So, this chapter is a lot of more FEELZ. But after this one, thank god, something's going to happen. xD Not saying it's good or bad or even a lot of progress, but simply more than talking about feelz in a hospital. Not that I have nothing against cuddly, fluffy times - at all. But yeah, thanks for the reviews, I appreciate them so much more than you guys know, especially when I know this isn't one of my better works.

So, with nothing else to say, I say TO NARNIA!

Infinity and beyond?

Anyone?

*Silence.*

Well, *coughs*, anyway, please R&R? x3 See you soon!


Dear John

Chapter Six: Boredom is an Illness

~oOo~

Third Person POV


If John had to summarize the hospital in one word entirely, it would be boring. Just plain, civically, boring. The only other occupants were trained nurses, doctors, and other army patients – which, most of them, John refused to look at. It reminded him of his past too much, and at that moment he wasn't too keen on focusing on his past problems but more so his future. The blonde knew that eventually Sherlock was going to out and ask the question 'what happened,' but John didn't want to answer that. He didn't want to believe it.

"Be a good boy and drop to your knees, you cunt. Suck that cock good, yeah?"

John shook his head as he forced that rough tone out of his mind. It frightened him, hearing that, so he decided to focus on the ceiling in response. Sherlock had gone out to make him tea downstairs and Mycroft was working on finding his assailants. Even for Mycroft, he knew that wouldn't be easy. Their plans were elaborate, and John never knew where they were. He never knew how they got there, why they were there – conversations were hushed and away from him – and John had only met another captive once.

His name was Thomas. Thomas…Behkmit? Something German, he was sure, but as to how he pronounced it, Watson had no clue. His hair was a tinged dirty blonde, with deep blue eyes that were hollowed with his time in that place, around those people. Thomas was slightly taller than John, but not by much, and was thinner frame-wise. Kind of fragile, but still with slight muscle hinting that he had previously been pretty built before going inside…that place.

John liked Thomas. He was sweet. Kind. Kind and sweet. It was a different type of person, John guessed, fresh in a way – like Sherlock. Although Sherlock was fresh every day. The doctor had had to do things to Thomas, things he didn't want to think about, but Thomas never held that against him. Sometimes Thomas was force to do things to him as well, when not pleasuring someone else in their little mafia-like party, and as much as he knew it was wrong, he couldn't blame the other either.

They would have died if not doing so. And if he had actually died, Sherlock would have had to suffer more.

John rolled his eyes then and slid them shut for the moment, chucking out a deep sigh that calmed his erratic heart. There was no use worrying about it now. If Sherlock was upset with him….Well, he didn't know what he would do, but John would respect whatever the dark-haired lover of his would provide. If Sherlock were to tell him that he wouldn't touch John again, he would accept that. If Sherlock were to tell him that he wanted to split up, he would accept that. If Sherlock were to tell him that he was plain disgusted and wouldn't talk to him….He would accept that.

As much as John hated to admit it, those scenarios with Sherlock were right.

John just felt….Impure. With Sherlock, everything was – for the lack of a better word – magical. But with them? Plain dirty, and horrible, and creepy and kinky and scary, not that he would ever admit that aloud. Sherlock had every right to be upset with him. It was set in stone already though, having to tell Sherlock. The matter was actually when.

Sherlock returned a few minutes later, carrying two plastic cups of hot tea. John almost moaned as the smell of herbs invaded his senses – God, did that smell good. "Thank you, Sherlock." He said to his lover as the man sat and gave him his tea. John's hands were less shaky now – strong enough to hold most objects and braced so his wrist wouldn't miss-lodge itself. Sherlock nodded and leaned back in his own chair, foot bouncing subconsciously. "It's bloody boring in here, right?" John asked knowingly.

Sherlock and John shared a timid smile. "Had no time to think about how boring it was what with worrying about you all the time." The dark-haired man replied truthfully, causing John to smile momentarily again. Sherlock was actually quite the romantic when he thought about it. If ever said aloud, Sherlock would deny that, but he couldn't deny the cheesiness he would say almost instinctively.

"That's sweet."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

They sat in silence for a few moments, just enjoying each other's presence. They had done so the last two days – whenever Mycroft didn't drop by and make more embarrassing comments to Sherlock. Speaking of, the two of them had gotten along a lot better lately – he was happy for Sherlock. And Mycroft, too. God knows it isn't easy sticking by Sherlock's side to help him even when he thinks he doesn't need it.

Speaking of….

"How long did it take you to go to Mycroft, Sherlock?" John asked as he continued to stare at the bland, yellowing ceiling, brow furrowed in curiosity. Sherlock 'hmmed' from the side of him, as if it was an obvious question.

"Seconds after getting your letter. I assume when you had written that it was a good four to five day wait, considering you don't believe in email." Sherlock chuckled lightly, leaving John to only guffaw.

"Sherlock, you know I'm not allowed electronics." John replied as if it was obvious, knowing that Sherlock had already known this. After all, he had repeatedly told his lover that no electronics allowed were more or less specifically speaking of phones and computers. Sherlock had begrudgingly accepted this reason, but it didn't mean he liked it.

"Whatever. We would have found you sooner if the letter had come sooner." Sherlock muttered more to himself than John.

John sighed, knowing Sherlock was still brutally stabbing himself inside for not knowing where John was. "There was nothing you could have done. I didn't ever know where I was and I was released no information – they trusted people very sparingly. They were good, Sherlock, that was it." What really mattered was that you went to Mycroft for me. My safety. Thank you, Sherlock, for coming so soon. Thank you.

"But when I get my hands on them…."

"I do hope you won't."

"John, I –."

"Look, I get it Sherlock." John closed his eyes as his lover began to argue with him. This was one attribute he could do without. "If you remember correctly I had to live three years thinking you were dead, and each and every day I wanted to murder Moriarty for, in some way, causing what had happened – even before I knew what was going on. You want to rip open each and every throat you can get ahold of, and I know, I do. It would feel incredible. But I can't risk you getting hurt because of it. These people aren't to be taken lightly."

"I know they aren't." Sherlock replied stiffly. The mood had changed drastically. It was tense now – not alarming or scary, but John could feel it. Sherlock was getting depressed. Not the normal, pouting depressed, but his actual depression. John gulped and continued to listen. "And Mycroft would ensure I would not be hurt. Even if they were more well-trained than the average organization, they are no match for Mycroft." He said, sounding so sure of himself.

"No, Sherlock."

"But –."

"Sherlock. Please. No."

Sherlock stared desperately at John, yet his gaze would not waver. He had to stick to this. He wouldn't let Sherlock go anymore, not like this. He was done. They were done. The only thing they would do from now on were cases, and if those cases got too deep, he would make Sherlock pull out, regardless of what his lover had to say. In his time with – with those things, John had realized that he valued Sherlock more than anything and everything that he owned.

And he would not risk that for some common murderer. The police would have to find someone else.

"John, I have to."

John sighed and glanced down, fisting his hands in the sheets that had been keeping him company within the hospital for quite some time. Sherlock was quiet, yet demanding, and the blonde couldn't help but flinch at the tone that was being used. "Then you mustn't leave me behind. I want to know everything, Sherlock, everything. Where you go, I must follow, regardless of how trivial or dangerous."

Sherlock's expression dampened even more than it was already, but he only nodded curtly as a response. John relaxed. If anything, at least he would be there for Sherlock. His lover wouldn't go back on his word, he knew, and he would do his best with keeping up with his counterpart. Even if he was stupid to Sherlock – well, not stupid, but certainly not to his caliber – he would make sure that he benefited from their situation.

"How are your wounds?" Sherlock asked, still quite stiff. John shook his head.

"I'm sore in multiple places, but I believe that after a little physical therapy I will be good." John smiled up at Sherlock, who chuckled in response. "Except my bum is extremely sore from sitting in the same spot for the last – two weeks? Three?" John asked absently. It seemed like Sherlock thought about it as well.

"I'm…unsure. Never counted the days."

"Wow, I'm getting a lot of attention from you aren't I?" John teased absentmindedly, happy when he saw the smile flicker across Sherlock's face as well. And, of course, he pretended like he didn't see the brush of pink that gathered across the taunt cheekbones that formatted the dark-haired figure.

"Do shut up, John. I think that it is quite appropriate."

"Well, thank you, nonetheless. I appreciate your care." John spoke sincerely, hoping that Sherlock knew just how grateful he was. It was still shocking that the boring, not-so-sociable John Watson could tame the exotic being known as Sherlock Holmes – hell, even a little bit of Mycroft. For the first year of knowing Sherlock, he thought – no, he knew that he had no chance with the man – and then when he thought he had the slightest bit, Sherlock goes and 'dies' on him. Then he comes back, they get together, and he goes back to the army.

God, was he an asshole or what?

"John?" Sherlock asked, causing John to blink and resume staring into the smoldering blue eyes that he had fallen in love with a good while ago. "Are you okay? Is something hurting?" Sherlock wondered briefly, but John could just smile a bit goofily.

"Do tell me your deduction skills aren't rusty, Sherlock? Surely, you can deduce."

Sherlock scoffed and leaned back in his chair, taking that as a 'yes, I am alright.' As he didn't respond, John decided he should continue. "I'm sorry I left you for the army." John said more to thin air than Sherlock. He turned his head forthright so he was staring at the wall opposite form him. Suddenly, he could feel the outline of the gun under his pillow. It burned not only into the back of his head, but his brain and his thoughts alike. "I should have known something would go wrong. It is the army after all."

Sherlock shook his head just as the words were uttered from his mouth. Through his peripheral vision, John could see the dark curls bounce around his face like a dark, demeaning halo. "Stop with the apologizing already. You did what you must, and John, I wouldn't like you if you weren't you. And you would fight in the army. That's just who you are."

"But I never meant to –."

"Neither do the fathers of three children with a wife back at home. It just happens, John. That's it. However, knowing that someone was targeting you specifically will cause for some upsetting nights, but that's a given."

John gulped but nodded, knowing that what Sherlock was saying held nothing but truth to it. Although he knew that the blue-eyed man was telling him nothing but the truth, he still couldn't help but feel guilty. It was a natural and serious reaction. Yet, it wouldn't cause his PTSD to act up any more than it already was, so that was, indeed, a plus. He had to admit he was also guilty for causing Sherlock to relapse in a fit of PTSD – he knew what happened down that road and it was never good.

However, he kept his mouth shut. Sherlock didn't want to hear any more apologies. "So, do you know when I get out of here?" He asked instead into the silence, knowing that Sherlock knew the answer. After all, the previously known consulting detective was itching to get out of this place. Too many people to speak to, which John knew made Sherlock extremely uncomfortable.

"Three more days. Thank god, this bloody place is crawling with stupidity." Sherlock scolded the thin air, which made John smile at nothing in particular. His Sherlock was already coming back to life. He was light a light0bulb, John reasoned inside of his head. A light-bulb that had flickered off for a short time and was no use to anything, not even himself, because nothing was there to power him. John was the electricity. He would always be that spark to start Sherlock up, and when he was shining bright, the mere invention was one of the most brilliant things known to mankind.

Yeah, he liked that. Sherlock was his light bulb, and he was the electric spark. The plug in. The evolutionary counterpart to the amazing figure known as this genius.

"You've already suffered two weeks, Sherlock. This shouldn't be much longer." John scolded the other who was hell-bent on complaining. Sherlock groaned in response.

"But John –."

"But Sherlock –." John mocked.

"John."

"Sherlock."

"Stop that."

"Stop what?"

"Doing that."

"That? You must be more specific."

"John."

"Sherlock."

"Stop."

"Stahp. Just stahp, Sherlock."

Sherlock stared at the awkward sound that came out of John for a moment, wondering how the older being could make such a high-pitched sound as that. John, keeping his face straight as straight could be, kept staring at Sherlock until his own bow lips quirked in a large, amused grin. John followed seconds later, and not soon after the room was filled with laugher. Sherlock's laugh rung in John's head like ringing bells – the deep, husky laugh managing to give him shivers after so many scenes of depression. It was good to laugh like this, he realized, as his own voice melded with his lover's.

His chest began to hurt with a dull pain after a moment or so of the laughter, so he had to gradually calm done from the funny moment. Alongside him, Sherlock did so as well, lifting his hand to cover his mouth because of the tiny obnoxious sounds that seemed to pull themselves out past two perfect bow lips.

"John, that was slightly intimidatingly scary." Sherlock mocked his boyfriend with his quirked lips, causing John to give him a wicked grin in response.

"Good to know. I must use it more often then, shall I?" John pressed, leaving Sherlock to only roll his crystal eyes.

They settled for silence again, this time a lot more comforting than their previous one, free of all the tension that seemed to be around them lately. John relaxed into the uncomfortable bed, thinking that it was going to be a bitch to continue with physical therapy when he got out of this bloody place. Not to mention he had to be wheeled for the next week until he got back on his feet – when was the last time he was walking? – And furthermore had to work off the breaks, sprains, and be careful with the staples.

Now that he thought about it, after the hospital was going to be bloody horrid.

At least he had Sherlock with him. It would either make his work a lot less or a lot more difficult.

"Ursa Major." Sherlock suddenly interrupted the silence. John casted a slightly shocked, slightly worried gaze over to the man who had just blurted out a constellation for no apparent reason. "You remind me of Ursa Major. People know it's there, but they never see the full constellation for its. To some it's viewed as a bear, but most only see the Big Dipper inside of it. They never look at the co-joining stars. You, John, are those co-joining stars. Special and always there, in the background, holding up the rest of the world."

John's lips twitched at Sherlock's almost childish analogy. "You are Alioth." Sherlock continued before he could say anything. "You are the brightest star in that constellation, but the most forgotten. I will never forget you. I could never." Sherlock analyzed what he was saying as the words were coming out. John, however, simply sank in the fact that Sherlock was rambling about stars when it was pretty obvious he's deleted them long ago.

"You've been studying. Why?" John asked, slightly confused. His blonde brow furrowed in contemplation.

The once-consulting detective hummed and leaned back in, placing his head next to John's lax hand while wrapping his own arms under his chin to cradle it. Sherlock didn't look up, but continued to stare at the unmoving figure in front of him. "You wanted me to remember the solar system. The sky. Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune, Pluto being the most-common virtually argued 'dwarf-planet' as many mean to speak of it as. Obviously, it still carries the characteristics of a planet, therefore it will always be in my mind."

"Sherlock…." John trailed as he stared down at his lovers face. Sherlock closed his eyes. The blonde traced the man's contours of his features with his sky blue eyes, wondering what he was babbling on about. Half muffled by his sleeve, Sherlock replied.

"I used to….Look at the stars…as a child." Sherlock yawned as he spoke, the tired sound making John was to smile goofily again. "They interested me. Father told me they were useless, I never looked at them again. They're beautiful….Like your eyes, John. I love your eyes. They're….warm. And soft. I had to…remember you…learn constellations….Remembered why I loved them…." John's heart lurched at the fact that Sherlock was being so romantic without really knowing it. A new warmth filled him, and John realized he was truly, finally, happy. Safe. And happy.

He hadn't felt like this in three years.

John was half-expecting his lover to continue, but Sherlock, apparently, had other ideas and fell completely and utterly in a quiet slumber. Half shocked that Sherlock once paid attention to simple things such as the sky, and half upset that his father was so rude to his son. Now that he thought back on it, he remembered wondering why Sherlock was so upset when he told John that he knew nothing of the sort. John had always thought it was because Sherlock hated to admit when he didn't know something that John knew, but apparently not.

It was kind of sad. Sherlock had so many things he enjoyed taken away from him – John almost being one of them. And that gave John a whole new wave of guilt. If he had died, would Sherlock had followed? The mere thought was repulsing, but the more John thought about it, it was more than likely true. Mycroft would have let him die then, no matter how much he would have suffered. Simply stating a fact, not in the vain way, but Sherlock had no one else to rely on but him.

John drifted off as well thinking that he would always, always stay by Sherlock's side. No more leaving him.

Not if he could help it.