Hey guys, I'm Trixie, this is my first fic c: Johnlock, post-Reichenbach, bit of angst, fluff in later chapters. This was partially inspired by Give Me Love by Ed Sheeran, but I won't put up lyrics, though I recommend listening to it while reading this. Reviews and comments are appreciated, please point out any grammatical errors you find, and I'll correct them, but please try to be nice. I'll put my A/Ns up here so you can just skip them if you want and it won't take away from whatever emotion you feel at the end of each chapter. I'll try to update every day/two days, until school starts, and then once a week. Enjoy!
Give Me Love, Chapter 1
John Watson sat in his armchair, updating The Blog with the details of his and Sherlock Holmes' most recent escapade, a pressing case involving a series of serial kidnappings. The aforementioned Holmes had left their shared flat earlier in the day, in a rage about the dullness of everyday life. John took a sip of his long-since cold tea, when suddenly, Sherlock burst through the door of 221 B Baker st, eyes wild, hair and scarf flung carelessly into disarray, and shouted, "John! COME ON, John! I've just been talking with Lestrade, we've got a BRILLIANT case, John! FIVE murders, all the same! Anderson says that there's no clear cause of death, I suspect Clostridium Botulinum, I'll have to take samples... John? John, are you okay?"
John Watson woke up, the now-familiar pang of loss paralyzing him for a few moments before he straightened himself out. It had been 422 days since he had seen his best friend jump from the roof of st. Bart's hospital to the ground below, but every night, John still dreamt that The World's Only Consulting Detective would, at any moment, come bursting through the door, grinning at having found a particularly interesting case, or that John would be woken in the night by Sherlock composing a new melody on his violin, or find a head in the microwave.
John stood, tried to straighten his back, failed, and quickly grabbed his cane before he could fall. The damn limp had come back, and John was getting more frustrated by this daily. He had given up on occupying his former room upstairs, but all the same, he couldn't bear to leave Mrs. Hudson alone down in 221 A. He had moved downstairs to the couch of 221 B 14 days after the limp had returned. John had disposed of all of Sherlock's more perishable experiments (just the perishable ones, mind), but otherwise never disturbed any of the detective's numerous possessions except to keep the dust off of them. Actually, John had taken to conversing with the skull on the mantelpiece whenever he got lonely, which was always.
On that day it had been 307 days since John had realized that he was in love with Sherlock Holmes. He had yet to come to terms with the fact that Sherlock was incapable of returning said emotion, not simply because he was dead, but also because even if he had still been alive, love was one of the few concepts that the brilliant man simply couldn't grasp.
John put the kettle on for tea, nearly taking down two cups out of habit. He supposed that he should eat something, as he hadn't yesterday, or the day before, but he simply couldn't find the appetite to. Mrs. Hudson will probably make me eat later anyway, John thought. He sat in Sherlock's chair, curling in on himself as his cane slipped to the floor. Even the simple memory of Sherlock had the power to break John down to tears.
Miles away, Sherlock Holmes sat watching the scene in 221 B Baker st. from an uncomfortable office chair in one of his brother's numerous surveillance rooms, biting the first two knuckles on his Left hand to stop himself from sobbing aloud. "It's the same every day, Sherlock. You need to finish this business so you can go back to him." Mycroft Holmes stood, leaning on his umbrella in the newly opened doorway, observing his distraught younger brother. "I do believe he's discovered the depth of his feelings for you." "Shut up, Mycroft," Sherlock whispered, with a tremble in his voice that, he realized with a twinge, only John would have recognized. "What's this, dear brother? Is that sentiment I detect in your voice?" Sherlock stood and shouted at his brother, "DO YOU REALLY THINK THAT IF I HAD ANY CHOICE I WOULDN'T BE THERE WITH HIM THIS VERY SECOND? It isn't safe for him to know yet. Moriarty's snipers are still trained on him. Until I have eliminated every single strand of Moriarty's web, John cannot know!" His voice broke several times as he spoke, and the tears that had been threatening to spill from his eyes streaked down his cheeks. "He can't know yet."