Okay, so here's the deal. I'm so sorry it took me so long to get this up here, but this took me a lot of brain power to write. School had end of the year finals and everything was hectic. I kept switching in between POV's, I hope you all don't mind that much. It probably has a few grammatical errors, if so, I would love to know so I can fix those pronto, thanks. I really didn't think I'd be continuing this story so it was nice to know that someone likes it. I enjoy getting reviews, but you don't have to. It's just appreciated, that's all. Thanks to everyone who favorited my story, Thanks a bunch to those who gave reviews on the last chapter. I'm gonna shut up now so you all can enjoy my work. TheRamblingDabbler

Chapter 2

John was sipping coffee and reading a newspaper, calm and content, relaxing in his favorite chair in their flat. It was almost as if it had never happened. He mentally flinched and tried to redirect his thoughts to avoid thinking about it. He heard Mrs. Hudson making her way up the creaky stairs.

He hadn't stayed in the flat in so long, his heart thumped a little quicker and adrenaline oozed into his veins until he realized it was only Mrs. Hudson.

"John? Why are you here?" Mrs. Hudson asked quietly, as she stood framed in the doorway. John look up at her and simply said,

"I'm coming home, Mrs. Hudson. I think I'd like to move back in if it's alright with you." Mrs. Hudson looked a little taken aback but she quickly overcame her surprise.

"Yes, that's fine dearie," she tutted, a small smile finding it's way onto her lips. She turned to go downstairs but then turned back as if in afterthought, saying, "If you're almost done with that coffee, I can make you a cuppa."

John looked at the small swish of desolate looking coffee in the bottom of his mug and smiled to himself.

"Thank you, a cuppa would be nice Mrs. Hudson. And-"

"I'll get you some buiscits to go with that dear." Mrs. Hudson smiled knowingly. "But just this once, I'm-"

"Not my housekeeper, yes. Thank Mrs. Hudson. " John finished her sentence for her and shook his head as she left the room.

John lifted his eyes from the paper when he heard a small moan of pain come from down the hall, Sherlock's room. He silently stood and made his way to the room.

Sherlock's eyes were open, but just slightly, he was obviously still under the calming effects of the drug that John had given him. John couldn't know for sure that Sherlock would remember this when he finally, actually came to. He was trying to close the door quietly, but when the hinges creaked ever so lsightly, Sherlock woke up a little more.

"John? ...Where am I? Am I…? Am I at the flat? This is my bed." His voice was slurred with sleep and slow with concentration. John imagined that it would take a lot of effort to keep up a conversation with so much of the powerful sedative still slowing him down. His eyes riveted on John as John walkied into his room. He closed the door behind him softly. He sat on the side of Sherlock's bed before talking.

"You're at the flat, Sherlock. Of course this is your bed, couldn't very well have you sleeping on the couch in this condition." He spoke softly, remembering the headache Sherlock had complained about earlier.

"This condition?" Sherlock prompted him, after only a second of frowning. There it was again, that inability to realize he was hurt. John frowned and then pursed his lips before deciding to just tell him outright, to avoid any annoyance, and unnecessary confusion.

"You have a broken arm, in multiple places. A mild concussion, slowing you down. You have a healing artery in your right leg that you mustn't stand on or it will open up again and you'll loose even more blood. And there are more than a few odd scrapes and bruises. You're probably going to be pretty sore for the next few days. " John spoke the facts, cold and unemotionally. He did a mental double take a second later, thinking, Oh god, I'm turning into a Sherlock.

Sherlock's eyebrows were close to touching by the time John finished listing off his injuries. Something was wrong, besides the obvious of course, But Sherlock's drug addled mind felt like a machine with too much grease clogging the motor gears; slow and grinding, painful.

"How long will I have to stay in bed?" Sherlock asked, already sick of it.

"As long as I deem you unfit to get out." John replied. A genuine smile tugged at a corner of his mouth and it felt odd. He hadn't smiled, not really smiled, in months and within two or three short conversations with Sherlock, He was beginning to smile again.

"John, Do you have anything for this headache?" Sherlock asked innocently, carefully watching John's reaction. John didn't have a easy to read reaction though. He simply said that he had enough medicine in his system, and that it shouldn't hurt yet. Then John ordered him to sleep, saying that, he needed the sleep, it looked like he hadn't slept in a year and a half.

Sherlock was confused. So very confused. He was expecting a John to be mad that Sherlock had faked his death, he expected some of that anger to bleed through into their conversation, making him be short with him that he couldn't have the pills. But he wasn't. He had no emotion at all. Why did that make Sherlock feel so much worse?

Sherlock's eyes drifted closed, the last image they saw, dancing on the inside of his eyelids. John, sitting on the edge of his bed, his hand placed protective and comfortingly on Sherlock's knee.

John sighed quietly to himself, standing up to stretch his tight back. He had been sitting with Sherlock for most of the night, why, he didn't even know. After about half an hour of sitting there, he had realized that he still had his hand cupping the other man's knee. His face warmed as he carefully removed his hand, fearful that Sherlock might awake. His fave was read and hot as he quietly, but quickly, stood to flee the room. He couldn't do this, He couldn't watch his impossible friend sleep and not go insane. He didn't want to leave Sherlock alone though, for more reasons than a less than full night of sleep. More selfish reasons.

He tried to redirect his thoughts again, but this time it was too late. He gave in to his selfish wants and pulled up a chair next to Sherlock's bed. He wanted to be here when Sherlock woke up, really woke up, to tell him that everything was okay, and to make sure he wouldn't disappear again. He also was there simply because he knew if he fell asleep anywhere else in this flat, he would have that nightmare again. It was highly repetitive but was still scary as fuck. It always started out with the fall, and then when Sherlock finally slammed into the concrete, the blood of his flatmate would mix with that of his friends in the army, and all the people he had tried to save. It rapidly would spiral out of control into a seemingly never ending show of all the people who died in front of him, or in his arms, or on his operating table.

He kept a near perfect vigil all night long, only nodding off once, and only leaving for about a total of five minutes. He had to go to the bathroom, in a bad way too. When he stepped out the door and successfully closed it quietly, he noticed the tray of tea and biscuits set just to the right of the doorway. Oh. He had forgotten that he'd asked Mrs. Hudson for those. Shame, it's probably gone cold by now John thought as he picked up the tray and set it in the kitchen. He was washing his hands when he heard Sherlock cy out in pain. Be bolted to the messy bedroom to find out what was the matter. His heart thudded loud in his chest as he opened the door and peered inside the dark room.

Trollololol…. Now you all have to wait until I finish the next chapter to know what happens!

MUHAHAHAHAHA! Just having a bit of fun, hope you all liked it!

Review if you want, they are appreciated.