AN: The idea of this fic had been going round in my head for a while, because I've always thought that Sherlock would be heavily affected by the situation. So I decided to write something with Sherlock and John dealing with their emotions. Okay, good. Also thank you to my lovely beta, rivers-of-tarmac on tumblr.
I've a restless head,
and an empty bed,
these dreams are killing me so.
-Scouting For Girls, Keep On Walking.
These Dreams.
~Three months after Sherlock's return.~
John awoke, shaking and covered in sweat. It took exactly thirty seconds from him waking for him to start crying, long deep sobs. It was no longer army memories, it hadn't been for over a year, but the new memory of his best friend stepping off the roof of St. Bart's taunted him behind his eyes. He watched as he stood unable to help, as his friend fell. A tiny voice in the back of his head shouted at him while he cried. 'He's fine. Downstairs, just look.' Then as always the screaming started, he covered his mouth with a pillow so Sherlock couldn't hear.
It was all for him, Sherlock couldn't let John die. He wasn't going to start making Sherlock feel any guiltier. He couldn't, not after the pained look in the detective's eyes when he returned. Enough damage had been caused by him. Of course he felt angry, beyond imagination, but what ever he felt, he knew Sherlock felt over twenty times worse.
The 'High-Functioning Sociopath' had apologized. Sherlock fucking Holmes, apologized. In a tiny broken voice while staring into John's eyes with the most defeated expression he'd ever seen.
Three months he'd been back. Three long months of pretending to be okay, Sherlock's guilty expressions, Lestrade desperately attempting to get Sherlock to take a case and an awful amount of daytime TV.
John grabbed a hold of his emotions and stopped screaming. Tonight will be different, the old soldier promised himself. With a wipe of his eyes, he grabbed his dressing gown and stick before he made his way downstairs to fix the broken.
With small, uncertain steps he made his way into the living room. There, his eyes fell upon a curly head, curled up in his favourite armchair, reading. He made his way over to his own chair, there he sat and rested his face in his hands.
Sherlock raised his head from his book to where his friend sat. He'd never be able to fix this would he? The bags under the doctor's eyes were down to him. Eyes were slightly red as they always were after he'd been crying. The limp was back and causing him pain. Guilt struck Sherlock like a knife in the chest.
There was nothing the doctor could do besides stand and watch as his old friend deduced him. A small fake smile that had been his mask over the months, spread once again over his tired face. Although he knew he wasn't fooling anyone, it felt slightly better to pretend.
Sherlock hated that smile. More than he hated Mycroft, or even Moriarty. It wasn't right. It wasn't John. Yet another wound that he had caused. A need to try and explain, to make things better, crashed over him once again. "John, I -" Sherlock began.
Quickly, the genius was interrupted, by the sound of John's broken voice and a raised hand. "Don't. Please don't." He almost begged. It had been heard too often; each time was a reminder of how far Sherlock went to save him, and how badly he'd been broken as a result. Never would he have thought he'd miss how emotionless and arrogant Sherlock could be; now he longed for one selfish act. Just to know that his friend was still inside this shell of a being, somewhere.
That year alone, doing god only knows what, had done Sherlock worse damage than Moriarty ever could. A year trapped inside his own mind, with only, on occasion, his brother's annoying voice for company. Nobody to share his ideas with or get excited at a case at. No reason to show off. It had almost drove him insane, one awful night, he found a dealer. He took everything and anything, breaking every single promise he'd ever made himself, after the last time. Of course John could tell from the second they saw another. He grew up with an addict for a sister, the signs of Sherlock's relapse were obvious to the doctor, he hadn't said anything. It was just yet another reminder of his friend's pain.
Sherlock's face turned to one of hurt when John cut him off. You've done it this time. He doesn't even want to hear you anymore. His mind taunted him.
"Shit, No", John panicked as he saw the other man's face fall. He ran his fingers through his hair looking for a way to explain. "I just- Don't apologize, please. Not when you're…" He couldn't find the words to describe this new person in front of him, so he gestured with an exasperated expression in Sherlock's direction.
"God, Sherlock, I can't. I can't sit and listen to you apologise one more fucking time. You went through all that, to stop me from being killed and you're apologizing. You shouldn't be, you saved my life. My life. Sherlock. Then you went through god knows what this year." He stopped and took a breath. Tears were beginning to form in his eyes. He couldn't look at Sherlock. A lone tear fell.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry." With each word John's voice raised a notch and he took a step closer to Sherlock. "I'm so sorry." Finally he crumpled at the foot of Sherlock's chair, repeating the word 'sorry' through sobs.
Sherlock sat with his hands clasped under his chin, pulled up his knees to his chest. While a thousand and one thoughts ran around his head. John wasn't angry? That didn't make sense. Why wouldn't John be angry? He had fucked up royally. He lied to him in the worst way possible. All of the pain John felt was because of him. Why. Wasn't. He. Angry.
Finally after what felt like a lifetime of John curled on the floor and Sherlock sat looking bewildered. Sherlock spoke, in a quite shockingly confused voice, "You aren't angry?" His oddly coloured eyes glazed over.
John raised his head at the odd question. "No. I mean, a little but I just want my friend back." His words came out as though stumbling over themselves.
A small smile crossed Sherlock's face. "John, you are a moron." He told with a tint of his old arrogant self-righteous voice. It wasn't fully there, but it was a start.
Emotion's flickered across the doctor's face. Confused, annoyed, happy. Then a small bubble of laughter erupted from the shorter man, which quickly transformed into hysterical laughter. It, didn't take long for Sherlock's deep chuckle to join.
"Only. You." John managed to say between laughter. "Can make being called a moron the best thing I've heard in a long time."
They laughed for what felt like hours but the feeling was bitter-sweet. The laugher turned into everything they'd felt over the past few months. Such a sweet sound represented such awful things. All of the guilt, the hurt, the sadness, the unspoken words that neither could bring himself to say, went into that laughter. It was almost painful. Tears were streaming down both their faces. It continued until they couldn't laugh any more.
The air suddenly felt uncomfortable, John took in a breath. Sherlock looked around awkwardly. Three months of almost no communication on top of one year of pure isolation and they didn't know what to say. What could you say?
Sherlock started shifting, for once in his life he was speechless. Everything felt off. He supposed that's what happens when you tell people you're dead for a year, it may take more time than expected to fall back to how they used to. More data needed. He hadn't seen Lestrade in the flesh since his return, he'd see him tomorrow, the data could be helpful.
Silence filled the air. John sat on the sofa, with his head leaning on the back as he stared at a hole in the ceiling, probably a scar of one of Sherlock's bored moments, before he faked his death. He rolled his eyes, typical, the man couldn't stay still for five minutes, before the fall. Almost on cue Sherlock sat down next to John, tried sitting in ten different positions, trying to get comfortable before he gave up placed his feet on John's legs and lay back with his head resting on the arm of the chair and his hands clasped at his chin.
John looked over to Sherlock and smiled a small smile, one that Sherlock immediately returned. They sat there for a while, quietly and comfortably. Thoughts were filling both their minds, but this time they were not sad thoughts nor were they angry or guilty, because they could finally see it. The light at the end of that long and miserable tunnel, maybe, just maybe, they'd get through it.
"Sherlock?" John's voice was quiet, as he looked into those eyes he'd avoided for so long, "Thank you."
"No reason to thank me. I was being selfish; I couldn't live without you now. I've grown rather fond of you." Sherlock's word's filled the air, he seemed to realise the softness of his words, "and I need my blogger." He added quickly.
Beaming at his friend's words, the doctor let out a fake sigh, "I wasn't finished. You're already interrupting again." His tone joking, it took a serious tone for his next words, "Never leave again. You won't have anything to come back to." He meant it, he wouldn't be able to survive it, but then neither would Sherlock.
Looking his blogger straight in the eyes with a sincere expression, he promised, "Never." Then he thought for a moment, "Moriarty and his web have been destroyed, so it's rather irrelevant anyway." When John's expression turned to a glare, Sherlock realised he'd said something wrong. "I won't leave you again."
At some point, neither of them was quite certain when, they fell asleep there, on that sofa in 221B. With Sherlock resting his head on John's legs. Genuine smiles were on both their faces while they slept. Sometime the next day, John awoke. The old solider felt strange, something was different. It was only later in the day he realised,
No nightmares.