she won't mind, but do not get up." He directed at Sherlock, whilst chucking his keys and wallet into his trouser pocket and reaching for his jacket, which lay on the back of his armchair. Sherlock glanced up at him from where he had been gazing out the window at the November sky. "John, believe me," he replied as john shrugged on his jacket, "I couldn't get up if I tried."

It was little comments like this that always worried John, or sent a pang through his stomach. It was an indication of how much pain Sherlock was in if he was abstaining from moving. Giving up. Not complaining like he usually would.

It had been almost two months since the shooting in Magnussen's office, almost two months since John had moved back into 221B, not being able to stand being around Mary, or whoever she was, while he was trying to figure his situation out. It was a seriously tricky one, which pained John so much it was as if he was the one who had been shot. Moving back to Baker Street and taking care of Sherlock once he had been discharged from hospital was a good way of taking his mind off things. Well, almost. But not really at all.

John shook himself from his thoughts and cleared his throat, "yeah, well, Greg's coming round later to drop of some old case files for you, to stave off the boredom."

"Hm." was Sherlock's only reply as he raised a languid eyebrow. John stared at his best friend with sympathy. It had been hard for him to see his own best friend shot and severely injured by his own wife, but he knew that the pain Sherlock was going through was worse than his, and not being able to go out on cases or even have john video chat him the crime scenes, John being too busy with his own job, had made him more melancholic and moody than ever.

"Stop staring John and go to work."

Once again John pulled himself from his thoughts, and glancing with panic at his watch, muttered a swift "Right, yeah, well be careful." and descended the seventeen steps from the flat hastily.

"Yes, John, I've heard that sofas can be particularly dangerous." Sherlock muttered to himself in an empty flat. Sherlock knew that John worried, John would, and Sherlock felt….was it called sympathy (?), for him. Seeing Sherlock shot and bleeding and then finding out it was his own lying wife who had dealt the deed had broken John somewhat. His upset he covered with anger and Sherlock could see that by preoccupying his mind John was trying his best not to think about Mary. His own wife and he couldn't bear to see her. That was bad, Sherlock knew. Poor John….

"Yoo Hoo!" The trill call of Mrs Hudson brought Sherlock back to reality and the older woman entered holding a tray of water and biscuits. "Thought you might want these dear…" she placed the tray onto the coffee table, and brought it forward so that it was within Sherlock's reach. When she had finished she turned to observe Sherlock, noting the younger man looked tired and pale, as though the weight of the world were upon his shoulders.

"Oh Sherlock..." she sighed, placing a hand on his bony cheek. He did not try to pull away. "Are you alright dear? Do you want any painkillers?"

He shifted a little and smiled weakly. She did love it when he smiled. "No thank you, Mrs Hudson, It's bearable."

"Alright dear," she pinched his cheek gently, and this time he did move away from her touch. "I'll be downstairs if you need me." And with a wavering smile, she disappeared downstairs.

Sherlock listened to her footsteps receding, trying to fathom how grateful he felt towards Mrs Hudson. The older woman had always been there for him; mothering him, feeding him, keeping him company when he was bored and alone. She always forgave him, even when he had shot her wall numerous times or was violently rude towards her. Sherlock didn't know what he would do without her. 'Ugh, sentiment….'

Sighing he turned onto his left side, eliciting a stabbing pain from his chest. Sherlock tried to control his breathing as he reached for the TV remote from its place on the floor by the sofa, and closed his eyes while he waited for the pain to abate. 'Being shot is seriously dull' he thought to himself, switching on the television and groaning at the pathetic daytime TV. 'Bored…'

A couple of hours later, and Sherlock was awoken from his half-stupor by the ringing of 221B's bell. He heard the quick footsteps of Mrs Hudson approaching the front door and a moment later the voices of both her and Lestrade. Lifting his head up he scavenged among sofa cushions until he found the remote to switch off the TV. As Lestrade's footsteps came closer to the living room Sherlock attempted to raise himself into a sitting position, causing another stab of pain and an involuntary gasp escaped his lips.

"Easy, Sherlock." Big hands were suddenly upon his upper arms and Lestrade helped him sit up, leaning back against the cushions.

"Thank you….." ('Oh, what was Lestrade's first name? Gareth? Geoffrey? Gary? Oh hell.') "…Lestrade."

Lestrade waved his thanks away as he pulled up a chair from the kitchen. Under his arm, Sherlock noticed, Lestrade carried some files. Now that was interesting….

"How are you bearing up?" Lestrade asked when he had finally sat himself down, files upon his lap and grinning inanely.

Sherlock shrugged, "Oh, you know, as good as it goes when you've been shot in the chest and your heart's stopped twice." At this Lestrade's grin faltered, and he looked away from Sherlock for a second.

"Yes, well if you were able to tell us who shot you then we could bring someone to trial for this mess."

"I told you, I don't remember." Sherlock would never tell on Mary Watson. He knew John would forgive her one day, and when that day came she would be free for him to love forever. John would be happy.

Lestrade gave him a disapproving look but moved on. "I brought you these, thought you might be going a bit stir crazy in here." He handed the case files to Sherlock, who opened the first one with agitated fingers. A few uncomfortable minutes of silence passed in which Lestrade stared at Sherlock while the other man was oblivious, caught up in the case he was reading. "It was the dog walker, obviously." He stated suddenly, throwing the first case file to the floor and starting on the second.

Lestrade took Sherlock's complete ignorance of him as his signal to leave, and replacing the chair in the kitchen stood awkwardly in the doorway for a moment. "Well I'll be off then." No reply. He might as well have been talking to the coffee table. "Right then…see you around Sherlock." And with that he departed the flat.

An hour later and Sherlock finally pulled himself from his bubble of Consulting Detective and back into reality. Having solved all of Lestrade's old case files, he suddenly found himself feeling peckish.

"Mrs Hudson!" he shouted, and not long after he heard the clatter of her heels upon the stairs

"Thought you might call soon, so I've made you soup." She placed a tray on his lap, and he swirled the spoon around in the creamy substance before taking a tentative sip. Delicious, as always. Mrs Hudson popped herself on the edge of the sofa, moving Sherlock's legs to make room.

"It feels like a miracle to see you eating, but then again, it's a bit of a miracle you're still here." The older lady looked to be tearing up; Sherlock swallowed quickly, mind whirring at how to stop a waterfall.

"The bullet was never meant to kill me, Mrs Hudson, just incapacitate me." Mrs Hudson didn't need to know about the heart failures, he and John had agreed. Mrs Hudson smiled gratefully at his attempt to placate her and patted his leg. "Yes but look at you dear….oh, I hate to see you so….well, let's just hope you get better soon."

The older lady trailed off, lost in thought, as Sherlock finished half the soup before laying his spoon down. The pain in his chest was getting worse, and Mrs Hudson's chatter did not help. He didn't even have the strength to put her on semi-permanent mute.

"Mrs Hudson…" he tried to sit up farther, which caused an almighty lightening bolt of pain to shoot through his chest. He grasped at the centre of the pain, the bullet hole, and scrunched his face up in agony.

"Sherlock dear..." Mrs Hudson swiftly took the tray of soup away from him before it spilt as Sherlock curled up around his injury. A moment later her hands were upon his and he clenched them tightly, thankful for once for her comfort. When the pain finally abated somewhat to a dull throbbing, Sherlock raised his head to see Mrs Hudson's worried ears peering at him.

"Oh, Dear, you do you look peaky….maybe you should have a rest for a bit."

He shook his head weakly, "No Mrs Hudson, I'll be fine if I could just take some painkillers." He muttered through clenched teeth.

"Right..." The older lady walked quickly to the kitchen in her low heels, and grabbed from the table one of the many packets of painkillers that Sherlock had been given.

Sherlock took them from her and swallowed a few with the water Mrs Hudson had brought up earlier. Leaning back he imagined what John would've said if he'd just seen how many pills Sherlock had taken ('You're an idiot, you don't want to be admitted for a third time because of an overdose, do you?!'), but Sherlock had a high tolerance for drugs, and anything less would've been ineffective.

A few minutes later Sherlock's phone made a 'Ping!' of a text coming through, and Mrs Hudson picked it up from where it was lying on the mantel piece.

"It's from John….ah, that's nice!" She said, peering at the screen from behind her glasses.

"What does it say?" Sherlock asked yawning, becoming drowsy from the food and drugs.

"He hopes you're okay, and that you're not being too proud and are letting me fuss over you, and he also says to not do anything stupid and that he'll be back around five-ish."

Sherlock nodded, and closed his eyes, suddenly wanting to sleep the afternoon away. He felt the sofa sink as Mrs Hudson sat down again.

"He really cares about you, doesn't he?" she said, and Sherlock opened one bleary eye.

"He's my best friend." He replied sleepily. At this she gave him a knowing smile.

"And I know you care about him too, don't you? Your speech at his wedding was really lovely dear. Although, the murder did ruin it a bit."

"Almost murder."

"Hmm…I don't think you really realise how many people do actually care about you, Sherlock; John, Greg-"

"Who?"

"Lestrade, Dear. And I do too."

"Good."

"It's nice to have you here again, looking after you; I missed it."

"And I missed you too." Sherlock mumbled, barely awake now. At this Mrs Hudson smiled affectionately and felt pride well up in her heart like a big balloon.

"Oh Sherlock…" she placed a hand on his cheek again, "Never get yourself shot again Young Man. I don't think neither John nor I could stand it."

At this Sherlock frowned a little, "Didn't do it on purpose." He protested weakly.

"I know, dear. Just rest now, and then maybe then we can have a game of Cluedo later, when John's back. That'll be….fun, won't it?" but she got no reply, Sherlock was fast asleep. She stroked his cheek, and then removed her hand from his face. He looked so much younger when he slept. It was nice to see him peaceful.

"You're doing all of this for John, aren't you? You're not even complaining! You don't want to see him hurting. Oh Sherlock, when did you become so human?" she smiled, once again feeling pride welling up in her. "Silly boy." She muttered to herself, pushing herself off the sofa, giving Sherlock the peace he needed.

When she heard John's key in the lock hours later, she rushed out to see him in the darkening hallway of Baker Street, still wearing a flour coated apron.

"Mrs Hudson? What's the matter?" John turned to her panicked.

She looked at him for a second with an expression that John could not place. John frowned back, and was about to ask what was wrong for the second time when she suddenly pulled him into a bone crushing hug. Quite a feat for a woman as small as Mrs Hudson.

"Oh John….." she mewled, letting go of him. "Thank you for being there for him."

John smiled earnestly at her, and she mirrored him. "No need to thank me, Mrs H, he's my best friend."

Mrs Hudson smiled, remembering Sherlock had said the exact same thing earlier.

"Oh, you two…" she grabbed his face with both hands gently. John looked down at her, still feeling confused at this out burst of sentiment. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

John chuckled, "Have much less interesting games of Cluedo for a start!"

She laughed back, and then suddenly realising her proposal of earlier said, "Ah yes, I promised Sherlock we'd have a game once you were home, and I don't want to deprive him of some fun."

John grimaced for a second before smiling resignedly. "Okay…great. Think we might need a cuppa for this one, Mrs H."

She patted him on the arm good naturedly. "Let me, John. You go and see him."

"Thanks, Mrs H."

She watched John disappear up the stairs, feeling tears well up in her eyes. Happy tears. Her boys were going to be fine. Just fine.

The End

Author's Note:

Well, that was my first fanfiction! Thank you anyone if you read it, and if you liked it or would like to suggest something then feel free to review or leave me a PM! I don't know how accurate the characters are, but I gave it a shot! and hopefully I will be writing more soon, seeing as I've got just under two months of free time left!

Happy reading! TheBritishBourbon x