A/N : HOW DO I WORDS? Guys, seriously, over a hundred views since I went to bed? I know that's probably not much but, really? Anyhow, I want to thank the 2 people who favoritied and the 2 who followed but I want to give a HUGE thank you to the person who reviewed! Thanks so much guys, that means a lot! As for the rest of you quiet observers, please feel free to criticise till your heart's content. I promise I won't bite. So, here's the next chapter and I hope you like this one even though not much happens. Johnlock if you squint! Enjoy!

Disclaimer : I don't own Sherlock. All credit goes to the BBC, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and their affiliates.

The Truth Beneath The Surface

Chapter 2 : Light In The Darkness

The sound of nurses and patients and doctors and wheels on linoleum and blaring announcements filled the entire hospital. Coupled with the distinct smell of disinfectant that turned the air thick and heavy, one could simply pass out right there in the waiting room. Mrs Hudson, the kind old landlady of 221 Baker Street, paced along a row of chairs, ignoring peoples constant, and rather irritating, attempts to make her sit down and relax before she had a stroke. She refused to calm down until she'd seen that her young friend was still breathing. She'd received the call some four hours ago that John had been brought in by a young man who stayed just long enough to give his name and Mrs Hudson's number before vanishing. She'd rushed straight to Saint Bart's, mad with worry, only to be told that his condition was too critical, that he wasn't allowed any visitors until they got him stable and there were no guaranties that she would be allowed in today.

She'd been told that he'd been brought in having mixed alcohol and painkillers. It didn't make any sense. John was a doctor; he knew what that would mean. Why would he go and try to kill himself after everything Sherlock had done to make sure they were both safe? She sighed, halting slightly in her pacing. She should have seen this coming. He had obviously been depressed since Sherlock had left. Mrs Hudson never believed for an instant that Sherlock was dead. He just wasn't the type to give up that easily especially since it would mean that maniac, Moriarty, would win. Sherlock hated to lose. He even hated to lose to John when they played darts and John's military training won out. There was also the promise he made. Sherlock didn't break the promises he made to family.

Mrs Hudson remembered that morning so clearly. It was the day Sherlock "died". He ran out of his room early in the morning. John hadn't been up yet but Mrs Hudson was busy fixing the boys a light tea. Sherlock hadn't eaten in two days and she was starting to worry. That boy was so thin. He never looked after himself. He walked over to her and bundled her into a hug. Then he'd whispered into her greying wiry hair, "No matter what happens, Mrs Hudson, take care of John." She'd tried to ask him what he was talking about but he finished with a simple but somehow reassuring promise. "I'll be back. Not soon, but I promise, I'll be back." So she did the best she could. Keeping a roof over John's head and food in his stomach but he was a grown man and a soldier. He wouldn't always listen to an old woman.

Now, standing in the hospital surrounded by the crush of people looking for loved ones or seeking treatment, she was scared. Scared for John's safety, scared of what would become of the flat should he not make it out of that bed but, above all, scared of what Sherlock would think. Would he think she'd failed to protect John? Would he think she didn't want to keep her promise? Would he hate her for that failure?

The thought made her stomach turn. Sherlock was a good man and family. She didn't want to lose any more family. Kids grown up and gone, some left the country, others the continent; that left just Mrs Hudson and her small block of flats, just Mrs Hudson and her two boys. That meant she would fight tooth and nail to keep her little family together.

A young man in a long white coat hurried toward her from the corridor. He called her name, snapping her from her reverie. "Are you Mrs Hudson?" He asked gently. She nodded. He made a short gesture to follow before ducking off back the way he came, Mrs Hudson on his heels. "Doctor Watson is currently resting comfortably." He spoke as he walked, "We had to pump his stomach and he still requires close attention but we think he'll be fine."

"You think?" Mrs Hudson asked incredulously. She wouldn't leave this hospital until she was certain her charge was in good health.

The doctor looked slightly uncomfortable under the scrutiny of the very protective older woman. "We're just not sure whether his liver will be able to handle the amount of drugs in his system. A majority of them were already absorbed by his body before his stomach was pumped. If it starts to fail he'll be put on the transplant list but the wait could be anywhere from a few weeks to a few years."

Mrs Hudson was shocked into silence, trying to cope with this new information. The doctor stopped outside a white door that stretched from white floor to white ceiling and was set in the white wall. Everything was white, she noticed, so monotonous and… sterile. On the front of the door in black letters (the only not white thing beside the fire extinguisher on the wall) were the numbers 221. She couldn't help the small smile that flitter over her lips, only to vanish as soon as the door was pushed open. In the centre of the small room was a single bed containing one John Hamish Watson. Mrs Hudson took a sharp, shuddering breath, moving her hand to cover her mouth. John was dressed in the stock-standard hospital gown, wires and tubes snaking out its side connecting to various machines and monitors. His skin was pale and clammy, his cheeks flushed red and sunken in, black circles under his eyes. She'd seen the doctor at his best and worst through the last few years but this brought "worst" to a whole new level. He looked deathly, like a corpse with a pulse.

"John…" She walked to the edge of the bed, her shaking hands hovering over his body, not sure whether to touch him, afraid of what she would feel. The doctor guided her to a chair against the wall next to the door. She couldn't pry her eyes off of the ghostly figure occupying the single hospital bed, unmoving, unwaking. He said something about staying as long as she liked before leaving, closing the door behind him.

Mrs Hudson sat in complete silence, unable to form word or thought. She just stared until she wept. The tears flowed down her face in a mixture of grief, exhaustion and fear. She couldn't nor would she try to stop them. They continued their silent torrent until her stinging red eyes shut against the world and she drifted off into the welcoming abyss.

...

A slight shuffling and a small sob reached Mrs Hudson's ears, pulling her out of the darkness. She didn't move in the chair but let her eyes open lethargically. She waited a moment for her eyes to adjust to the darkened room, straining her ears to try and locate the sound but it was gone. The first thing she noticed was that someone had draped a blanket across her legs. The second was the dark figure silhouetted against the window. Mrs Hudson didn't say anything; just watched. She could make out the white coat, stereotypical of a doctor or nurse, and blonde hair slicked back on the top of the man's head. His back was drawn and pensive, his shoulders shaking. He started talking again.

"I'm sorry, John." Mrs Hudson would recognise those deep baritones anywhere. She stayed silent, revelling in the familiarness she'd waited so long to hear. "I didn't see what you were doing." He continued, "If I had, you wouldn't be lying in this bed. I… Just wake up. Please. I'll come home if you get out of this bed. I promise, just… wake up." The man bent down and ran his lips across John's knuckles. He straightened and turned for the door, keeping his back to Mrs Hudson.

"Thank you, Doctor Holmes." She said as his hand closed around the doorknob. He froze and turned to the woman, his face catching the light just enough for her to see how he managed to sneak into the hospital. Along with the dyed hair, he wore a long prosthetic nose, not dissimilar in shape to a hawk's beak, and a pair of glasses that made his eyes appear a honey gold colour and much too big for his face.

He smiled weakly at her and said, "I always keep promises to family." ,before leaving the room closing the door with a quiet click. Mrs Hudson closed her eyes, a smile playing on her lips, content in the knowledge that, as soon as John opened his eyes (and he would open his eyes), there would be another creature inhabiting Baker Street; back where he belonged.

A/N : How was that? Did I do good? PLEASE tell me what you think! If I don't know I can't make it better! By the way, has anyone spotted the Easter egg yet? It shouldn't take more than a few chapters to figure it out but if you can't get it by the time I finnish, I'll just tell you. PLEASE FIGURE IT OUT BEFORE THEN! Just telling you won't be fun... ;_; Don't know when the next chapter will be up but soon I suppose.

For now, Bye Bye!

P.S. R&R pretty please?