The interior of 221B is so quiet you could hear a pin drop.

Mrs. Hudson doesn't say anything for a long while. Her mouth is open, but nothing comes out. Not a gasp, or a word, or a disappointed sigh. All she does is stare blankly at John.

He decides to continue, and draws a breath in.

"Yesterday, at the cemetery. When I woke up, I - um - someone woke me up and." He pauses when he feels himself smile a little in disbelief and clears his throat, "Well, he - he looked a lot..like Sherlock, Mrs. H."

She blinks at him, but still doesn't reply.

"And - um…" He coughs into his hand. This might be a bit tough to get out, "And I think this time's different. I think it really might be him this time."

Mrs. Hudsons face falls and she folds her hands on her lap, "Oh, John…"

Johns sighs, "I - I know, alright? But, please, just - just hear me out…"

Before he can try to find the right words, she's already standing from the chair and heading to the kitchen. John has no choice but to follow. He's not dropping this; he needs her to listen, no matter how long it takes.

She begins boiling the kettle, and he knows it's a distraction, because he's done this too on more than one occasion when he's sick of stewing in the quiet. She doesn't look his way once as he comes to stand beside her and starts rattling off all he can remember about him. Anything to convince her that maybe...maybe he hasn't gone off the deep end this time. If he can get to her, then he knows he doesn't need to start again.

"His cheekbones - they - they were sharp, like his and - and his eyes - they were this really, pale blue, and he had black hair, but it had all this product in it and - and his voice was deep, exactly like Sherlocks!"

A teacup suddenly shatters next to him and he jumps back, his words having died in his throat. Mrs. Hudson's hand has flecks of blood on the fingers and is shaking violently, but she doesn't move to inspect it, nor to pick up the pieces of porcelain that are slowly spilling to the floor. The kettle finally clicks off, but it's as if neither of them hear it; Johns heart is in his ears and his throat is growing steadily hotter as he watches his landlady stare at the ground, her palms pressed to the edge of the bench. No matter how much he's pestered her about his false Sherlock sightings, she hasn't ever reacted like this.

"...John…"

She almost whispers his name, like it's painful just to have it fall off her tongue. Her hand, the one that's spotted with blood, jerks slightly, but otherwise stays in place and Johns eyes dart from her hair to the broken handle on the ground.

Finally, she raises her head to look at him, and he's stunned to see tears in her eyes - and they're not from the teacup. They're from him.

She shakes her head, her voice still low, "Please, stop this. He isn't coming back, you have to know that…"

He gives a hollow laugh and heads through the hallway door, making for his bedroom before he can hear anything else, but when he hears her feet padding behind him, he stops at the doorway and shakes his head, already feeling his left hand clench and unclench at his side.

A huge part of him wants to keep walking and slam the door shut. Another part wants to spin around and give his landlady a piece of his mind. But when he hears a small whimper behind him, he turns and his eyes instantly land on Mrs. Hudsons bleeding hand - which, he realises, needs immediate attention. All the anger slips out of him as he slowly approaches her and she stares up at him, expecting him to say something on her comment, but instead he reaches down to gently take her hand in his, his voice soft.

"It's alright…"

He lifts it to eye level and turns it over, his mind already running with what he has to hunt in the cabinet for to patch her up. It's a deep cut, he notices, running from her index finger to the middle of her palm and there's blood everywhere - it's already dripping on his own fingers.

He's beyond tired at this point, but right now, she needs him.

And in a way, he needs her.

In minutes, they're stood in the middle of the bathroom as he wraps a white gauze around the palm of her hand.

The light's a lot brighter in here than in the lounge and it brings on a piercing headache for John, which he dutifully ignores, though he makes note to grab a couple of ibruprofen from the medicine cabinet in the kitchen after this is all done; Mrs. Hudson's wiping her eyes with a tissue John had given her earlier, and he glances at it as she tucks it away in the sleeve of her cardy.

Sighing in relief, he takes the clip from the sink and carefully snaps the end of the bandage in place, "There."

He turns and begins zipping up the first aid kit, but just as he grabs the handles bag, Mrs. Hudson puts her good hand on his shoulder and he looks her way to see her smiling warmly at him. She looks almost as worn as he feels.

John puts his hand on hers, and that's all it takes for him to bring her in for a tight hug. He puts the kit back on to the sink to hold her in his arms, and she sighs against his cheek, but otherwise, not a word's said between them for a long minute.

He knows deep down that he would be utterly lost if it wasn't for her. He used to be the one to keep Sherlock in check, and in a way, Sherlock would do that for him too. But most of the time, it would be John giving him a slight nudge in the right direction; it took a very long time for John to realise that he never truly had anyone to do that for him, because...well, he never needed anyone to do so. He'd been perfectly capable of knowing what was right and wrong and when he was needed in certain situations.

He had gone months blaming himself for Sherlocks suicide, knowing that if he had seen through it sooner, he probably would have had time to go up to the roof and stop him. And his final words to him had never stopped playing in his head, even months and months on; every single day, as if they had been printed on the front of his brain.

His mental state had been completely knocked off kilter and he really knows that if he didn't have Mrs. Hudson around, he probably...eventually would have been tipped off the deep end and have gone the same route as Sherlock had...

John silently thanked heaven and earth for Mrs. Hudson. She had been his saving grace in this completely hellish time.

His chest suddenly clenches and he closes his eyes, feeling emotion build in his throat. He takes a shuddering breath and he's almost able to hold it in...except...Mrs. Hudson chooses that exact moment to break the silence;

"It's not your fault, John."

Oh.

For the second time in two days, he finds himself sobbing uncontrollably over Sherlock, but this time it's more cathartic than anything. He goes to clutch onto Mrs. Hudson, but she gently pushes him away, though still keeps him at arms length.

He hurriedly wipes his face, quickly feeling like a small child crying in front of his mother. She's seen him cry so many times through these months, but it still makes him feel ridiculously embarrassed and he avoids her eyes as she watches him, patiently waiting for him to gather himself.

His shoulders fall as he stares at the floor, "God, I'm sorry."

She sighs, "Look at me, John."

He carefully brings his gaze up to hers and his vision instantly blurs. He blinks to let the tears go and she hands him a tissue from the box on the window sill, continuing to speak as he dabs at his cheeks.

"You have nothing to apologise for. You're a lovely doctor and an equally lovely person, and Sherlock was so lucky to have you. He wouldn't want you blaming yourself for what happened, would he?"

John swallows. He pushes the tissue against his eye when he feels more tears coming through. He shakes his head, and she pulls him in for another hug.

"We don't have to talk about the man you met at the cemetery."

He smiles against her shoulder. He's so incredibly grateful to have her here.

"Thank you."

/

John wakes late to a full english breakfast and a hot mug of tea on his bedside table, along with a sticky note that says 'in your own time' in loopy handwriting, which he chuckles softly at before tucking in. It seems to trigger something in him and he finds himself scarfing down his food, and he's suddenly reminded that he hasn't eaten since yesterday afternoon, and even then it had only been a simple piece of toast. The breakfast seems to do the trick though and in minutes, he's full. With that, he leaves to have a shower and get dressed, exiting into the hallway with a towel over his shoulder to see the lounge is empty and morning sunlight's streaming through the windows, with the curtains having been parted off to their sides. It looks like Mrs. Hudson did a quick tidy up hours prior - the smashed cup and saucer have gone, the tea cleaned up and John glances into the kitchen to see the pieces of teacup have been swept up, while the dishes have been cleaned and put away.

With nothing else to do, John checks the fridge but finds it's stocked full of food and beverages for, he realises, the first time since he moved into this place. Same with the pantry. He walks back to the lounge and looks at the clock to see it hit 12:15pm. His eyes go wide. What time had he eventually crashed?

For a quick second, he thinks on going downstairs to speak to Mrs. Hudson about it, but then he remembers the note and slowly exhales. Right.

He goes back to the fridge and rummages for an apple, before heading out into the cool, morning air. Out of habit, he glances at Speedys and he feels the apple just about slip from his fingers.

Oh.

He'd completely forgotten.

Before he can think anymore on it, he finds himself stepping up and hailing a cab for Barts Hospital, tossing the apple in a nearby bin as he gets in.

/

For a long time, he'd promised himself he wouldn't go near this place, let alone step inside it. Even seeing the building on his way to work would be too much and he'd have to close his eyes until the cab had passed it.

But this is something else; an entirely different situation. This is seeing sombody new.

Almost an exception to the rules.

That is, if Stephen didn't look like the spitting image of the man who had jumped off of the very building he worked at all those months ago.

He just can't stay away if he tried.

John tries not to look too eager as he steps through the automatic doors, but a simple look at all the doctors and nurses bustling about isn't exactly helping him contain his excitement at running into him by accident, even if it is just to talk about missing their meet up.

He turns the corner where the lifts are, and manages to catch one right as the doors are about to close, if a kindly nurse hadn't been holding it open for him. He nods a thanks, then presses the button for Level 2 and leans against the rail, avoiding the questioning look she's giving him when she sees him trying (and failing) to hide a smile. As soon as it stops, he walks out and hurries it to the neurosurgery department, but when he recognises how he must look to passerbys, he slows his pace and lets himself take in just simply being back inside this building.

Not once has he felt weak at the knees or stricken by sudden panic. He clenches his left hand as a nurse brushes past him, but that's as bad as it's gotten. Who knows if it would have been the same story if he had come in here a month back - but he only knows it's the thought of seeing Stephen again that got him in in the first place. He hadn't even had the heart to visit Molly when she had been on break.

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair, then stuffs his hands in his pockets as he veers a left corner...and almost crashes head first into a doctor.

He stumbles back and..he would have fallen hard, if it weren't for the doctors quick reflexes; he's just able to catch his wrist and John looks up to see Stephen looking back at him, a white mask on his mouth and a clipboard in hand. His hair's sticking up everywhere, though John can see flecks of product that he hadn't had time to rub in that morning, and his eyes are an incredibly bright blue against the white hospital lights. He lets go of John to take his mask off and Johns stomach flips when he grins warmly at him, and his face lights up.

"John, hey! What're you doing here?"

John smiles. His face is already hot, "I - um - I wanted to apologise about not meeting you at Speedys yesterday. There was a - um - personal matter I had to take care of and…"

Stephen's frowning at him, but when he realises what John's going on about, he quickly smiles, "Oh, that! No, don't worry about that. I was performing a spinal fusion on a 60 year old woman." He says it so casually that it makes John laugh in surprise. And relief.

"Really?"

Stephen chuckles, "This job always has its perks."

Johns voice seems to falter. He doesn't know if he'll get over his laugh, "Yeah, seems like it." He clasps his hands behind his back as Stephen looks over his clipboard, and John lets his gaze roam his face as he's distracted.

Huh.

He's even prettier than he remembers.

Stephen seems to sense John staring, because he looks up from the board and right into Johns eyes.

John swears he feels breathless just looking at him and he even sees Stephens mind freeze in its tracks, his clipboard barely gripped in his hand. All the nurses and doctors breeze past them, but they go unnoticed by the two, who are suddenly lost in their own world for a few wonderful seconds.

There's a moment, a very quick moment, and John doesn't know if Stephen feels it too, where a surge of something passes between them. It's lightning fast, and John's almost able to keep a hold on it, but before he can really grasp it, it disappears.

Stephen suddenly breaks his gaze to laugh softly to himself, before looking back at John and….yes, that feeling returns.

In full force this time.

John has only felt this feeling twice before in his entire life; once with Major Sholto all those years ago in the army...and secondly with Sherlock in their very first meeting. And in every waking minute he spent with them, it never left.

He knows exactly what it is.

Johns mind is spinning and he suddenly has the need to sit down. Luckily Stephen catches on in the last minute and guides him to a chair, where John falls against the plastic as his legs give out beneath him. Without a moments hesitation, Stephen sits beside him and watches his face, silently checking him over. John's staring at the floor, trying to get a grip on himself, when Stephen carefully touches his shoulder and it takes everything within him not to look into his eyes again.

"Are you okay, John?"

John swallows, but his throat's gone dry, and he wipes a hand across his face to fight a coughing fit off. He nods, knowing that if he speaks, his voice will either give something away or he'll start choking on his own spit.

Stephen doesn't look away from him once and for the first time, it unsettles him. But, in a very odd way, he hopes he can stay with him for awhile longer.

"Do you want to stand?"

John shakes his head. He can manage that. Still can't speak though. Stephens voice is so gentle, exactly how he remembered it in their first meeting, and it makes Johns head hurt. He knows he's in doctor mode right now, caring for a patient (if you could call it that), but John can't stop thinking on the other day and how he'd responded upon knowing who Sherlock was. How kind and compassionate he had been, and he feels himself smile when he thinks on how working at a hospital, looking after the sick and dying, is pretty much the perfect job for him.

He doesn't realise he's laughing until he feels Stephens hand leave his shoulder and gently take his arm.

"Hey. John, you alright?"

Without thinking, John turns his head to Stephen to answer, and is immediately taken by his eyes again. His face is soft as he studies Johns composure and he has his own amused smile on his lips, and though he really is playing doctor at the moment, John sees the facade slip for a hot second and upon it is complete and utter falling,

Holy. Shit.

Johns heart is in his throat, but before he can open his mouth, a cheerful voice calls out to Stephen and he watches him turn away and stand as a familiar nurse comes walking up to them.

Molly.

Wait...Molly? What is she doing here?

"Stephen! There you are!"

Stephen grins as she takes his arm and she kisses his cheek.

"Molly, what're you doing here? I thought you were supposed to be tending to that patient." He sounds surprised. Could even say disappointed, but maybe that's just Johns brain still playing catch up.

She waves a hand, "Oh, Daniel's taking over. I'm on break." She giggles and moves closer to him, but Stephen doesn't dismiss her.

Why…?

Finally, Molly sees John and when she does, she lets go of Stephens arm in an instant, and Stephen almost looks...pleased?

John forgets that thought in a second.

He stands as she goes to him and she throws her hands out,

"John, you're...you're here! Gosh, you haven't stepped in here, since…"

John nods, "Since Sherlocks death, yes. It's good to see you, Molly."

He doesn't have time to react as he's pulled into a quick hug, "Oh, John, how're you?"

He glances at Stephen, but he only smiles back and John realises he's alone on this. His eyes dart to his left hand and he isn't surprised to see it's trembling hard. He clenches it before replying, "I'm...well, I'm getting better I guess." He forces a laugh, "What about you?"

Molly hesitates, "Oh, I'm...fine. Still a working girl." She giggles as her gaze lingers on Stephen and like that, it drops.

Oh…

Still, he just has to ask. He can't bloody stop himself.

"Um - I don't mean to be rude, Molly, but are - " He looks between them, "Are you two...dating?"

Mollys face is aglow and Stephen smiles and nods, but doesn't say anything. She folds her hands together and giggles again, "We met in the cafeteria."

John watches as Stephen touches her arm and bends down to kiss Mollys cheek. Though, he doesn't look away from him as he does it, like he's eyeing his reaction.

He wonders if Stephen can see him deflating from the inside out.

Chapter Management