As you can see, I am most likely not a frequent uploader. I tend to upload whenever I have time to, not a single week or two per chapter. So, for that, I'm freaking sorry. D: But anyway, one more day of school and then I'm out, bitches! Although, I still have to have my girlfriend tutor me over the break in Spanish, since I am failing that class. O-o' Well, not everyone can be perfect. xD

Anyway, this is kind of an information chapter, but not really an information chapter. Mycroft and John bonding moment it is, more or less.

And I have to say, I do actually like Mycroft. In a sick, twisted way, he does consider himself caring, as do I. So in this fic I am making him a teddy bear instead of an asshole. So I hope you like the image I painted for him, and if not, I'm sorry. D:

I hope you like again! R & R, please!

Dear John

Chapter Four: A Million Words

~oOo~

Third Person POV

Sherlock woke up about six hours later next to his lover on the bed. His head, once suspended on the less-than-comfortable sheets, lifted slightly, his eyes kind of blurry from just waking up. Oh dear, Sherlock thought as he blinked a couple of times. Was he like this the whole time? Sherlock shook that thought out of his head right as he had said it and knew that it was a small price he had to pay for staying with John. Sherlock was perfectly content with having a sore neck if it meant waking up next to John.

Sherlock still couldn't believe everything was real. Was it just a dirty, nasty dream that he would eventually wake from and then make him realize that yes, John is still presumed dead and he had never found him? He had never been unable to distinguish a dream from reality, but now he knew how it felt. And this emotion…it was a both love\hate feeling. He loved loving John and being loved by John, but he hated feeling helpless and fragile – unlike he had when he was alone.

Oh bloody mother of all things sane, he sounded like he regretted falling in love with John.

And that was impossible. Sherlock would never do that. Not with John by his side, anyway. John was his anchor to the world. He made life realistic.

Sherlock sat up in his chair and yawned. It was dark around the room and the only sounds the tall man could hear were the machines and a few nurses walking about outside. John was still blissfully asleep; however, he could still see the slightly pained features that overwhelmed his aging face. The blonde appeared older now; hurt. Scarred. Sherlock briefly wondered what had happened to him, but as soon as he thought of that kind of thing he had whisked it out of his mind.

Like John, he would wait until his lover was good and ready to tell him.

Inattentively, the curly haired man reached over and pressed the tips of his fingers against the IV in John's right wrist. The finger monitor was still safely clipped onto the thirty-eight year old man's index finger, as well as another piercing that was feeding him more blood than the IV. The once tanned skin was a light ivory at best now, and Sherlock could tell that John had lost a healthy amount of weight and was now fighting to keep his firm, muscled chest. Blonde hair was shaggy and now laying all over John's face – Sherlock didn't think it looked bad, but the way it was kept made John look even more fragile and hurt.

Sherlock really did wonder what his lover had gone through. What may it have been that John was now in the hospital and couldn't contact him for seven months?

It was no use thinking about it, really. He wouldn't be able to deduce it even if he tried.

A pair of icy blue eyes turned slightly to stare down affectionately at his lover. Sherlock let his thumb rub around the IV for a moment, and eventually he let it slide down to the others cold palm. It seemed that John had a few scabs still healing – quite possibly from being bound or forced to do manual labor of some kind. The taller didn't want to think about it. Other than the obvious things, Sherlock knew that John could quite possibly be damaged all over again. After all, the first time he was in the army – only as a Doctor, mind you – John was still mortally scarred.

What will he be like for a second time now – this time as a soldier and possibly being tortured? Will John ever be the same?

Did Sherlock really care if he was the same or not?

Not necessarily. Not that he would like it, oh no, that meant that John had seen some brutal insistencies, but he was also finally back where he belonged – or, almost. At 221B Baker Street with his lover and 'Housekeeper', Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock nodded quickly to himself. Yes, right where he belonged.

The detective was pulled out of his thoughts as a sharp moan, leaving him to only do the following: snap out of it and glance down at his lover, who seemed to be on the verge of waking. Instead of dropping the hand now firmly held in his, Sherlock gripped tighter, afraid to let him go in fear of the dream going away. John moaned again, this time a little more solid and there. At the flutter of eyelids, Sherlock sat a little straighter, still peering down at his soul mate's waking form.

"S-Sherlock…?" A crusty-toned voice spoke into the silence, and Sherlock sent a re-assuring squeeze to let the injured man know he was there. He didn't speak though – he didn't dare to – for it was all still so new and the dark-haired figure wasn't sure how to handle it.

The hand he was holding on to squeezed back as best as it could. Sherlock couldn't stop the small smile that adorned his features. John was real, he told himself. John was certainly real.

"Did you even get a-any sleep, Sherlock?" John questioned the silence again, moaning once as his eyes tried to open again. However, Sherlock figured it was too bright because seconds later he was closing them again. Sherlock almost snorted. Ah, that was so like his blogger.

"I did." Sherlock replied honestly.

"And I take it you slept here?"

"Where else?"

"Sherlock, you need some decent sleep."

"I had a perfectly fine sleep right here, thank you."

"I missed you too, Sherlock."

John smiled brightly up at the dark-haired man, and Sherlock only shook his head. It was so like John to answer a statement like that. It was because John really always knew. One way or another, John was always able to figure out his problems. Only John. "How do you feel?" Sherlock asked instead, cocking his head to the side to avoid an embarrassing confession once more. The blonde chuckled and tilted his head.

"Like I got hit over by a truck, if you cannot deduce. I'm fine, though. Will be. What about you?" John sat up a little bit and yawned, using what little strength he had to support his body weight. He kept a firm grip on Sherlock's hand as he pushed himself the best he could. "You don't…no offense, Sherlock, but you don't honestly look too well."

"Brilliant deduction, John. I did get a letter from you seven months ago stating that you were most likely dead. It wasn't the best news I had ever gotten."

John hummed, concerned as he furrowed a light blonde eyebrow down towards his sky eyes. Sherlock watched this action with a bit of amusement. "Sorry." John murmured quietly. "It's just –."

"Shhh, John." Sherlock placed the index finger of his free hand onto the others chapped, puffy lips. "Tell me when you're ready. For now, let's get you better. We'll worry about the other stuff later." John let out a sigh of contempt or relief, Sherlock couldn't really tell, and squeezed his hand once more. Sherlock's own lips curled into a small smile. Yes, they would worry about it later.

"I do see that you are in top shape, Doctor Watson."

Both lovers groaned in a more teasing manner as they heard the voice from the door. Said voice grunted as an affirmative and Sherlock couldn't help but relish in a small smile as he heard a small ounce of relief in his elder brother's tone. It seemed all the Holmes's had a soft spot for his Watson. Mycroft Holmes made his way into the room swiftly, not missing a beat before getting to Sherlock's side. "I do hope this does not become a routine thing, Dr. Watson."

"I hope so as well." John chuckled well naturedly. Mycroft merely nodded and didn't reply, which left John to spark up again. "Sherlock, could you please excuse us for a moment?" John's lover asked Sherlock. For a moment, the dark-haired figure blinked at the blonde, wondering what he was saying. After his quick analysis, though, he realized that he should probably abide to his lover's wishes. Sherlock nodded.

"Yes, ah – I'll just go get some coffee or tea or…something." Sherlock murmured more to himself, wondering what they were going to speak of. He promised he wouldn't listen in, though, and instead he settled for walking out of the room.

He was sure him and John would talk later.

~oOo~

With John & Mycroft

"I'm assuming you wish to hear the details of Sherlock's health, John." Mycroft spoke as soon as he heard the click of the door sliding shut.

"I'll never get used to you Holmes's." John said boldly, not without a small smile. Within a second, though, it was wiped off, leaving a serious look to mask his undeniable fear. "He's skinny, Mycroft. He already looks bruised from how I've been gripping him, which wasn't hard at all, and I noticed that there are some faint scars along his fingers and arms. What has he done?" John asked, knowing that his deduction skills were more or less thanks to his lover's family.

Mycroft sighed and took Sherlock's empty, but still warm, sleep. His umbrella rested against his leg. "You are correct with what you have seen, I'm afraid. I do imagine that you are lucky to not have seen Sherlock in those seven months."

"Tell me everything."

"John, I do not think that is a –."

"– Good idea? No, definitely not. But it is necessary information, and I deserve to know."

Mycroft swallowed forcefully and stared at the man that had literally destroyed his brother's heart, and nearly his in turn. Caring is not an advantage, Mycroft reminded himself as he stared into those stern eyes that Sherlock had grown to adore. But it certainly is powerful. "And you will speak to Sherlock about this?"

"Of course."

Stubborn fool. "And I do believe this is a time I do not have a say in the matter?"

"I still have a gun under my pillow and I'm sure you have no snipers within the general radius at this moment." John quickly replied. Mycroft felt his lips twitch. John did as well. Together, they enjoyed a small bout of silence, the two of them managing to have what most people would call a 'moment.' Their smiles weren't big, instead almost testing in a way, and Mycroft immediately knew why exactly his brother had chosen John of all people. If Sherlock had not taken him, perhaps Mycroft would have.

"I see. Well, after you had sent your last letter, things had gotten progressively worse. The first six or so months he just wasn't eating properly, taking care of himself or doing any taxes, not bothering with something as mundane as sleep, work, or even living in general. The only thing he appeared to be doing was sitting in your chair and staring off into space. He had lost a total of thirty-seven pounds within that time and had relapsed on both his drug and cigarette addiction – however, I put a stop to the drugs right away."

John nodded and processed this information inside of his own mind. Not that he was at all excited to hear this news, he thought that something along those lines would have happened. The drugs came as somewhat of a surprise to him, but as soon as he really, truly thought about it, he knew that it was quite the possibility that Sherlock would run to something as blank as drugs. John didn't mind the cigarette's at all, though. It was a rough time and, as much as he disliked to say it, cigarette's helped the best of all.

Mycroft paused for a moment in his line of speech and tilted his head upwards to the clean, blank ceiling. John watched this moment. He calculated. "The last month, Mycroft?" John asked tensely. His jaw clenched.

"…Terrible." Mycroft stated after a moment. "Just terrible."

~oOo~

With Sherlock & Coffee

Sherlock paced back and forth in the cafeteria. He was all around tense; both Mycroft and his lover were up there talking about something, and he could never be truly sure what it was about. Of course he had his suspicions and ideas, but none of them were worth mentioning. What he wanted to do was march up there and tell Mycroft to get the bloody hell out so he could spend time with his once dead lover, but the rational side of him told him he wasn't the only one that had missed John.

To mention it, he was quite possibly one of the only ones who knew John was still alive. This stopped Sherlock in mid-pace. That's right. Other people were worrying about Sherlock, weren't they? Mrs. Hudson? She obviously knew, but she couldn't leave their flat uninhabited. Lestrade didn't, and even though he honestly never wanted to speak to the man again, he was still John's friend. Donovan and Anderson would probably like to know, but Sherlock didn't care about them enough.

Mary and Sarah would most likely like to know.

Yet there lie the problem.

Sherlock had been so quick to leave that he had forgotten his phone on the table. Actually, did the bloody thing still even work? It wasn't as if he was the one paying for it. Maybe Mycroft did, maybe he didn't. That was always the question with his family.

Sherlock shook his head and let his dark curls bounce as he threw himself into a small plastic chair at an empty table in the corner of the cafeteria. People around him were ignoring him – this was quite possibly completely and utterly normal behavior at this place, wasn't it – and continuing on with their conversations without a care.

He didn't mind. He was too agitated to care.

What he wanted to do was see John again. Other people still didn't hold a candle to his thought at the moment, because all he wanted to do was see, was hold, was think about John. The fact that he was back, more or less.

"Message for Sherlock Holmes?" A voice peaked from around the tall figure.

Sherlock inclined his head just enough to see a short, buff man tilting his head down and staring into those icy blue orbs he owned. The man didn't flinch. Neither did Sherlock. For a quick bit, they were silent, until Sherlock tilted his head, waiting. What was it?

"Yes?" Sherlock answered with a question. The man nodded silently and pulled something out from is back. Something that looked like a package. Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

What was this?

When he looked up to question where the man had gotten this, he had realized the bloke was gone. Sherlock rolled his eyes. Of course. Just like them to drop off the package and run away like cowards. Who were they? Was this package good or bad? Perhaps it held a bomb? Or it could be another letter about someone who wanted to play games. Ah, ones like those happened to come quite frequently lately.

As Sherlock pressed his fingernail against the top of the large envelope and cut it open, he immediately knew what it was. He didn't have to look at it as he pulled it out. Ah, his phone. Mycroft, then. The man obviously worked for Mycroft. There was a piece of paper as well.

Do call John's friends. They will wish to know as well. Congrats, Sherlock. ~ Mycroft

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Typical brother behavior.

He sighed. May as well get this over with.

~oOo~

With John & Mycroft

"Define terrible."

Mycroft leaned back in his chair and absently strummed his fingers against the butt of his umbrella. "Stopped suicide attempts. Three times in total, before he gave up, knowing that I had people stationed on him for this type of thing. First time he had reached for your gun, and my men had to restrain him. Second – he sharpened a butter knife. I walked in and took it from him. Third – well, he tried to jump off a building."

John took this information in blindly. He couldn't really register what was being said until he replayed it over three or four times over, and over, and over, hoping he would get a different result each and every time. Though that was not the case. He had heard what he had heard. "Jump…off a building?" John gulped softly.

Mycroft nodded. "As he had the time he went missing himself. This time, though, he didn't want to plan his landing."

John swallowed the lump inside his throat and fisted the sheets. Sherlock had tried to kill himself. Thrice. What would he have done if Mycroft hadn't stopped him? Would it have become a horrible case of Romeo and Juliet if he had not interfered? Would he be able to live without Sherlock for that much longer?

The answer was no. He wouldn't have been able to. Once was enough for him.

"T-Thank you." John squeaked. "For saving him, I mean." He stated, still not really comprehending what he was saying.

Sherlock really had tried to kill himself. Silently, alone.

"He is my brother, John, if you seem to have forgotten. I shall not –."

"N-No." John interrupted, still quiet. "If it would have been brotherly, you probably would have let him die for his own sake. You wouldn't want him to suffer like he was suffering. Some way, somehow….You had thought I was still alive, hadn't you?" John asked as he let his blank stare peer through the man. Almost startled, Mycroft answered. That stare. So blank. So hollow.

"I had my suspicions. Although I had no idea where, if alive, you were." Mycroft admonished finally. "If I would have told Sherlock, he wouldn't have rested until he found you. Would have driven himself to the ground to find you."

"So you did instead."

"Yes, but it didn't seem to get me anywhere."

"Thank you."

"For not –."

"For caring for Sherlock like that. Keeping him alive. Thank you."

Mycroft merely nodded and sat straight once more, no longer leaning back as if he were worn. John watched this action attentively, and it appeared to him that Sherlock's brother was trying to conceal his emotions. Oh, no. John wouldn't let Mycroft do that yet. He still needed more answers. What had Sherlock been doing all this time? He needed more details.

And Mycroft was the only one who could give that to him.