A/N- So I am so SO sorry for not updating in literally forever. And then to update with a drabble instead of a continuation of my story. I swear I have an excuse. A good one! I got published in September! Also, I wrote a second Urban Fantasy/Theology book which is getting published in December... AND I've been doing editing for other authors, so my time for fanfic, depressingly, has been next to none. But I'd been watching Sherlock in my free time, of course, and Tumblr because Tumblr is life (I updated my website on my profile to include my Tumblr) and I couldn't get this idea out of my head. So without further ado, and without any promise to update because honestly I don't know when I'll have time... here is my little JohnLock drabble, Sometimes.
love to you all!
qpqpqp
Sometimes it wasn't all crimes and mysteries and deducing things. Sometimes there were days when the flat was simply… quiet. There were no bubbling, volatile chemicals on the cooker, no severed body parts in the fridge, no specimens from the morgue squashed between to slides and jammed under a microscope. Sometimes there were no doorbell rings, no text messages, and Lestrade's police car didn't pull up onto the street in front of their building.
On those days, there was tea. There were sandwiches and television, mainly old videos of Peter Davidson as the Doctor and the whining sounds of the TARDIS, and there was Sherlock's voice repeatedly picking apart everything from the cricket hat to the celery broach. There was handholding, Sherlock's impossibly long fingers wrapped around John's, and often there was a cool, foggy London breeze flying in through the open window.
Sometimes there was Mrs Hudson puttering about, mumbling about how poorly "her boys" ate, and her vocal wonderings why she ever let Sherlock move into that flat. "It's always something with you boys. Always something," she'd say, but it was meant with such fondness, because she remembered a time not too long ago when the flat was empty, and the only sounds were the muffled sobs as John refused to leave the bed.
Yes, sometimes it was quiet, and that's when the pain settled down, and John felt scared, and sometimes he wondered if the hand that was squeezing his so tightly, was just going to disappear. Maybe it was all an illusion, his mind trapping him deep in his own fantasy because the pain of losing Sherlock was just too damn much.
Those blue eyes, those blue eyes that could see every-damn-thing stared at him, those long lashes batting down gently, and beyond the feeling of hope and home, was that feeling of terror. But John couldn't tell Sherlock. John was stronger than that, and the only pain he ever showed was the day Sherlock walked through the front door and John knocked him out cold, one right cross, and behind it every single second of grief and pain and loss he'd felt for three long years.
"I know," Sherlock sometimes whispered when the pain flared to life behind John's eyes. It was the only thing either one of them did to acknowledge what hung so heavily above them all the time.
Sometimes Mycroft would visit, but John was still so cross with him he could barely speak, especially when he found out that Mycroft knew all along. The tears John spilt in front of the elder Holmes, those raw, angry tears, were met with sympathy and lies, and John had a hard time with forgiveness.
"I threatened him," Sherlock said in his brother's defense. The one and only time, John realized, that Sherlock had defended his brother. "Mycroft can be cleverer than I am, but I'm more dangerous."
"I know," John said, looking off at the wall. The bullet holes were still there, but John and Mrs Hudson had scraped off the yellow paint. John hadn't been able to bear a happy face anywhere near that flat.
"He kept it from Lestrade as well," Sherlock said. To anyone else this would have meant nothing, what could Mycroft possibly care for Greg Lestrade? But John knew exactly how much Mycroft cared for Lestrade.
He swallowed and nodded. "Right. I suppose he did, didn't he?"
"I'm sorry."
John blinked at the apology. Sherlock had been home now for several months. The story retracted from the papers, Scotland Yard producing an official press release followed by a formal apology for ever doubting the detective who managed to bring down one of the biggest crime ring syndicates in the world… without their help or knowledge. They'd gone back to their lives, taking cases, making a little money, pissing off Lestrade, insulting Anderson… routine, really.
This, however, was the first time Sherlock apologized. Before this it had been, "I never meant to hurt you. I did what I had to do to keep you safe."
"Ever the martyr," had been John's response because he'd been so lonely and so damn sad for so bloody long he thought he might never recover.
"Are you really?" John asked eventually. "Are you actually sorry?"
"More than I have ever been in my life," Sherlock said. "And you know it, but I had to say it. I won't say it again, so accept it for what it is, John."
And he did, of course, because what else was a man to do when that man was and would forever be in love with Sherlock Holmes?