I do not own, nor do I profit from. Thanks to Verity and Scopes! :)

Sherlock had been hot on the heels of Henry Haines when his henchmen hijacked the genius and hied him to an abandoned hostelry. Hands hit him heavily then hurled harsh words hatefully for half an hour before the hoodlums hightailed off to their households.

Hindered, he knew his escape hinged on John hunting him down. Soon he heard his friend hiss a hesitant hello and Sherlock hollered out hoarsely for help. John hurriedly hinted at hustling him to hospital but Sherlock halted him and then hobbled to a cab.

Later, Mrs. Hudson hovered after handing out hot tea and ham sandwiches in their habitat. Her hip hurting, she soon harkened back to her hovel. A headache, and harmed limbs, had Sherlock huddled on their sofa thinking as John had a look at him. His huge hard drive had lots of John in it. Honorable, hospitable, humorous, handsome and honest John Watson, the healer. Heedless of harrowing hazards and habitual haranguing from Sherlock, he hung on.

He helped teach Sherlock humility. John had made him happy. He was his hero. His home. He now had hope held close to his heart, hidden away. Sometimes Sherlock had a horrible feeling he was hallucinating. However, he had a hunch John was content.

Having hypothesised Sherlock was hardly dying, John sat heavily and huffed. Hooking his hand around Sherlock, he hesitantly half hugged him. Hushed, John said he was happy the horrible day was over. Sherlock hummed in harmony.