It was a year before John actually got anything close to the thrill he missed so much, the thrill that made his heart pound in his chest, the thrill that made mortality very obviously precious to him. He came home one evening to 221B laden with shopping, only to find that the door was slightly ajar. He thought nothing of it- with no danger for a year he wasn't really on the alert, thinking that perhaps Ms Hudson had just forgotten to close it properly (she was getting a bit forgetful these days) and he called out,
" Ms Hudson, the door wasn't locked properly. Is this what they call a senior moment?" but when he wasn't greeted with Ms Hudson's usual "Yoohoo, in here dear" He began to grow concerned. He put down his shopping in the hall and approached the door underneath their- John shook his head, why did he still call it that?- His flat.
It was also ajar, and he fervently hoped that nothing had happened to her, that she was alright because he knew he couldn't, couldn't even contemplate the alternative because it would be another Sherlock and...
His breath drew in as he turned the corner. And he felt Goosebumps erupt on his skin as he saw the chaos that lay strewn about the floor. He had been in this room numerous times before, and was aware that Ms Hudson was a meticulously tidy woman. He moved forwards, on edge now, though it was clear to him no-one else occupied this room, nor the rest of the ground floor flat unless they were being incredibly silent, and the people responsible for this mess...well they looked like noisy people. He glanced around, noticed the missing TV, the smashed cups on the floor, the signs of a hurried search for goods. Burglary then.
John called out again for Ms Hudson but when he got no reply, he proceeded to quickly check the separate kitchenette area, the bathroom, and finally, he paused slightly outside the bedroom. But feeling silly, he reminded himself that Ms Hudson could be in danger, and that surely she would forgive this mishap of etiquette, before barging into that room as well. At first he didn't see her, but then, as he walked closer to the bed he saw her, fragile and neatly dressed, lying face down on the shag pile rug next to her (still remarkably tidy) bed.
"Oh God, no..." his mouth formed the words he had uttered around a year ago- when he had seen another body lying on the ground, broken, bleeding. But he shook the initial terror out of himself- there was no sign of blood, and he did a quick injury assessment.
Unconscious- single blow to the back of the head with a blunt object, looking at the round lump forming there. She had a few scuffs and would probably have a few bruises the next day, but no broken bones. John breathed out. Still, at her age... John found him suddenly immensely angry. Such a blow could have done a lot more damage. To kind-hearted, quick-witted, tea-making Ms Hudson. Affection rose in his chest and his heart beat faster at the thought of what might have come to pass if... But the real reason for his seeing red was not the injustice of the act, it was the fact he knew he wouldn't be able to bring justice to those who had done it.
If Sherlock was here, Sherlock would take one look at the place and be able to track down the bastard- or bastards- who did this.
He quickly banished that thought and called an ambulance- she should go to hospital to recover, he thought, at least so she doesn't have a fit when she sees the state of her living room. He moved her into a more comfortable position, after double checking he hadn't missed any small fractures, and waited with her for the ambulance. She still hadn't stirred, but John knew better than to attempt to rouse her, he might do damage. When he saw flashing lights pull up outside he called the paramedics over, and told them the state he had found her in, and informed them yes he had moved her, but only after he had assessed whether she had any broken bones and yes, he was a doctor .
John accompanied her to the hospital. He left his shopping abandoned in the hallway, Ms Hudson was his top priority. It was only when the bumpy ride slowed and the backdoors of the ambulance opened and he was greeted with the white, informal doors of their local hospital that he realised he hadn't even checked 221B, and that of course if Ms Hudson had been robbed, they would probably have made their way into their- his- empty flat. He decided he didn't mind about his TV or his laptop. His main concern were the two relics of Sherlock he allowed on display, the skull on the mantelpiece and his violin. He swallowed.
The violin was very expensive. Most violins are very expensive. Even mindless criminals know that.
He put it to the back of his mind. Ms Hudson, now relocated to a clinically clean hospital bed, was waking up. He reached out a hand and patted her arm. No-one should wake up in hospital alone, John knew that from experience.
He swallowed. He felt idiotic for missing the thrill of danger when it put kind, wonderful people like Ms Hudson in a hospital bed. He felt guilty, as if it were his fault for ever longing for some excitement to break the dull monotony of his Sherlock-less days.
He sighed. This wasn't what he wanted, how could it be- one (possibly two, he reminded himself) broken into apartment, an injured friend and any number of unnameable, untraceable idiots making off with TV's and internet cables and god knows what else. He wanted to catch them, the unknown attackers; he wanted to be running through the side streets and back alleys of London, following that long, grey coat as it whipped round every corner.
It seemed that without Sherlock, and the prospect of finding and punishing the attackers, even danger wasn't what it used to be.