Letter with Seven Stamps

  The tears fell from the Grey-green eyes as he looked at John. The blood that had covered him was gone, and for that Sherlock was grateful. He stood there for what seemed an eternity, before John stirred from his drug induced sleep.

"S-Sherlock?"

It was more a moan, and under the haze Sherlock could hear fear and worry. He strode to Johns side in three long steps. He wasn't sure, but there was a giddiness inside his chest at the fact his name was the first word John had spoken in two weeks.

"Here." he murmured, resting his hand on his shoulder. Touching John made Sherlock feel so much better, as if everything would be fine. He was warm and healthy... Kind of.

John felt Sherlock close by, and felt his friends hand. A tiny smile made its way to his lips and he opened his eyes a little, the hospital room lights blinding him, to look at Sherlock. His eyes instantly registered the tear streaks and redness around his friends eyes. His face was pale, and there were bags under his eyes. Even through the haze of drugs and painkillers flowing through his body, he could tell it'd been at least a week since Sherlock had slept.

"Sherlock?" he murmured, the unknown fear in his pitifully frail voice.

"Yes?" Sherlock's voice was quiet, soothing; which was, for the detective, quite difficult to accomplish when he wasn't doing it to get information for a case, let alone hiding the emotions surging through him. His hand still rested on John's shoulder, his knuckles white, hand shaking, as he restrained from gripping it tightly. There was a relief so profound he felt weak at the knees. He'd thought for sure he'd lost John. That... He'd be alone again. Not even his skull for company.

John watched Sherlock's face, confused. He'd seen the detective cry once, but those had been fake tears, But no, John could see real tears, real honest to god tears. Behind the great Grey-green eyes, there was fear… He'd even go as far as to say pain. "W-Why were you crying?" he mumbled, finding it hard to speak.

Sherlock smiled a little. "Is that the drugs talking, or have I managed to improve your powers of deduction Doctor?" he chuckled lightly, but something inside him seemed to snap. Before he realised it, he was sobbing.

John gave a weak smile, but is disappeared when Sherlock began to sob. His confusion grew. What on EARTH could make Sherlock Holmes, the greatest, and only Consulting Detective, the man who kept severed heads in the fridge, and eyes in the microwave, cry? His eyes widened slightly, and to his profound annoyance, he couldn't move to comfort his friend.

"Sherlock… What…?" was all he could manage.

Sherlock stood there, his hand fisted on Johns shoulder while he sobbed uncontrollably for probably the fourth time in two weeks. He'd been so sure he'd lost John, that his own stupidity had cost his friend his life. He'd sit on the couch in 221b for hours upon hours, the images of John's blood body as they had lifted him into the stretcher replaying itself over and over in his photogenic mind, and the voice on the other end of the phone, taunting him, torturing him. It would send him into long hours of uncontrollable sobs. He'd tried to work on finding the man responsible, but he couldn't work. The only evidence he had was the letter, the letter with seven stamps. And it was getting him nowhere, His mind blocked from anything but the images. The letter was covered in Johns blood, so the writing inside was a mess. Lestrade had it know, trying to decipher the meaning behind the blood. After five minutes of sobs, the accelerated beeping from John's heart monitor, signifying the panic John felt at the sight of his friend crying, broke through and allowed Sherlock to pull himself together.

"Calm down before you hurt yourself." He murmured thickly, anxiously looking at the heart monitor.

John panicked; he didn't know what to do. He wasn't used to this, people just, breaking down in front of him. As a Doctor he should be used to it, he had to deal with children crying all the time, but this was different. When Sherlock spoke, he let out a half strangled noise.


"Sherlock…!"

"I-Its nothing John. I… I just... I thought I'd lost you…" he admitted, flopping his long lean frame in the hard plastic chair beside John's bed, staring in his knees. There was a delicate blush spreading across his pale face under the trails from the tears.

"...Oh." John murmured, a blush spreading across his own face. He looked at the man beside him, and felt a new understanding. 'Sherlock… Does care.' He'd been so cold for the month before John had been shot, so closed. He'd avoid John, and locked himself in his room. If he talked to John, it'd been sharp and short. As if Sherlock could read Johns thoughts, he spoke again.

"I'm sorry John… I'm really sorry for… everything. If it hadn't been for me… you wouldn't be here."

John shook his head, and sighed. "It's fine Sherlock. I'm fine now. So, forget it." He replied, smiling a little. "Haven't got any tea have you? I would kill for some tea." Sherlock nodded, standing.

"I'll go get it." He said, leaving the room, a small smile on his face. John was fine, and soon, they'd be solving cases again. All would be fine.