"Goodnight," John whispered as he leaned down to kiss his son on the cheek. He slowly backed out of the room and his feet padded lightly on the carpet floor as he walked down the hallway. Everyone seemed to be sleep - including Mary and he didn't want to wake her. He slid open the screen door and climbed the stairs to the roof.
He walked to the edge and placed both hands on the white rail fencing him in. It was beautiful. The stars glittered against the inky night as the crescent moon illuminated the streets of England down below. The street was nearly void of pedestrians yet the pub across the street seemed full of life. Even from the roof of his house he could hear the live music blaring from inside Boar's Head.
John stared longingly. He liked to sit inside in the corners of the room and reminisce. Back when Sherlock was still around it was tradition for John to buy drinks for the both of them after a successful case. If the case wasn't successful they would go anyway. The only difference was that Sherlock had to buy the drinks. They never lost a case. John smiled lightly to himself at the thought. Mary didn't know, but that was why John had been so insistent on moving to such a noisy street. He wanted to be able to remember Sherlock.
John turned to grab a beer from the cooler they always kept up there. When he glanced down again two shadowy figures gripped each other tightly and stumbled pass the window.
He glanced down again. Two shadowy figures gripped each other and stumbled pass the window. One was short, stocky, and built, while the other tall, and slender. The tall man reared his fist back recklessly and hit the other man's face. Through the open windows John could hear a few cheers along with the sound of glasses shattering. Not much later the tall, slender man stumbled out of the doorway drunkenly.
John inhaled sharply. He was beautiful. John could see how thin the man was as his translucent white shirt clung against his pale skin highlighting his slight muscular build. His knuckles where white from gripping his black coat and navy scarf so tightly. He held them close as though they were the only possessions he owned. His curly brown hair clung in a halo around his pale face and his watery blue eyes darted backing forth as if searching for something.
John chuckled bitterly in spite of himself. You won't find a taxi on the streets at this hour Sherlock. You were always lacking in street smarts.
At a closer look John could see that the mans face was caked with blood from the fight and his lip was busted. An overwhelming sense of protectiveness rose in his throat. He wanted to run into the pub and murder the man that hurt Sherlock because the man that hurt Sherlock was the man that hurt him. An inexplicable tie that John could never seen to shake. And believe him, he tried. Because after Sherlock there was nothing. After Sherlock left John drowned himself in other faces praying he could forget the feelings Sherlock made him feel. He entered a new scene - less casual, more dangerous. Smoking, drinking, drugs, pubs, fist fights, late nights, deeper, deeper, deeper, darkness. John was broken. He didn't want to see or hear or feel or know or live. But he didn't want it bad enough or he was too scared or he felt to much because the pills just sat on his counter and the noose he once tied just hung by the door. And every morning when John woke up he looked to his right to turn his alarm off and those watery blue eyes stared back. A picture. A piece of paper with blood and bones made out of ink and sometimes it wasn't quite good enough for John and other times it was too much. Today it had been to much.
The man took a few drunken steps toward the lamppost and he leaned his sagging body on it. A bottle from the pub slipped through his fingers and shattered on the ground. He stood like that for a while as if waiting for something he knew would never come. John noticed that his fingers had begun to tremble and his watery blue eyes darted back and forth. Then his thin frame collapsed to the ground.
John took a sharp breath, quickly spinning around and rushing toward the stairs. Please be okay please be okay please be okay. It couldn't end like this. Goddamit please just let him be okay. He grabbed his cane at the door and rushed outside.
"Sherlock!" He called hurrying across the street.
Sherlock didn't respond.
"Dammit" John muttered under his breath.
He kneeled on the side walk and lifted Sherlock's wrist to check for a pulse. Nothing. Then he tried his neck. Still nothing. John sat still for a moment. Then he reached over Sherlock's body for his coat. After draping the coat over Sherlock's shoulders and tying the scarf around his neck, John scooped Sherlock up into his arms. Careful not to drop him, John limped carefully back across the street and into his house leaving his cane behind him.
John tapped his foot anxiously. He wanted Sherlock to wake up. It had been four hours since he finished pumping his stomach, but he was worried it was too late. John snorted. He had wanted. But when had he ever gotten anything he wanted form Sherlock?
He stood up and walked out onto the balcony, pecking Sherlock on the cheek on his way out. He wondered if Sherlock ever woke up how long he would stay. It didn't matter though because Sherlock always left. No quantifiable amount of time with Sherlock could ever be enough for John. If it was up to Sherlock, he probably wouldn't even be in this house. He'd be off in some exotic country solving his latest crime. A workaholic.
What if he woke up and left? What if he woke up and John wasn't there to see him? As John turned and ran back inside the house, fear closing in his throat, and blood pounding in his ears. Please don't be gone he pleaded hopelessly.
Sherlock was legs crossed on the couch. He had found an old violin from somewhere hidden deep inside the room and he was poised to play. His eyes were closed. He seemed stint today, or maybe that was just John's imagination considering he hadn't seen Sherlock in 9 years..
John exhaled a quiet sigh in relief. "You're awake."
Sherlock dropped the violin into his lap and glared at John. His face softened when he saw who it was. "It's rude to interrupt people you know."
"My house, my rules," John retorted. "Besides I just saved your life."
Sherlock leaned back and uncrossed his legs, observing John. Sherlock had forgotten how cheeky John could get.
"I don't need saving." Sherlock responded.
"That's not what your drunken corpse told me yesterday," John said as he moved to sit down across from Sherlock. "You passed out. I thought you were going to die."
"You don't have to worry about me," Sherlock smiled sadly. "It's been 9 years anyway."
John started to say something but then stopped himself. He stood up abruptly striding over to the door. "Do you want any coffee?" He asked over his shoulder as he was halfway out the door.
Sherlock watched as John walked out the door. How could he just…. leave like that? They were in the middle of a conversation. Besides John was supposed to say time didn't matter, that time would never matter when it came to loving Sherlock. But instead he just…left. Sherlock got up and followed John to the kitchen.
"So," John said as he carried a steaming cup of coffee over to Sherlock. "It's been a while. How have you been?"
Sherlock stared down at the coffee John had given him.
"A conversation requires two people Sherlock," John reminded him.
Sherlock glared up at John with bloodshot eyes. "I've been fine."
John raised an eyebrow. "Fine?"
"Okay well I've had a few drinks here and there. It's not really a big deal."
John snorted. You would think after someone saved a persons life that person would at least be honest with them. But then again, this was Sherlock.
"Don't tell me then," John muttered. "How'd you end up across the street?"
"I was in town. I though I could remember you." Sherlock reached for a spoon to stir his coffee and smirked. "It worked better than expected."
"Bloody right it did." John muttered.
Sherlock sat up. "You say that like it's a bad thing."
"No, no, of course it's a good thing," John apologized. "It's just that I have a wife now-"
"And two kids. Of course." Sherlock said shortly.
"How'd you know?"
"Two rooms, one pink one blue, in addition to the generic boy and girls toys scattered under your living room table. Even you could have gotten that one John." Sherlock smiled as he stood up and walked to the door. "Maybe I should just go."
"Maybe." John said before he could stop himself. He stood frozen across the room watching Sherlocks face turn from sadness to anger. Stupid. You're letting him get away John thought immediately after he had spoken.
"John-" Sherlocks face softened. "I came here for a reason to stay."
A lump rose in Johns throat as he walked slowly over to Sherlock. Sure, Sherlock was taller, but their faces were so close that John could smell the alcohol on his breath.
"I think… you should go. Goodbye Sherlock." He whispered as he held the door open.
Sherlock breathed in. "I see." He turned and walked down the concrete steps slowly. But in that moment his thoughts turned to Moriarty. Moriarty had been right, even at Sherlocks worst time John still refused to save him.