A/N Errrr I'm not dead. I am soooo sorry that I haven't updated in ages but I had super bad writers block. I kept coming up with ideas but they never really flowed. I was just hit with an idea so I sprinted to my laptop. Let's begin...
Sherlock lay on his bed, following the swirls on the ceiling with his eyes. John had gone to work and none of the cases he was being offered were interesting enough. If someone was going to commit a crime, could they make it a little more interesting?
He sighed and stood up. His vision swam as his head spun so he held the wall for a few moments before proceeding. Grabbing his blue dressing gown and throwing it on, Sherlock made his way into the kitchen and completed the mundane task of brewing a cup of tea. A little more sugar than recommended. He'd always had a sweet tooth.
Quickly downing the sweet tea, he threw himself onto the sofa. His mind was taking in every little detail such as the rhythm of the water dripping from the sink and how many cars passed the flat every minute on average. Sherlock mused about shooting the smiley face on the wall but the sound of the bullet connecting with the brick reminded him too much of...his experience so he decided against his old habit. Maybe he should ransack the flat for cigarettes? But then he remembered John removing them from their hiding place and disposing of them away from Baker Street.
He shifted on the sofa and realised that his back was stinging and it would most likely be a good idea to apply the cream he was prescribed to his wounds. Sighing, he got up from the sofa, grabbed the cream from the cupboard and returned into the living room. Sherlock threw his dressing gown onto his chair, along with his grey pyjama shirt and applied the cream. His front to the fireplace and his back to the door. The stinging and tingling sensation that travelled through his body distracted him from the familiar footsteps of Mrs Hudson walking up the seventeen stairs and into 221B with John and Sherlock's mail. She stepped in and gasped and the sight of Sherlock's back. Sherlock spun around at the gasp and pure horror was displayed on his face as his blue-green eyes connected with Mrs Hudson's teary brown ones.
"Sherlock." She whispered, her voice cracking.
Sherlock opened his mouth to reply but worryingly, he could find no response.
"My poor boy." Mrs Hudson cooed, tears running down her face.
Sherlock quickly put on his dressing gown and tied it before looking at Mrs Hudson threw his curls.
"I'm sorry." He said, softly.
"Sh, sh, sh, oh Sherlock. You have nothing to be sorry for." She reassured him, guiding him to the sofa and pulling him into a motherly hug whilst rocking him slowly.
Sherlock didn't know what was happening to him. He could usually hide them so easy that it was like he had none at all but Mrs Hudson was like his second Mother. It was so hard to lie to her but he'd always make sure she was safe, whether it was from a burglar to a sniper. He would never let anyone hurt Mrs Hudson. She looked after him; made sure he ate, slept and had clean clothes to wear. Now she knew about the scars and she didn't need to worry about him more than she already did. If she knew all the dangerous things he had done, it would probably give her a heart-attack and send her straight to the grave. Their relationship was like a Mother and Sons.
"Does it hurt, Sherlock?" She asked with concern.
"Yes." He admitted, still unable to lie.
Mrs Hudson shifted him into a more comfortable position and rested his head on her lap and ran her fingers through his thick curls as he calmed down. The poor boy was trembling and his eyes were almost overflowing with salty tears. His breath kept getting stuck in his throat, like a child trying to stop crying and it broke her heart. As her broken detective calmed down her mind ran through all the possibilities of who gave Sherlock those awful, awful wounds. She wanted to say Moriarty but he was dead. Wasn't he? She looked back down at his ivory face and saw his eyes were closed and his breathing was steady. He'd worn himself out. Carefully, she rested his head on the arm of the sofa and let him continue sleeping before dialling John's number.
"Hello?" John answered.
"John, its Mrs Hudson. I walked in on Sherlock without his shirt on and...dear God, John. What monster did that to him?" She asked through the hundreds of silent tears that rushed down her cheeks.
John was silent, trying to think of something to say to the poor woman on the other end of the phone. He couldn't come up with anything that didn't sound bad.
"Mrs Hudson, I'm...I'm sure Sherlock will tell you when he's ready and you ask." He replied, his voice holding many emotions.
"Okay but-but is Sherlock going to be alright?" Mrs Hudson inquired, nervously.
"I...I think he will be." John nodded.
"Good, he just looks so vulnerable it scares me." Mrs Hudson explained.
"I know." John admitted.
They hung up with a silent goodbye and Mrs Hudson's eyes wandered back to Sherlock. He looked just like an angelic child when he slept. His hair all tussled and his face relaxed for a change. How Mrs Hudson wished she could remove all the weights that sat upon that young man's shoulders. She wouldn't be able to last five minutes in his shoes, never mind a day. In the end, as much as Sherlock would hate to admit it, he was indeed human. He had emotions; he felt pain, sadness, happiness and remorse even when he did not show it. The world had not treated Sherlock Holmes very kindly and the least she could do was help the fragile man stay strong.
A few hours later, Sherlock woke up and saw one of Mrs Hudson's knitted blankets draped over him and a plate of biscuits on the coffee table. He wondered for a moment why he was on the sofa but then he remembered. Mrs Hudson... she knew. She'd rocked him to sleep. He'd shown a weakness.
He pushed the blanket off of his thin frame and shivered at the sudden coldness. He shredded his dressing gown again and gingerly pulled on his grey t-shirt and pulled out a random book from the bookshelf before settling on the sofa. He nibbled on the biscuit and began the book in a quest to keep his powerful and fast mind at bay. When John returned from work he was surprised and amused to see Sherlock hunched up on the sofa, reading a book. John opened his mouth to tease.
"Shut up." Sherlock snapped, a hint of a smirk on his face.
He threw the book aside and hacked John's laptop.
"Oi!" John shouted when he saw.
Sherlock rolled his eyes and John threw the union jack pillow at his head. They both looked at each other, slightly annoyed but more than happy that they had just had a joking convocation in spite of everything that had happened and was happening to Sherlock physically and mentally. John opened the fridge to make a cup of tea and saw that the last of the milk had been used.
"Why can't you ever just buy the damn milk?" He smirked and Sherlock sniggered.
Sherlock stretched and the joking atmosphere was gone. John saw the clear M carved into Sherlock's wrist. The mark of Moriarty.
A/N Not very action-packed but I love Mrs Hudson so I just had to get her in there somewhere. I'm thinking about putting more Lestrade in because I do think he is a great character. Again, I am sooo sorry for not updating but I hope this chapter makes up for the wait. Probably not. Also have you all heard that we have to wait until 2017 for the next series? Even the thought of it makes me want to cry. Please R&R.