Author's Note: I wrote this story in changing perspectives. It is in 3rd person, but shifts between being more oriented towards John and more oriented towards Sherlock. This chapter is short, but the next one is longer. First fic, so please review!
Sherlock stood outside the door to 221B for a few moments. He almost didn't enter, fearing to have to see all the pain that he had caused John. Fearing that John might not even be there at all. But Sherlock missed the doctor more than he would have wanted to admit. After a deep breath, Sherlock closed his eyes and slowly opened the door to the flat. He began to ascend to the second floor, not knowing what waited for him in that room where he and John had spent so much time together. He gave the faintest grin when recalling the time that he had first walked into that room with John. That was so long ago...
As John was sitting on the couch reading the newspaper, he saw the door knob begin to turn. Mrs. Hudson was on vacation in Ireland, which meant that there was an intruder. John firmly grabbed his walking stick, stood up with some difficulty, and limped towards the door. The door began to open, and John saw Sherlock standing there, scarf and all, his head bowed and his face solemn. It was another hallucination...or a dream...John was sleeping in his bed...recently he hadn't been able to distinguish between dreams and reality. He started to back away.
"No, John," Sherlock said pathetically. "It's me. I'm back." His voice quivered. His strong, sure voice never quivered...
John still wasn't convinced. He shook his head and let out a nervous laugh. "No you're not. I see you everywhere, and you're not real. It's just an illusion like all the other times. You jumped! You're gone!" His voice rose with each sentence.
Sherlock glanced up at John for a split second and immediately looked down again. It took everything Sherlock had not to fall on his knees. He had kept up his expressionless facade for years, but the sight of John almost brought those walls crashing down. The limp was back, which was obvious by the walking stick. His normally firm hands were trembling, but not with rage. His eyes were blank, signs of how John was slowly slipping away from sanity. Sherlock couldn't meet those eyes.
He took a few more steps into the room, avoiding John's gaze. John took a few steps back, looking confused but not frightened.
Sherlock walked to the window and stared out so that he wouldn't have to look at John. "I promise you, I'm real, John," he muttered, his voice still
trembling.
"Prove it!" John shouted. "Look me in the eyes and prove it!"
In one swift motion, Sherlock spun around, came within an inch of John, forcefully grabbed his hand and put it to his own chest. He stared down at the doctor in anticipation.
John closed his eyes, and he could feel the rapid thumping of the detective's heart. He opened his eyes, and recognition flooded into them. He slowly turned up his head to peer into Sherlock's pale blue eyes. It was all real this time. Sherlock was actually alive. "It's really you," he said, reassuring himself.
To Sherlock's surprise, John angrily pulled away from his grasp and began to storm off.
"I'm sorry, John!" Sherlock called out. John entered his room and slammed the door. "I'm sorry..."
Sherlock, dazed and hurt, collapsed onto the couch, buried his head in the cushions and began to sob.