Not Afraid

Chapter Five - I Love You

It had been several days since John had been discharged from the hospital and most of those had been spent recovering, sitting in his armchair and being waited on by Mrs Hudson. His hands had been bandaged up, rather like a mummy from a film and it was difficult to even hold a cup of tea. What a tragedy that was! No, really, it was. Sherlock had looked after Rosie and Greg had popped in to explain what had happened. Apparently, Greg had been clobbered over the head the moment John had left the room and had woken up outside by his police car, around half an hour afterwards, sporting a rather impressive lump on the back of his head. It was still there, looking bruised, painful and very tender. He had instantly called for backup but of course, John was gone by the time they arrived. They searched the house, finding the bodies of Mr and Mrs Hall in the bathroom and a lot of drugs used to keep them sedated. That would have explained the shaking of the hands and other extremities that John had put down to a muscular disease, John mused. Other than that, there was no trace of the killer. Greg told John that Scotland Yard was investigating. However, John knew that Sherlock would be on the case, the moment he was able. Sherlock had also shared his tale. He had received John's text and began making his way to the house after ten minutes. But traffic had been hell and he got there via the back entrance (therefore not finding Greg) moments after the car containing John had skidded away. Sherlock had then stolen a motorbike from next door and tore through the streets after it. By some Sherlock style miracle, he had managed to keep pace with the car and track John to some house in the country side. The rest, John knew. But Sherlock wasn't letting on where he had been before all of that and still refused to talk about why he had vanished that morning.

Now, John sat in his chair, a cup of tea in his hand which was mostly free from wrappings, though a couple of thin bindings covered the middle of his left palm, and Sherlock carefully removing the last of the stitches in his temple. He'd said he could do it himself but Sherlock insisted. John also didn't think he had needed stitches in the first place but apparently the nurse was a very motherly one who made sure John was completely and utterly patched up. He'd had to laugh at himself in the mirror though. He looked like someone had used him for target practice. Sherlock's slender fingers pressed against his forehead and John inhaled deeply. There was a snip of the scissors and then the pressure was gone and Sherlock moved back.

"Done," he announced. "You look like you again."

"Thanks," John said, finishing his tea and putting the cup down. "Thank you."

Sherlock headed into the kitchen to put the scissors away and dispose of the stitches. When he returned, his face was impassive and he sat in his chair, looking at John who raised his eyebrows. Sherlock clearly had something on his mind. He steepled his fingers and rested his chin on them. John could almost hear the cogs in his brain whirring.

"John," Sherlock said eventually, voice careful.

"Yeah?" John asked.

"Did you mean what you said in the hospital?"

John blinked. "I didn't know you were awake."

"Did you mean it?"

John was silent. Those words he had spoken, those words that came from the deepest and darkest corners of his heart were out in the open now. There was no taking them back. And he didn't want to. They had been burning a hole in him and he had to get them out.