A Message for Sherlock Holmes

Pacing. Totally silent and never speaking a word to anyone. Not to his brother who asked him half a dozen questions, not Lestrade, not Donovan, not anyone. The only acknowledgment he gave to another living soul was the small glance he gave Mrs. Hudson when she pushed a cup of coffee in his hand.

"So what are they doin' in there?" She said, sitting in front of him. "You took care of him, didn't you? Oh, of course you did, you love that man."

"Detox," Sherlock rasped.

She nodded, lips pursed."You want to talk about what happened upstairs?"

"No," he snapped, not looking at her. She sighed, watching him pace, a large animal in a small space, a ball of energy bouncing around a jar desperate to escape to find some peace in the open air surrounding it.

"How about what you're thinking about, you wanna talk about that?" She asked, just trying to make him feel better.


She sighed, shutting her eyes. "Alright, Sherlock. Alright. Just trying to help." She looked up when she felt a hand on her shoulder. His head bowed, staring at the floor, still not speaking. She smiled, patting his hand. "Be patient, love. He'll be alright. I promise."

Continued pacing. Back, forth, back, forth, back and forth, over and over again until he forgot what he was doing and where he was. Thinking back to John. Amazing, sweet, beautiful, wonderful John that had transformed him from a machine to something close to human. Something that felt and breathed and loved. Something that only did that with one person but it was a start. He made him see beauty in the world again, wondrous things that surrounded him. A person he could talk to, could be himself with without the harsh judgments and cruelties of the other world. Someone that appreciated his mind and his work. The first person that called him brilliant without sounding sarcastic or as if he were something to be put under surveillance to be studied.

John respected him, trusted him and was the pinnacle of loyal even from their first day of knowing each other. He killed for him that first day.

Sherlock Holmes was a different man because of him. Because of the courageous, patient, tidy doctor in that room.

And he'd done nothing but give him a hobby and get him hurt like this. What he wouldn't give to be better for him. To give him half of what he'd received. Instead he had his named carved into his skin by a madman that took far too much joy in it.

"Mr. Holmes?" He looked up at the doctor, not his, approaching him. "He's stabilized and resting now, and he should be sleeping but he won't stop asking for you."

He found himself smiling even though he shouldn't be. Not because it was amusing, but because it was just so John. Such a John thing to do. He left Mrs. Hudson, who was sleeping soundly in the same chair and had been for some time. He'd been pacing longer than he anticipated. The doctor led him around the corner and for the love of God Sherlock wished he'd go faster.

John, John, John. He couldn't focus on anything else. The usual onslaught of observations of the passerby were all replaced with his name, with this desire to have him in front of him again where he could keep a personal eye on him to be certain nothing could possibly go wrong. Not on his watch. If John wasn't in his line of sight he could get him again. The ninety five percent of the logical sector of his mind told him Moriarty wouldn't take him again. He was done with John for now. But the fear, the doubt, the utter panic that flooded the remaining five percent made him want to scream at this white-coated man to just tell him the room number so he could run to him like he wanted.

John was lying in the bed, propped on a few pillows he'd obviously put there himself because God knows how they were trying to get him to sleep, his eyes swollen from tears, stress and fatigue. He smiled gently when he saw him.

Sherlock exhaled, shaking his head. Still able to smile after everything. "You look like hell," he croaked. He sat beside him, looking him over. John's hands were shaking, face drenched in sweat. The withdrawal symptoms were starting to set in.

"How are you?" He said, sitting beside him, nervous. John shrugged.

"Been better. Keep seeing the Queen walking around."

"Withdrawal symptoms," he said simply, keeping the pain out of his voice. John nodded, reaching out to touch Sherlock's hair, his hands shaking horribly.

"It's over now, right?"

Sherlock nodded, leaning into his touch, placing his own hand over his. "Yes."

"And you're...you're really not going to go after him anymore?" He wondered, shutting his eyes briefly to dissipate a hallucination.

"Never," he answered quickly. He shook his head.

"Sherlock, someone's got to stop him. Don't let me hold you back I'm not as important as that is-"

"You're everything."

John softened, his eyes misting. "No. No, I'm just an former army doctor with a blog. You, you're-"

"Not human," he whispered. "You're absolutely everything to me. I'll do whatever it takes to keep you safe. To hell with the rest. You're all I care about." John stared at him, sore and fighting the medicine trying to drag him into sleep.

"What happened to being married to your work?" He whispered, trying not to cry. He shook his head, meeting his eyes.

"And the work is only worth it when I have you. You make it worth it, John. And I love you." He gently pressed his lips to his, running his fingers through his hair, kissing all over his face, really. "Now go to sleep, darling."

"But I...I want to see you," he whimpered.

"Shh," he soothed, holding his face. "I'll be right here when you wake up. Just go to sleep."

"Promise you won't leave me?"

He looked at him for a beat,his mind reliving every solitary second of the previous night, of what he'd done to John in a single second. "I swear to you I will not leave you again."

Their fingers were laced together as John finally fell asleep. Sherlock stared at him, at his sweet blogger, dumbfounded.

"What did I do to deserve you?" He wondered.

"You should sleep."

I looked up from the mountain of papers in front of me. "Sherlock, I'm looking for a particular web address in this massive list of web addresses. This is no time for me to sleep," I sighed. "I know that, you know that, so why are we even talking about this?"

"Because...because I can do that no problem if...if you need to sleep," he said softly. I frowned, looking at him.

"What are you on about? What's going on with you?" I demanded.

"Nothing," he said quickly. Much too quickly.

"Sherlock, do you care about me?"

"You'll be of no use to me if you're too tired to think. Now go get some sleep," he said firmly, eyes closed, legs crossed, hands folded as if in prayer.

"No, no, that's not it," I said, shaking my head. "No, you care. And it's not because of that."

"How do you know?"

"You don't blush when you ask me to eat while we're on a case or anything of the sort and you're blushing right now you...Oh." I stared at him, smiling, shaking my head.


"Oh, I get it."

"No you don't. Stop it."

I looked at him from across the table. Realizing. Realizing something I should've seen months before. Something I should've noticed before. "Sherlock..."

"It's alright if you...if you don't-" He shook his head, frustrated. "Just go to sleep, John."

"Why didn't you tell me before, you perfect idiot?"

I lunged forward, meeting his lips for the first time. He gasped, taking a moment before kissing me back properly, his fingers trailing over my cheek and my neck.

"I didn't think you wanted-"

"Never asked a second time, did you?" I gasped, kissing again.

"You always say you're not my-"

"Well, then why don't we go to dinner even though you're not hungry and I'll tell Angelo I'm your date?"

"Or-or we could stay in," he offered. "And we could keep doing...doing this."

"One condition," I managed through his mouth.

"What?" He whined, wanting me to be quiet.

"We get the damn table out of the way."

He came around it, scrambling, grabbing my waist and pulling me closer. "Mm, who knew I had such good taste in doctors."

That's what it took. That's what it took for me to let myself care about him romantically. I had to know he cared.

And if anyone deserved to be cared for, deserved love it was Sherlock. Because he had a heart.

And he had feelings for me.

Which is why I'd go to the ends of the earth to protect him.