Chapter 14- Whispers

With his fingertips pressed together in his usual thinking posture, Sherlock sat on his armchair and vigilantly guarded the shapeless bundle on the floor, situated in the corner of the sitting room.

It was almost dawn but the detective dared not sleep. He didn't want John to wake up and need something, and not be there to help.

In the meantime, Mrs. Hudson, in her nightgown and bedroom slippers shuffled forward inquisitively to examine the mound of blankets. 'Why don't you pop him into your bed? That doesn't look comfortable.'

Sherlock grinned weakly. He could just imagine John's reaction to something like that.

'The man wanted the floor and I was not about to argue,' he informed her quietly. Sherlock was just grateful, that after all the trauma John had been inadvertently subjected to by Lestrade and his pack of idiot mongrels, the small man had agreed to come to Baker Street at all.

'Oh dear,' she fussed motherly, as the old woman knelt down and smoothed the blankets and tucked in stray edges, 'well bring him for breakfast or lunch, when he wakes.'

'Mrs. Hudson, my wallet is on the table. Take my card,' the detective requested quietly, 'Order some furniture for the spare bedroom and a set of heavy duty locks; one each for the window, the second bedroom and the bathroom doors.'

'The second bedroom?' she asked curiously, 'you are not sharing?'

'No, I don't believe so,' he replied carelessly not offended by Mrs. Hudson's questions.

'Perhaps it's for the best,' she mused, 'you do tend to be particular about the way you like your things laid out.'

'Mrs. Hudson?' Sherlock began again, but a little unsurely this time. His landlady was a strong, compassionate woman, but he began to wonder if he was asking too much from her, 'there might be some loud voices in the middle of the night from now on. You can just ignore that. I'll see what I can do to keep him quiet.'

'Are you planning on arguing already?' she said with a frown, 'that's not how to start a new relationship, Sherlock. I am sure your mother would agree with me.'

'I am sure my mother would,' he replied softly, 'but John has exceedingly bad nightmares.'

'Oh dear; from the war I imagine,' she speculated accurately, 'but is it alright you think, if I come up if that happens? I can make tea.'

Sherlock looked a bit confused, 'of course you may come, but you can go back to sleep. Don't trouble yourself.'

'Oh I don't mind. At my age, seeing two handsome young men in their pyjamas is a treat.'

Sherlock grunted quietly as she walked away, relieved when she finally closed the door behind her. Fortunately, the woman had come during one of John's quiet moments.

It would have been very plausible that the dear lady might have had heart failure, if she had heard the man mumble in his sleep not ten minutes earlier. During the early hours of the morning, in the doctor's more restless moments, terrible fragments of the pain and betrayal he had suffered had fallen from his lips. Tortured whispers that should belong only to God, now belonged to Sherlock.

The detective closed his eyes and slouched in his arm chair. In all the challenges he had ever undertaken in his life, here was one that he could not fail.