It had been three years. Three years of desperation, three years of brokenness, three years where every second was held close to his chest. For he knew, if he opened his fingers even a little, if he allowed himself to peer at hope, it might shatter. And so he waited.
He had his job. And it was acceptable. Frankly, most people would say it was fantastic. His life was no longer threatened. His sanity no longer pranced along the edge. He slept. He ate.
He fucked. It wasn't hard to find women who's name started with the letter S. In fact, it was almost a game. A game he imagined his flat-mate pondering over. How many women can John H. Watson find who's name starts with S? How many times can he get away with nearly screaming, moaning, panting, breathing and singing Sherlock?
It proved rather easy. The hard part was finding women who's name started with S and had black hair.
He actually once found a woman name Sheronda. Her hair was ebony. It was short and curly. And when John got very drunk one night, Sheronda told him that she wanted her neighbours cat to join them.
It was then that he decided that he could wait. Well, at least he could stop seeing other people.
And so he waited. For he knew that Sherlock was alive.
Obviously everyone tried to convince him otherwise. They showed him a body. They gave him a print-out of DNA. A video. A recording. But he knew. Not in some 'he is my everything, I would know' romance novel way. No.
It was Mycroft. Mycroft, the enigma. The man might be able to terrify whole nations with his very voice. His eyes might burn the floor beneath his feet, but they couldn't parody grief.
And so he knew.
Sherlock was alive. And all he had to do, was wait.
He was actually smiling. It was Mrs Hudson's birthday. Flowers, dinner and a movie. She might just be a 'landlady' but she was his landlady. And his friend. Together they had grieved over Sherlock. Shared stories. Watched the weeks, months then years go by. And they both knew. He would be back.
John had looked both ways. He'd run across the pavement. And then he heard a child scream. He tensed, turned and relaxed as he saw a tired mother pick up a sodden teddy bear.
He never actually felt it. Or heard it. He was standing one moment. And the next? He awoke in a hospital bed. A tube was down his throat. And he knew nothing but heat and pain and noise.
It took six months of recovery. The Solider in him appeared from behind the curtain. It took on all the physical pain. It took on all the exercise. It refused the medication.
His leg, truly, was damaged. His limp was one that could never be corrected by a stern look, or a few weeks with a gazing therapist. Or even a friend. And it hurt. It hurt all the time. The pain made him miss Sherlock even more. For while he knew his legs could no longer run after those men who dared to cross the 'consulting detective' , he knew his mind and heart could.
It was then, that a sleek black car appeared before the door of 221b.
Every single time he ascended or descended the steps, he struggled. Sweat would dribble down his temple. Pain would growl and hiss at him. Mrs Hudson had finally ceased her hand wringing. But she would always gaze after him, her eyes cloudy. Yet John would not give up the flat. He would not give up the steps. For some bizarre reason, they signified that he was fine.
"...it's fine."
The car awaited and he entered. The interior was almost impossibly dark and warm. It was also empty. No Anthea typing away. Nothing. Just him. The journey took an hour. When the door popped from its latch, and John pushed it open, an empty wood was revealed.
How cliché. John tried not to wince as he stood. However, the seventeen steps, paired with the now drenching rain, caused his leg to tremble.
The moment he shut the car door, the black vehicle drifted off.
John's hand pressed into the handle of the cane. He limped towards a wide tree and rested against it. The rain, punctuated by deep rumbles of thunder, only increased in volume. His hair was a lost cause. The coat he had zipped on was soaked, heavy upon his shoulders.
And so he waited.
But for who?
"John?" The voice was deeper than he remembered but there was no mistaking it. Low, calm, but with a slight edge to it.
His mind seized, unable to think of anything to say. He looked about him, he could not see the man the voice belonged to, the wood looked empty. He heard a noise to his left, he turned. Still there was no one there.
"Sherlock?"
"I'm here John. I'm here."
John said nothing, he couldn't. His very tongue seemed nailed to the roof of his mouth. It was the eyes, it was all he saw. Almond shaped, perfectly sized and the most stunning shade of blue-grey, to look at them was to drown in liquid smoke.
Part of John expected an exact copy of the man who had left. Yet he had changed. His face, if possible, seemed even more sharp and defined. His cheeks however, as always, held no hint of stubble; John wondered if the man could grow facial hair at all. His eyes soon rose to the top of Sherlocks head. The hair, black, so black it had an almost greenish tint to it, had grown slightly, brushing his neck and eyelids.
Sherlock seemed just as absorbed in John. Yet while John's face relaxed, while his eyes reflected wonder, Sherlock only mirrored pain. For the man before him, the doctor he had once known, had changed completely. He was pale, his face was drawn, gray was peppered about his hair and he was leaning into the cane with every ounce of strength he had left.
Sherlock finally, mercifully, stepped closer. He ran his fingers through John's hair and smiled. "You know, after all this time I thought I would have so much to say to you. But now I can't think of anything."
John raised his hand and touched the cheek of the man before him. He listed slightly, and was instantly supported by a firm grip.
"Fuck. You are here? Aren't you?" John lowered his head and pressed it against the impossibly warm chest before him. Everything collapsed. His mind. His heart. And finally, his legs. But this time he did not reach for the cane, determined to ignore the stumble. This time he let himself fall. And Sherlock caught him. Arms. Chest. Wool. Hands. Lips. They all pressed themselves against John's body.
Sherlock touched his lips to John's brow, then to his temple, his cheek and the corner of his mouth. John's hands trembled up to the black hair, and then his fingers stroked the pale, long nape of Sherlock's neck.
Sherlock lowered his mouth and kissed John's wet lips, tenderly at first but soon his kisses became deep, forceful and hungry. John darted his tongue over the perfect skin of the neck and throat. Sherlock shuttered, the tension he had been feeling released itself. He groaned, and grabbed John about the waist. He took the man closer, and pulled the zipper of the sodden coat down. He tossed the mass of fabric aside and almost laughed at the sight of a black and white striped jumper. John fumbled towards the belt of Sherlocks trousers but was stopped by the man raising the jumper, exposing the scarred flesh.
Their hands moved over each other, stroking, exploring. Sherlock drew a line of wet, open-mouthed kisses up John's stomach. John soon followed, tracing every inch of Sherlocks lips with his own. The hot, insistent kisses almost became too much. Sherlock's body convulsed, and John cried out.
John was suddenly aware that Sherlock was cradling him. Sherlock whispered his name and kissed him softly on the head.
"Yes." John smiled "Yes, you are back."
"Not yet." Sherlock's voice deepened.
"What do you mean?" John knew the answer, but he had to ask.
"Why do you think I had us meet here? Mycroft-" Sherlock looked to the sky. For everything he had shown the man before him, he still couldn't allow tears of anger to fall. "-the bastard didn't tell me what happened. I saw an article. I read about you. I didn't believe him. And I was right. You aren't fine. You ar-"
John grasped Sherlock's face, an imitation of the dance they did so many years ago, in front of a brick wall. "I am fine. Christ Sherlock, I was right. You are alive. I am alright."
Sherlock shook his head, took John's wrists in his hands and pressed his forehead against the other mans "You can barely walk you idiot."
"Yes. There is that." John grinned.
"It's almost done. Moriarty's men are almost all gone. Just one left. One. I know where he is. But I couldn't-I can't involve you." Sherlock raised John's head "Do you understand me? I cannot involve you."
"I think the three year's absence gave me an idea of that."
Sherlock stared "That's all you are going to say?"
"What do you want me to say? Do you want be to yell at you? Call you names? Deny you? I can't Sherlock. Jesus, the therapist thought I was fucked up before...I understand you. I know why you did it. Just as I knew you were alive."
Sherlock grabbed John and buried his head in the man's shoulder.
"I forgive you Sherlock. Forgive yourself." John watched as Sherlock leaned back, his eyes rimmed red.
"It won't be long John. I swear. A few weeks. Just a few more weeks." Sherlock hooked his hands in John's armpits and raised the man. He then leaned and grabbed the near-forgotten cane. The black car, once again, appeared from nowhere.
John was spent. His legs had given up. Sherlock nearly carried him to the waiting vehicle. He opened the door and piled John into the seat. He then raised his voice towards the front of the car "make sure you help him up to the flat. No matter what he says." Sherlock leaned in and kissed John tenderly upon his brow. "A few weeks John."
John laughed
"What?"
"You're going to do the shopping now. I can't wait." John laughed even harder, then harder until he began to cry. The door closed and he never said goodbye.
Three weeks later, Sherlock returned.
John the real John slowly emerged from the shadows.
And Mrs. Hudson made them tea.