A/N: First ever Sherlock fanfiction. It was really just a practice in writing and something to temporarily soothe the Reichenbach sadness.
Characters belong to ACD, Moffit and Gatiss.
Reviews are love ;)
John is thrashing around in his bed, re-living his horrific Afghanistan days when he hears it; the long, low pull of a bow against strings. It stills him instantly, silencing any and all cries and smoothing out the lines of distress carved into his forehead.
He breathes deeply, listening.
It is a sound so deep that John can feel it in the pit of his stomach despite that it is obviously coming from the living room. His hand twitches for his gun.
It isn't abnormal for John's mind to fabricate the sound of that bloody violin. Sherlock has been dead for almost a year now and still John often wakes with the sound of many complicated and beautiful compositions ringing in his head. He hears them yes, but John has never felt them; they are never a real, solid sound drifting in through the crack under the door and making John's heart pound thick and warm in his chest.
Tonight is different and John doesn't know how he feels about this, if he can handle it if he goes in the living room and finds the impossible. He lays stock still, palms pressed into his eyes, every muscle tensed as he tries to just breathe.
The sound of the violin seems to rise in volume the longer John lays there. His stomach is already churning with indecision and outright fear, he doesn't need the sound of that damn violin pulling at his insides too- and oh, it is most definitely getting louder now, closer too. John can hear the creak of the wonky floorboard just outside his door as if it has just been stepped on and the following stoke of the bow against finely tuned strings is louder and lower than it's predecessors.
John feels sick. Nerves, fear and hope all tangled up in a great big ball inside him. He counts to 10, pushing the air out of his lungs on every other number and inhaling greedily on the rest. It isn't helping though and the violin carries on: deep, melancholic sounds floating through his door.
It can't be. It just can't.
Abruptly, it all stops; mid-pull, the violin abandons it's symphony and John hears the resounding snap as the bow is flung against a wall out on the landing. He can feel frustration like tidal waves crashing at his door.
Sherlock never was good with showing his emotions and his methods of doing so always managed to be dramatic. John is reminded of the time they returned from Dewers Hollow and the world's only consulting detective tried to deal with fear. The result was explosive to say the least.
Upon thinking of this, it all suddenly snaps into place somewhere inside John he lays there, fingers twisted in the sheets, tension coating every muscle in his body.
His friend, his best friend, Sherlock Holmes...he's not dead. He's very much alive and John can feel his presence like a heavy, tangible weight in the air. The walls of 221B Baker Street seem to thrum with his unique energy as if it were only half alive without Sherlock. Much like John himself.
Preparing himself, John draws on the soldier's strength within him as he silently climbs out of his bed and walks hesitantly to his door. He doesn't want his flatmate to hear him and he knows Sherlock is still there because he can feel him.
John stops inches from the wood of his door and presses his ear against it. He can hear the mutterings of indecision and the sound of palms swiping down a nervously sweaty face.
He takes a deep breath, places his palm to the wood of his door and-
"Sherlock?" It is whispered because that's all John can manage and he holds his breath in anticipation.
What if I'm wrong and it isn't Sherlock? What if - oh god - what if I'm dreaming? I couldn't handle waking up and him not bei-
"Yes, John. I'm here."
John's heart stops. His head buzzes and the breath he's holding just will not come out. What is he supposed to do? All this time; all this fucking time and he's been alive and well, perfectly unharmed and John's been dying day by day without the arrogant bastard. He's going to kill him, John is going to absolutely and certainly–
He's going to pass out.
John is unbelievably grateful for the solid wood door between them because he's sliding down it now and dropping to the floor with a thud.
"John? John, are you ok?" Sherlock's voice is panicked, it sounds just as it did when he was ripping a semtex vest from John's torso.
He can't speak but he knows he needs to reassure Sherlock that he hasn't died of a heart attack or anything quite as dramatic - God forbid he think I'm dead, he thinks bitterly – so he scratches feebly at the door. Sherlock's evident tension slips out of him in a sigh of relief and John can hear him sliding down the door to sit against it, mirroring John.
Silence is all that can be heard for a few moments as both men are lost in their thoughts and then it is abruptly broken.
There's a series of starts and stops in Sherlock's next words and John is astounded because he's never once known Sherlock to hesitate. He's always so bloody sure of himself.
"John I want you to know that I-
You see I had to-
John you must-
Oh for God's sake-"
John can hear him running his hands over his face again and then another sigh leaks through the door. "John, I'm sorry. I'm so very sorry."
There's a sharp intake of breath and then a sob; quiet and broken but altogether drenched in relief at the same time. And only when the door is opened and John falls backwards and curls in on himself on the carpeted floor of 221B does he realise that the sobbing is coming from him.
His eyes are squeezed shut because he doesn't know what he'll do if he opens his eyes and actually looks at Sherlock, he thinks his heart may very well be dramatic after all and decide to stop for good. A cool hand drops to his shoulder and another scoops under him. Grabs and pulls until he's cradled in a lap, Sherlock's lap, and his face is pressed into the hollow of the man's throat, head cushioned on his ever-present scarf. John's arms slide inside Sherlock's thick coat and wrap around his slender frame, hands grab, grab, grab fistfuls of his shirt.
Sherlock grabs right back.
"John, you need to know that I never wanted to leave you," Sherlock says desperately, punctuating his words with tiny brushes of his mouth against John's hair. "I had no choice. It was my life or yours and I could not have you die John, I couldn't. I had to leave you for your own protection, Moriarty may be dead but his sycophants live to please him. I couldn't take the risk. Do you understand John?" Sherlock slides a hand under John's quivering chin and lifts his face. "John, look at me."
John sobs in frustration, "Sherlock, please, I can't!"
Sherlock's hand moves round to cup John's cheek, gloved thumb brushing away the tears spilling from him eyes. "John, I'm real. I'm alive." Of course, Sherlock has figured out exactly what's plaguing John. He probably figured it out by the way I've parted my hair or something equally as ridiculous, John thinks. The hand moves further up, thumb now swiping over John's eyebrow, over the crease between them, trying to smooth the tension out of him. "Please, John…" It's a fraught plea and the sheer amount of emotion in it lodges something free in John's chest.
He swallows audibly and unscrews his eyes, lids flickering tentatively open and closed before settling on open and his mind races with Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock as he drinks in the sight before him.
Sherlock, sat against the outside wall of John's room, dim hall lights flickering in his blue-grey eyes, curly hair mussed from running his hands through it, a tentative smile curling at his lips.
Sherlock alive.
John's hand untangles itself from Sherlock's shirt and reaches up uncertainly, shaking. When he can finally feel the cool skin of Sherlock's face beneath his hand, John's entire body jerks and Sherlock's grip on him tightens.
"You're…Sherlock, you're alive. You're finally alive." It must sound so stupid but John doesn't care, he can't quite manage anything more comprehensive than that and Sherlock understands anyway because he's nodding and pulling John even closer and John's going willingly, face mere inches from Sherlock's.
If mouths meet and teeth graze lips and hands run frantically over chests and necks and god everywhere else, John doesn't care that he's a bit not gay because Sherlock is home and alive.
"I'm here, John."
And John knows it.