Author: The Last Kitten
Title: A 4 Letter Word for Love
Original Work: Sir A.I.C. Doyle - Sherlock Holmes/Steven Moffat & Mark Gattis...etc...i.e. Not Me! (- My disclaimer.)
Pairings: JohnLock, Mystraude, and…_ Molly/Irene A.
Author's Note: I heard they were making another season...and I just couldn't not write SOMETHING! Blerg!
oooooooooo
One week.
John stared at the metal and leather chair. He could stand there forever and count each fleck of dust that wafted by the thick beam of sunlight.
He closed his eyes and shuddered; every blink seemed to bring forth the image of Sherlock plummeting, the heaping thud as he met the concrete.
The seeping river of blood, the empty sky blue eyes, and the fading warmth from a paling limp wrist.
John thought he would vomit.
His brow was instantly moist and his stomach churned.
For a moment he feared his knees would give out, but he steadied himself in the doorway.
'Does losing just a "friend" really hurt like this John?'
John covered his ears.
The voice was back.
The voice.
It was the same voice that lead him through the mile long corridors of the British Library to the ancient medical texts. Some how the latin seemed familiar.
It was the voice that led him to Chloe his first girlfriend.
And to Charles...his first boyfriend.
It was that voice that had given him the half second that saved his life in Afghanistan.
And ultimately that voice was the final nudge to follow Mike Stamford to that fateful St. Bart's Hospital.
"No", john quietly admitted to the room.
Silence
John wished his head would stay as quiet as his heart was bruised.
The week had been a blur and he hadn't registered a word said to him in days.
He looked around then, suddenly realizing he had no idea when or how he'd gotten back to baker street.
Mrs. Hudson wasn't in, she'd have snapped him from his stupor long ago.
John stepped farther in to the living room, till his loafer clad toes just breached the circle of light on the floor.
And then he began to speak, compulsively.
"I can't tell," he cleared his throat. "I don't sleep much these days."
He chuckled briefly at the irony of his lecturing Sherlock on the benefits of proper sleeping habits.
"Which of course leaves me with plenty of time to think."
The doctor shook his head as a tratorish tear fell from his eye.
"Why didn't I say it," his breath hitched. "Why didn't I tell you when you...when you were here."
He choked back the sob.
"Would it have mattered?" He turned to better yell at the walls. "Would you have come to me, been honest with me...for once. Let me in for once you bast….."
The curse died in his throat as his knees finally gave way as he sank to the floor. A gloved hand covered his mouth to quiet his pain.
"I love you Sherlock," John whispered.
"I lov...ed you so much. More than you, or anyone...including me...knew".
John's hand pressed at his heart, "and I need you." It was a fierce whisper.
He sat there for a while, letting his tears dampen his jumper, but the familiar ache in his knee let him know it was time to move on, at least for today.
He braced himself on the arm of his old chair and stood.
Just then a muted crash came from down the hall.
John turned on his heel, reaching for the gun he kept tucked in the back of his trousers.
"Who's there," he called. "You're trespassing on private property."
He approached Sherlock's room silently and eased the door open.
On the windowsill sat a small black cat, it's fur long and shiny, and from the black studded collar around it's neck hung a little gold bell.
The wayward feline looked as if it'd been caught, paw extended to tap at the side of another small ceramic potted plant, as it's 'bored' blue green eyes stared up at John.
The doctor shook his head and walked over to the cat, patting it's feather soft head.
"Where'd you come from little guy." John picked up the purring wriggling cat and she deftly jumped out of his arms over his shoulder and out the bedroom door.
He chuckled as he followed the tinkling bell just as the closet door slowly swung open.
In slow motion Sherlock watched his hand reach out to John. He'd just caught sight of the dark brown leather jacket when a large hand wrapped itself around his throat, a second covering his mouth, and together they pulled him back into darkness.
oooooooooo
How'd I do!? Comments, praise, constructive criticism, and high 5's are all welcome!