Howdy my dears, hopefully this doesn't come after too long a wait. The second series of Sherlock is currently being filmed, I think my ungodly squee was heard from Leeds XD

'Jesus Christ Superstar' was an absolute success and I can't even begin to describe how much I loved working with everyone :) So much love for everyone involved with such a marvellous production xx
Also, sad news; RIP Edward Hardwicke. :( x

Bloody hell, this chapter is a long 'un.

...

During the weeks that followed John had become frenzied in his determination to recover quickly. Sherlock could only watch as he excersised his injured limbs and tossing paper balls into a bin from different distances in an attempt to recover some of the depth perception he'd lost in his eyes. Most of the bandages were gone, leaving only gauze patches here and there about his skin.

Sherlock had almost broken the phone he was holding when he first discovered the carving on John's chest. The scarlet letters would be forever etched into his skin, and Sherlock was livid on John's behalf. He was not 'worthless'. The injuries to John's back were of some concern to everybody when a few of the larger ones became infected. Sherlock had felt his fingers clench involuntarily when John had hissed with pain from the disinfectant hitting his wounds. John had bore it with all the stoicism of a soldier, and all the detachment of a doctor, aside from a few jokes that he'd never win 'Body of the Year' again. It was good to hear to John joke about these things, to hear him try and lighten his predicament when most others would only see the bad. The mindset was just so...so John.

John hadn't admitted this to anyone, but he was absurdly grateful for Sherlock's presence in the hospital. It was beyond any coherent explanation to illustrate how much it meant to him that Sherlock Holmes was there. Sherlock had been there the first time his bandages were changed, he had been there the first time John had tried to eat and drink (which also doubled up as 'he was there the first time John vomited all over the place'). Sherlock had been there when he first came to terms about his eye, providing silent support by just sitting next to his bed as he wept into his hands. He had been there when John emerged, sweating and shaking, from very Sculptor-orientated nightmares. He had been there when Harry visited, carefully avoiding saying or doing anything to provoke her further as John tried to reassure her that Sherlock wasn't to blame for anything. She hadn't been convinced.

So here they were, little over a month later, Sherlock examining his immaculate nails whilst John ate a small bowl of canned peaches, idly flicking through Wuthering Heights. Dr Hardwicke and himself decided that reading whenever possible would do his remaining eye good, getting stronger and whatnot.

Sherlock glanced at him, 'Mycroft's coming by later.'

'Oh goodie.' John sighed, licking his spoon. The two of them lapsed into silence once more. John hated when Sherlock had nothing to say, he preferred it, no, liked it when Sherlock moaned at things or grumbled at trivial nonsense. He scratched idly at the bandage patch taped over his eye, listening to Sherlock's shift slightly in his chair.

'I spy, with my little eye...' Sherlock began absentmindedly, despite himself, John smirked and turned to him.

'Are you taking the piss?' he asked lightly. Sherlock blinked.

'Sorry.' He mumbled, his lips twitching into a smile also. He leaned forward in his chair, steepled fingers underneath his chin.

'You know,' he began conversationally, 'If my enemies must insist on kidnapping my roomate, I'll bunk with Anderson.'

John let out a bark of laughter, rocking back and forth slightly in his mirth 'I can't wait 'til you tell him! Take a picture of his face for me!'

The two of them lapsed back into a silence, albiet a companionable one this time. The tiny green soldier still crouched on John's bedside cabinet, gun cocked to protect all those therein.

'John we'll go home soon. I promise.' Sherlock declared suddenly. John turned to look at him, and was about to answer when Sherlock continued on:

'Listen, I wouldn't have stopped looking for you. You know that don't you?'

John nodded. Despite what was written on his chest, a little bit of him told him that Sherlock was, indeed, his best friend. 'I know.'

Sherlock's relieved smile revealed that he'd obviously been worrying about this for some time. John's gaze met his flatmate's and he tried desperatley to send him some sort of signal to tell him that everything was alright. It was Sherlock who broke the connection, snapping round to see Mycroft Holmes in the doorway.

'It's only polite to announce yourself, instead of lurking like an eavesdropper.' He told him primly. Mycroft, the infinite bastard, had the nerve to look completely unabashed. He swept into the room, beckoning a slightly mousey looking woman to follow.

'I am not 'lurking' dear brother. Simply biding my time until I enter. Neither was I eavesdropping, only listening.'

Bastard.

The elder brother strightened his already impossibly tidy collar. 'My men have apprehended several of Markin's men. Including one Abigail Crue, who has been sent to a young offenders institute. However, still no sign of Markin. Incidentally, your helper, Ruard-' he broke off, nodding to Sherlock, 'He'll be received a considerable amount in his bank account tomorrow.'

John blinked, 'Ruard?'

Sherlock glared at Mycroft, then switched his attention to John. 'Lucky he owed me a favour, without his help I may never have found you.'

'John,' Mycroft continued, gesturing to the woman who was hovering behind him. 'This is Dr Winters. She'll be your new therapist.'

This new revelation didn't surprise Sherlock in the slightest; everything about her, from her horn-rimmed glasses to her sensible shoes, screamed 'Shrink' (with a serious case of boyfriend trouble, if her eyebrows were anything to go by.). It was more surprising, however, when John let out a humourless giggle.

'No thanks. Been there, done that. Got the T-shirt.' He said, crossing his arms over his chest. Oh dear, this was the sort of defiance Sherlock was afraid of. He didn't want John's head examined, of course he didn't. (John was fine the way he was thank you very much.) But listening to John's nightmares made him pretty certain that his friend's mental state might be worse for wear if they didn't work through it. Winters took matters into her own hands; leaning toward John and adopting a professional, friendly, expression.

'Mr Watson, from what I can gather you've been through a traumatic experience-'

'I know that.'

'-And it will help you immensly if you talk through it.'

John's ears went pink, never a good sign.

'I don't need to TALK through it! I LIVED it! And no offense, it wasn't much fun going through it the first time, so thanks, but no thanks.'

This was obviously not the reaction the woman was expecting. She looked to Mycroft for support, who promptly stepped forward.

'John, please bear in mind that I have enough power to-'

'Do absolutely nothing against his will.' Sherlock cut in, rising to his feet. John couldn't help but be impressed by his friend's flair for the dramatic. Both brothers were nearly nose to nose, glaring coldly at one another. To Mycroft's credit, he didn't back down and matched Sherlock's icy stare. John usually gave up after a few seconds.

'Listen Sherlock, John needs help.'

'He doesn't want it.' Sherlock replied flatly. 'You heard Dr Watson. Good day.'

...

John didn't know exactly what woke him up, but pinned it on the fact that his back hurt like hell. It wasn't nightime, because the light was still bright through his window. It became obvious, however, that Sherlock was fast asleep in the chair.

John studied his sleeping friend, and the part of his brain, his 'writer' part clicked in. It suddenly dawned on John that Sherlock was indeed devastatingly good-looking, with flawless skin and quite and Elvish features. His mouth was a soft pout and the dark curls fell onto his forehead. The whole effect was an image of almost cherubic beauty that John was sure Da Vinci would sell his grandmother to paint. The skin on Sherlock's neck was ghost white and looked tempting enough to touch.

'And Lo. The dragon sleeps.' came a voice from the doorway.

John looked up to see Sarah standing in the door. She seemed tired, pale and slightly harassed.

'May I come in?' She asked softly, glancing at Sherlock. John nodded, Sherlock was quite a deep sleeper when he got round to it, and probably wouldn't care even if he did wake.

Sarah perched on the side of the bed, only a few feet away from John. Her eyes lingered sadly on his ruined eye, but made quite an admirable effort to keep eye contact.

'How are you?' She asked after a few silent moments, John shifted a little to give her more room, the edge of a bed wasn't the most comfortable at the best of times.

'I've been better.' He said, smiling weakly at her. A ghost of a smile flitted across her face, then she glanced at Sherlock again.

'I'm glad he cleaned himself up before you woke up, his facial hair was all over the place. It's wierd, I didn't even think he could grow facial hair, but there you go I reckon..'

She trailed off, looking at John again. Something was wrong with her expression, it was way too sad than was entirely necessary. He had enough experience with relationships to have a sneaking suspicion as to where this was leading, but he hoped he was wrong this time. Sarah's eyes brimmed with tears as she stroked his hand lightly.

'John, I can't do this any more.'

Fuck. To his dismay, he couldn't open his mouth to answer her, to tell her it was ok, but he didn't. She carried on:

'I can't stay up all night wondering if you're safe. I can't keep hearing news that you or Sherlock have been hurt. Don't ask me to watch your heroic streak destroy you. Just don't.'

It was then her voice broke with the tears she'd been vainly trying to hold back. John raised a hand and ran a finger over her cheek.

'Sarah, if you want me to stop the madness with Sherlock-'

She violently shook her head. 'No. John...with Sherlock...you-you change. You become this wonderful crime fighter.' She gave a watery chuckle, 'Besides, I think Sherlock would have something to say about it if you do.'

John wrapped his fingers around hers and gave them an affectionate squeeze. She responded by throwing her arms around him and hugging him. John had been dumped by girls before, he knew about the crushing hopelessness that came with the separation. It sickened him to realise that, as a perfectly lovely woman was ending things between, he felt nothing. It would have been more appropriate if he was sad, or..or something. But he wasn't.

'Hey, at least crazy Chinese criminals won't be trying to kill you anymore.'

She smiled sadly, 'Yeah.'

Sherlock snuffled slightly in his sleep, causing both of them to jump. Sarah wiped the tears from her face.

'He was a complete mess during all this.' She told him matter-of-factly. 'He cares for you very much.'

John scoffed, 'Yeah, tell me that when he's dragged us all around the city and one of us ends up on the floor.'

'You misunderstand him.' She interjected, 'I don't think he'll ever let you die. Even if he has to go to the other side and drag you back by his teeth.'

After a few seconds of contemplation, the image burst fully formed into his mind and John had to press his hand to his mouth to stifle the massive belly laugh threatening to begin. The gravity of the situation settle don him, and he lowered his hand and gazed at Sarah sadly.

'So this is it then?'

'I'm afraid so. Sorry.'

She stood up and walked to the door, pausing and turning back to him;

'The job's still yours at the surgery, if you want it.' She said.

John nodded, then started to pull himself off the bed into the waiting wheelchair.

'Wait a sec,' he said, a spontaneous chivalry overcoming him, 'I'll see you out.'

...

The return journey back to his room seemed longer and unusually lonely, although a rather delightful child decided to proudly show him her blobby pictures of butterflies and houses. John then received a less than subtle (as children are prone to do) interrogation about his eye. He made up some bullshit that a very bad man stole it. Well, it was technically true, but he wouldn't dare tell a child everything, even he wouldn't want to hear it.

The lift doors opened and it only took a little effort for him to ease the bulky chair out and down the corridor.

Just short of his room John paused, a violin was being played quite superbly. It didn't take a second to guess who was playing. Light, almost ethereal tones were issuing from the door, it was a strangely familiar tune, but John couldn't quite place it. The music made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, it was just so pure. Very, very softly, he could percieve a low, melodious sound...it sounded like...

Hang on? Really? Was that Sherlock singing?

'Moon River, wider than a mile..'

It was crazy, beyond belief, that anything so bizarre was happening, and yet it was. A funny feeling was aring in John's stomach, it was like needles and bricks pounding him, but it wasn't a completely unpleasant feeling, it made his cheeks warm. If he happened to be twenty years younger (and a girl) he would have said 'butterflies'. But he wasn't, so it was labeled 'funny feeling'.

Quietly (well, as noiselessly as one can when in a wheelchair) John pushed the door open and was not surprised to see Sherlock stood, eyes shut and swaying to his own music. The reverie was smashed when John cleared his throat softly, prompting him to swiftly stash his instrument away.

'Nice song.' John said, hauling himself back onto the bed, God his knee was sore.

'Yes, well, hmmm.' Sherlock muttered, straightening his collar where the violin was just resting and creased the fabric. 'I trust Sarah will be ok?'

Something clicked in John's brain. 'How long were you listening?'

'Not long.' Typical Sherlock, completely unfazed by his hypocritical attitude to eavesdropping, 'That's why I didn't wonder where you'd gone.'

'Ah.'

Sherlock fidgeted with his nails as he sat, pointedly not looking at John. After a few minuets he drew a large breath then talked to his hands:

'Listen, John. Um, what she said...Well, obviously it would be impossible to pass to the Afterlife, never mind drag you back with my teeth. But. Er, the sentiment...'

Oh no. Not so soon, John ferverently wished, Sarah had just left, this was too much to deal with. Maybe he was getting ahead of himself, maybe friendship was all that meant.

Sherlock chewed the inside of his bottom lip, not a great sign, he never looked uncertain. But he was, he looked like a small boy shyly talking to a girl.

'I know it's not been long, but I do feel attached to you. During the whole incident with Moriarty I was so scared John. Not for myself or because of the 'game', it was the bomb. Jesus John, do you know how long it took me to not to worry about you every time you walked out the door? It's bizarre, it takes me ages-practically years- to grow attached to someone, but it tokk me less than 24 hours to care for you. Don't you see?'

'Er...not really.'

Sherlock heaved a melodramatic sigh. 'I mean, obviously, scientifically speaking, it's just a mixture of chemicals in my brain but it's getting hard to ignore. I can't lose you John. I-'

'No you don't.' John cut in sharply. This wasn't right, Sherlock was confused, that's all. Probably.

The younger man blinked. 'Sorry?'

'You don't.' John said firmly, studying his friend's face. 'And..please, don't say it aloud. Say it aloud and...and I'll believe it. Hell, maybe if you say it enough you'll convince yourself to believe it too. Sherlock, I know you. You don't feel that sort of thing, for anybody. Besides, say you did, and say I—I felt the same way, deep deep down, you'd grow to loathe me. Look at me, an ex-soldier with one eye and a limp. Think about it mate. I'm too slow as it is already, I can't keep up with you, we both know it. I'd drag you down. And what of a future? What? A house? A garden? A pet dog? It's not you Sherlock, what kind of life would you have?'

'It'd be a life with you!'
Sherlock was on his feet now, his voice raised and his cheeks flushed with humiliation. Oh God, he looked absolutely devastated. Nevertheless, John forced himself to remain calm. A good soldier never lets his regret show.

'That's not what you want.'

'What the fuck do you know about what I want?'

'Sherlock please-'

'No! You will listen, I can adjust, just be with me. I've known since the first time you called me an idiot. Do you remember that? Please understand John. I'm not exactly the best person, but I do need you.'

'Look, what do you want me to say?'

'Just tell me you feel the same.'

'Sherlock I-'

'Do you?'

'I don't know.'

There was a horrible moment of silence, the two men staring at each other. Then-

'Fine.' Sherlock snapped. 'I don't care anyway.'
With that, he stooped to gather up his crumpled coat from the chair. John stiffened.

'Where are you going?'

Sherlock didn't answer, he didn't even look at John, or acknowledge him at all. He simply picked up his things and strode out of the room without so much as a backward glance.

John stared at the now empty room, taking in everything that just happened. What had he done? His best friend had just tried to be honest and pour his heart out, probably for the first time ever, and he'd just cruelly shot him down. John had always prided himself on being gentle with other people's emotions but, despite the fact the funny feeling was stinging his chest, he'd just rejected him without hearing him out. John leaned back and breathed out through his nostrils, closing his eyes against the glare of the light.

Great, spectacular. Destroying it before it even began. Nice going Tosspot.

He'd apologise. Sherlock would understand wouldn't he? Surely he would, John was just beginning to question whether he was straight after all, he couldn't deal with this right now.

Minuets passed, minuets turned into hours, and Sherlock still didn't come back. He's just angry,John reasoned, what did you expect?

He honestly didn't know.

...

*Sigh * Oh boys, boys, what will I do with you?

Hopefully I'll be able to update before I go on holiday (4th July for 2 weeks) but if I can't, please please PLEASE be patient with me.

Next chapter: Not only is the conversation awkward, but John now looks like a pirate. This doesn't help. Sherlock 'persuades' his friend that maybe there's more to them after all.

See you soon :) x