Summary: Post-Reichenbach reunion. "Were you... Were you really going to do it?" "Do what?" "J..jump off." John stands on the edge of the building, one step away from numbing all the pain and stopping his bleeding heart. And of course, one step away from death. Sherlock arrives just in time to pull him back from the edge.
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock BBC or any of its characters. Sadly.
Warnings: Spoilers for The Reichenbach Fall (Season 2 Episode 3). You know, that episode where no matter how many times you watch it, you still bawl your eyes out every single time? Yeah. That one. *goes away to sob and sniffle*
Author's Note: Hi guys. So this is me finally getting the courage (and regaining my composure enough) to write a post-Reichenbach fic. It might not be very well-written but please bear with me. It's just... *ALL THESE FEELS* Alright, I'm calm now. Anyway, there might be a *tiny* smidgeon of Johnlock inside. And when I mean tiny, I mean tiny. Well, of course I do, what else could I have meant? Advice for people who find slash a terribly big 'no-no'? Skip paragraph sixteen. Paragraph sixteen? Yeah, if I didn't miscount, which is highly likely.*shrugs* Anyway, being the sucker for fluff that I am, of course there will be fluff in this fic. Not all post-Reichenbach must be angst like whoa, right? Anyway, enough about that.
On with the story!
Coming Home
There is no blood but he thinks his heart must be bleeding. It's bleeding and bleeding and it just doesn't stop. He is a medical man and he thinks the man he once was would have laughed had The Incident not happened. The Incident being the death of someone he'd recently realised is- was the most important person in his life, the only one who has ever mattered. The only one who had ever mattered.
He supposes he is being unfair to his sister for conjuring such a statement. After all, he has grown up with her, spending basically his entire childhood and teenage years with her. They still keep contact now, but their relationship is considerably strained, even more so after he has locked himself up after his death.
However, he feels as if he has spent his entire life with this man, this utterly brilliant, mad and in his eyes, still absolutely wonderful man. This man who he will not hesitate to kill for, this man, who he has laughed with, laughed at and assisted gladly. He thinks, in retrospect, that he doesn't mind doing what he has already done for Sherlock again in a heartbeat, even if it is simply because he'd do anything just to see him again.
So here he is, two feet planted firmly on the edge of a tall building. Its height is chosen specifically for a purpose but its name and location hardly matters to him. After all, he merely needs it to leap into the next phase of life.
One little shift and off the edge he will go. He thinks that it is fitting that he be reunited with Sherlock in this way. After all, a year ago, the man he called and still calls his flat mate, friend and something possibly more had relinquished his hold on life in the very same way he is about to now. He supposes that is why he chooses to end it all this way, despite there being other cleaner, quieter means (such as overdosing on pills).
This time, though, he hasn't left a note. There really is no point, really, seeing as the one person he'd actually want to leave a note for is the reason for him jumping.
He shifts his right foot slightly. He closes his eyes, holding within his mind the image of the man with the mystifying blue-grey-green eyes, dark curls, caustic remarks and beautiful if rare smile as he begins to tip forward.
However, he finds that something is pulling at him, keeping him from falling over the edge. He hears a panicked shout from behind him and thinks immediately that whoever is holding him back is probably a concerned but ignorant member of the public.
He bares his teeth in the beginnings of a snarl.
He doesn't want help. He doesn't need help. He needs to go now! It's the only way to see Sherlock again. At the very least, it'll make all the pain and empty flat and bleeding holes in hearts go away. So he struggles . He kicks and throws punches and thrashes. But all the fight goes out of him when he hears his name being spoken.
"J'hn…"
It's merely a breath with syllables shaped vaguely in the manner of his name but he recognises it. Rather, he recognises the owner of the voice. He'll recognise it anywhere. But it can't be. It can't be true. It just can't.
He feels a pair of long, thin arms slip around him, pulling him back from the edge, anchoring him back to what is life and all things not dead in general. He recognises the familiar scent that envelops him immediately but no it's not possible, I saw him jump, I saw his crumpled body on the pavement, the blood in his hair and face and no, oh dear God, it just can't be!
But the moment he looks up into those eyes, bloodshot but still the same soulful, all-seeing blue-grey-green, he knows it must be no one else but Sherlock.
His face is bruised, haggard and peppered with numerous cuts and scars but still as hauntingly beautiful as before, just as he appears in his nightmares. Those cupid-bow lips curve slowly into a weak smile, something between a slight grimace and there, he sighs, a ghost of that smile he knows has always been for him and him alone.
He lets out the breath he doesn't know he has been holding. Now he doesn't know whether to punch him or to kis- no, now's not the right time. Is there even a right time to be thinking of pressing your lips to your very male flat mate's? Even if said flat mate is just back from the dead. He supposes that must be the shock and adrenaline speaking so he's just going to deny thinking such an un-heterosexual thought.
He settles for reaching his hand out to caress Sherlock's face instead. The moment his hand makes contact with the smooth pale skin of Sherlock's cheekbone, he feels his knees go weak. Sherlock is real. He's alive. He's not dead.
His knees buckle and he's falling back and crumbling onto the ground. To think he'd been ready to jump, thinking he'd meet Sherlock in the afterlife and it was so close, so close, so close, he has been this close to missing his best friend's return. But then slim, shaky arms are holding him up, warm breath ghosting over the top of his head and there's a voice from above telling him, "Stay with me, John. Stay."
"Sherlock," he murmurs, "Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock."
He sees Sherlock's eyebrows crease slightly in confusion at the repeated uttering of his name. He'll never know just how many times he has tried, oh how damn hard he has tried, to say his name out completely but failing, voice cracking on the first syllable every single damn time.
"Sherlock," he says again, the first hints of mirth and lightness creeping into his voice after so, so long.
Staring up at the man, he suddenly feels as if a heavy weight that has been pulling and dragging him down to the depths of hell and deeper is finally gone. He feels that he can fly and soar so high up he can feel the clouds if he still chooses to step off the edge. But why the hell will he do such a thing? He has all he has all that he ever hopes to live for right in his arms. He never wants to let go and he never will. Never again.
He has never been a particularly religious or superstitious person but he thinks, just maybe, that the one miracle, his one miracle he has been holding out for has finally been granted. By whom, well, that hardly matters now, does it?
He sags in relief against this utterly infuriating man he can't live without. He'd been willing to jump off the building, simply because he hopes to be able to see Sherlock again. He supposes that shows exactly how much he needs Sherlock in his life.
Quietly, unknowingly, this brilliant, socially awkward man with the queer habits and sarcastic insults had somehow wormed his way into his heart and stayed there, never leaving until one day he did. Then, it had been as if a hole was permanently carved there and his heart just bled and bled and bled as the hole grew with each passing day.
Sherlock seems rather alarmed, probably thinking that he has passed out or something along those lines. From the way he has caught Sherlock worrying away at his lower lip with his teeth moments ago, it is likely that the man has spent countless sleepless nights full of anxiety running through possible scenarios of this reunion in his mind.
"John, are you alright?"
He quirks a smile at the panic creeping into Sherlock's voice. He isn't happy at the expense of others, no, of course not (and definitely not at the expense of Sherlock being upset). He just wonders how a brilliant man like Sherlock can be so endearingly idiotic at times. Not that he minds. After all, Sherlock Holmes is my idiot.
"I'm fine," he hears himself say in a low voice, "I'm fine. Better than I ever have been this past year at least."
He hears Sherlock let out a small exhale of breath.
Still pressed up against his former flat mate (no, soon to be flat mate once more, he thinks with no small amount of euphoria), he hears Sherlock ask in a very small voice, one he has never thought to hear from him before, "Were you… Were you really going to do it?"
He feels a strange, constricting feeling in his chest when he hears Sherlock take in a shaky breath.
"Do what?" he feigns oblivion to the true meaning behind Sherlock's question. Was he really going to jump? Was he really ready to take his own life? And then the unspoken question, why?
"J…Jump off," comes Sherlock's quiet, broken reply.
He feels the constricting feeling in his chest intensify.
He doesn't like to keep anything from Sherlock and even if he ever has, he decides he shall never lie to him ever again from now on. He decides he'll take better care of the consulting detective now, not just physically but in terms of his mental health too. He supposes losing someone does make you learn to cherish the person even more. Besides, he'd like to start their partnership (relationship?) anew, one where no painful secrets are kept from each other.
He just hopes Sherlock is willing to comply.
"Yes. Yes I was," he replies in a quiet voice.
He hears Sherlock take in another shuddery, shaky, almost-broken breath and decides to tell him that yes, he has been ready to take his own life moments ago but the reason he has in mind is not because he wants to hurt Sherlock. I thought he had been dead! I couldn't have possibly wanted to hurt him; even if I knew he were alive, I will never ever do anything that may hurt him.
However, before he is able to speak, Sherlock is already thundering ahead, a rapid-fire slew of words and apologies and explanations flying out from his lips at the speed usually reserved for deductions at crime scenes.
"I'm so sorry John. I hurt you, haven't I? I hurt you and I'm so, so sorry. I had to jump, I had to! I had to protect you and Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. All of you. If I didn't, you'll all die and where would I be? I might as well have died with all of you then. I'm so sorry for making you believe I was dead but I had to. Don't you see? If you showed that you knew I was alive, they— he— the sniper Moran would have shot you right away and I… I'm so sorry. I understand if you hate me for what I did and want me to leave. I can go. I've been surviving on my own for some time now and I can go if you can't stand the sight of me. I can—"
He has more or less been listening patiently to Sherlock's madcap jumble of words up until then, trying his best to make sense of his words. He understands that Sherlock might have to let all this out before the healing process to wash away the horrors of the past twelve months can begin so he just listens quietly.
However, the patience and calmness that comes with listening to Sherlock and simply waiting soon skyrockets into alarm when he hears Sherlock offering to leave if need be. No, Sherlock. No. I can never not stand the sight of you, you stupid, adorable, beautiful git.
Leave? He just got back his best friend so why the sodding hell will he want Sherlock to leave? He is starting to suspect that Sherlock must have some weird obsession with martyrdom and the need for self-sacrifice. Has the fall damaged his brilliant mind? He has always been all about him and no one else before all this had happened.
He grows even more alarmed when he feels Sherlock pull away in his haze of confusion and hurt and misunderstood feelings.
He decides that enough is enough. Damn the therapy and healing process and letting out emotions. He isn't going to let Sherlock wallow in self-loathing any longer.
He straightens up, latching onto Sherlock's arm firmly. He gently places his right index finger over Sherlock's slightly chapped lips, making light shushing noises as he does so.
Sherlock snaps his mouth shut mid-sentence, eyes wide and confused.
John feels his heart break a little at the confused, almost wary look in Sherlock's eyes. What has Moriarty's men been doing to him to make him wary of even me, of all people? The thought makes him angry and red tinges his vision for the briefest of moments.
Taking a deep calming breath, he murmurs in a soothing voice, "It's alright, Sherlock, I understand. I don't want you to leave either. I just got you back; why would I chase you away again?"
Sherlock makes a confused noise, eyelids fluttering slightly. John withdraws his finger from its position on Sherlock's lips, smiling slightly at his flat mate.
Then, deciding that the atmosphere needs a little lightening up, he jokes wryly, "Bit of an oddity though; you stumbling over your words and messing up your grammar. I guess I ought to record this down."
He feels his own lips curl into a full smile as Sherlock lets out a soft chuckle, deep baritone wavering ever so slightly like reeds in the wind. God, it's been so long since I've heard his laughter. His real one, not that short bitter bark with not a hint of mirth on the day of The Incident.
He voices his thought aloud but immediately wishes he hasn't. Sherlock sobers up almost immediately, smile vanishing instantly as he lowers his gaze to the ground again.
"I don't hate you, Sherlock. I was angry for some time but I never hated you and I never will," he finds himself murmuring softly as he gently tilts Sherlock's face towards him so he could gaze into those blue-grey-green eyes.
Sherlock flinches slightly at the contact, as if expecting John to hit him out of anger. His eyes look everywhere else but at him. John instantly feels glad that he hasn't followed his instinct to punch him just now.
He has a feeling that words no longer have any impact on this new, wary Sherlock so he leans forward, dropping a small kiss on the tip of Sherlock's nose.
Sherlock looks startled, lips slightly parted and eyes as wide as tea saucers.
He recovers enough to ask in a wavering voice, "You… You really don't hate me?"
Finally, the message gets through that thick skull of his.
John shakes his head, smiling, dropping another kiss on Sherlock's forehead, right where his alabaster skin meets his dark curls.
He feels Sherlock relax ever so minutely. He carefully wraps his arms around the skinny torso (God, has the man even been eating at all?) and holds him close. He feels Sherlock stiffen slightly in surprise but after a moment's hesitation, wraps his arms awkwardly around him as well, resting his chin lightly on his head of sandy blonde hair.
"John, what I did—" Sherlock starts but John shushes him lightly once more, saying, "Later, Sherlock. Later. Just… Just stay."
The words 'don't leave me again' hang unsaid in the air but he is sure Sherlock hears them anyway.
He knows there will be much more to worry about and to do later. Helping Sherlock face the horrors of the past year, him facing the reality of his almost-suicide and cleaning up Sherlock's reputation will take time, after all. However, right now, all John wants and needs to do is simply to hold and to be held by the man he has been missing throughout the past torturous year. Right now, all he wants is to feel Sherlock's long, lithe fingers card through his hair, to feel his warm breath on his head and to press close to listen to the steady thump of his heart.
Face pressed into the crook of Sherlock's neck, John thinks that this, this is where he belongs. He realizes that this is the feeling of coming home. Perhaps home has never truly been 221B, but has always, always been wherever Sherlock is instead.
He's finally home and he'd go through hell and more to get it back if someone were to try to take this— Sherlock away from him again.
Oh geez, it has run away from me again. It started out as a short and sweet little thing. I had initially started this by typing in my mobile phone on my way to badminton training but it became this instead. Harrumph. Ah well. Hope you guys enjoyed it! Thanks for taking the time to read this and don't forget to review!
Cheers,
Rainflower