This is my first fanfic, please be nice :) If you see any grammar mistakes please comment or message me and I'll try to change them but it might take me a few days to figure out how to change them.
It had been three years, three bloody years since Sherlock fell. Every night John left out a cup of tea, just in case. People told him to stop, that it would make the recovery process easier, that it would help him move on.
John didn't need to move on.
John needed Sherlock back.
Sherlock got the text on the anniversary of his death;
Go home. John is in trouble.
-MH
He was on the door steps to 221 B Baker street. He stood thinking for a moment. This was his big return, what would John say? Do? His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a bullet clicking into place. He set his jaw and stormed in, ready to rip the heart of anyone threatening John. He stopped short.
The small silhouette of John was standing at the window alone, with a gun to his head. Sherlock rushed to him, blinded by panic. He slowed to a stop next to the ex-army doctor. The city below was reflected in the mans teary eyes, the luminous movements of people oblivious to the man above them, strong in deaths grip by his own hands.
"Get out." John croaked.
Sherlock stood, that's not what he had expected. He'd hoped for a kiss, expected a punch, but Sherlock was sure of the thing he was being denied of, acceptance.
"Get out of my head." The older mans voice quivered, but the words were not unfamiliar.
"John, it's me. I'm real, I-I'm….not dead." Sherlock scrambled, the sounds of pleas unfamiliar on his tongue.
John scoffed, but it lacked his usual satyr. He just sounded tired and so sad. "I would think that after three years, my fantasies would get a little more creative."
"Please John it's me, Sherlock and I love you."
John turned to face him, lowering the gun slightly.
"You've never said that," he whispered. "I've made you up a hundred different ways, but not once have you said that."
"Its true. John Hamish Watson, I love you. I have for years now. I'm aware that you could never feel the same way and probably have someone else now but I want to tell you that I, the dead man, the man who can't love, Sherlock Holmes love you. And I'm glad that gun is fully loaded because if you pull that trigger I promise I will be right behind you."
John looked up at the tall man, "I never heard that because I never thought you could love an ordinary man like me." There was no guard on his eyes now, the once golden orbs that showed so much hope where so dark, so hopeless.
Like hell itself.
The long violinist fingers found their way to the soft skin of the other mans jaw, "you are so much more than ordinary."
Sherlock bent down and kissed the other man. It was nothing like any other kisses Sherlock experienced, lust filled in some back ally. This was slow and meaningful, with quicker parts and more drawn out parts that were delicate meeting of lips.
And then it was over.
John looked up and him, fear and sadness in his eyes.
"I'm sorry. You're not real, Sherlock."
It was so fast.
The gun, previously forgotten at Johns side was back at his head in an instant.
bang
Blood on the window. Someone would have to clean it, hopefully not Mrs. Hudson.
Sherlock removed the gun from Johns limp hand.
"A promise is a promise, John."
bang