His eyes flickered open, the warm sunshine flooding his vision. He had fallen asleep in the armchair for the fifth time that week.
"Sherlock, you left the curtains open again," he protested aloud. He blinked a few times and suddenly his stomach lurched forward in remembrance.
How long had it been now? The days and months had blended together so much that the doctor didn't even know what season it currently was. To John, it had seemed like it had been sixty years since the day that Sherlock had jumped off the building, but in reality about 9 months had passed.
He leaned over as his back protested, and shoved his head in his hands, letting out a heavy sigh. John could feel his heart start to beat faster at the thought.
Why didn't you let me help you? Why did you NEVER let me help you?
His head ached with the memories. John clenched his jaw tightly, and with a grit of his teeth, he forced himself out of the chair and into a standing position.
He had thrown himself into his work after what had happened. The only thing that remotely seemed worth rising for every morning was the chance to help people. He needed that, as if fixing anyone would bring the detective back.
John stared at some patient files, squinting his eyes. A line of darkness crossed his vision in his right eye, and did not dissipate after a shake of his head. This had been intensifying lately.
At first it was just blurriness, but now the line was there even with his eyelids shut tightly. He refused to conduct any tests on himself, not afraid of what he might find, but rather just not caring at all. To him, there was no point.
Every night he would dread going back to Baker Street. Dread finding it empty. Sure, Mrs. Hudson was there, but it wasn't the same. Nothing was the same.
Once the flat had been a place of solace and excitement, but now it was just a harsh reminder of everything he had lost. 221b didn't even feel like his home anymore. He had come to learn that home isn't where you live. It's that feeling that he would never get back.
He didn't even know how Sherlock had become such a driving presence in his life. The man had been an ignorant, obsessive, self-centered bastard. He couldn't even remember Lestrade's first name for Christ's sake!
Greg had reached out to John many times since the funeral.
Come have a drink, yeah? Dinner with the wife and kids... At least drop by the precinct once in a while.
He couldn't bring himself to do it though, any of it.
After work he always did the same thing, went back to Baker Street and blurred everything out.
Switching on the tele before plopping down on the sofa, John caught a glimpse of the nearly empty bottle of scotch on the table to his left. A jolt of guilt rushed through his body.
Was it really guilt, or regret?
He thought back to that night a few months ago. He had made the mistake of carefully studying Sherlock's violin while the program on the tele blared. His eyes drank in every last detail.
God, what he wouldn't do to hear those notes being played again. He couldn't bear the thought of it being forever silenced. Before he knew it, that once unopened bottle was drained and rushing through his veins.
He had found a small bag of Sherlock's drugs in the violin case. The greatest detective with the worst hiding spot... he thought with a shake of his head.
Something came over him then, whether it was a longing to be rid of this constant pain or a desperate way to be closer to an understanding of his flat mate, he immediately downed all twelve pills without a second thought.
A few moments passed before he realized what he'd done. He was just as bad as his sister, Harry, trying to drown her misery out. What was he thinking, mixing alcohol and medication? Who even knew what it was that had just entered his body.
Just as quickly as they had gone down, after a poke at his throat, they were right back out of him. John laid on the icy tile of the bathroom floor, not knowing how his life had come to this.
Don't be dead. Just, for me. Just stop it, stop this.
He was whispering to no one, the empty air the only witness to his pleads of despair.
John tried to bring his thoughts back to the present.
The dark line across his vision returned briefly. He tried to blink it away and this time, after a few moments, it finally disappeared. That's when he realized what program was on.
It was the one that they had always watched together. Sherlock sprawled out on the sofa, John in the armchair, scoffing at the detective who was always ranting about how some event of the story was stupid or impossible.
It was muted, but he knew every word. Could recall every detail of flaw spewing from Sherlock's mouth. Suddenly, his face felt flushed and something stung the corner of his eyes. For the second time that day, he brought his hands to his temple.
When he steadied his breathing and looked up once more, a sense of wrong came over him. He turned slowly to where the precious violin was always perfectly perched. But it was gone.
John almost fell off the chair at the sight. Who would dare touch the instrument? He quickly rose but stopped immediately. Goosebumps started to grace the back of his neck.
A quiet melody began fluttering into his ears. The very first note instantly brought tears streaking down John's face. The second threw his heart into his stomach. His breath caught in his throat. His whole being screamed at the trick, knowing it wasn't possible.
His hands began to shake uncontrollably as he finally built the strength up to start to turn about. His legs betrayed him, nearly buckling as his eyes met their mark.
The room was only lit up by the program on the tele, but John could make out a distinct silhouette. Tall, skinnier than Sherlock, but draped in the same coat.
He grasped ahold of the armchair as he took a step toward the figure, steadying himself. The shadow also started closing the gap between them and halted as it came into the light. Still playing, emerald green irises darted out from above the instrument, searching John's face. As the last note was performed, he gently placed the violin onto the table next to him, never breaking eye-contact.
The doctor swayed again, trying to swallow the lump in his throat as he peered up at the man.
"Sher… Sherlock?" was all he could muster. The detective let out a small smirk.
Bile suddenly rose up into John's throat, and with all of his might he swung at Sherlock, slapping him clear across the face. The detective recoiled and brought a soothing hand up to his cheek, but only momentarily. He knew he deserved that, but he put that thought out of his mind. There was little time.
"No. Sherlock no. Just stop…" John squeaked as his old friend finally reached him.
The doctor made an effort to raise his arms to block the man, but it was a halfhearted attempt at best.
The detective slowly cradled John's head in his hands and gently pressed it to his chest. He wrapped his gangly arms around the doctor, letting out a sigh of relief himself.
John was sobbing now, recognizing that their encounter was completely and utterly real. Sherlock bit his tongue, both knowing how much he had put John through, but also identifying how badly he too had wanted this moment to be real.
They stayed like that for what felt like ages, neither wanting to break the embrace for fear it would disappear forever, yet again. Anger returned to John and he sharply pushed the detective to arm's length.
"HOW could you? How could you do that to me?" he stuttered. He was barely able to breathe and the sentence came out more like muffled hums.
Sherlock's thin face actually looked pained. What had happened to him this past year?
"Moriarty," he said simply.
The doctor's thoughts swam. Of course it had something to do with him. Of course he wasn't dead in a ditch like he was supposed to be. John immediately wanted to encase Sherlock in a giant bubble, shielding him from whatever that monster had planned for him next.
"John, I can't stay. I have to go back to him."
Sherlock saw that the doctor was about to keel over. He took his arm and guided him back to the armchair. Why did he know everything? That annoyed John to his core.
"You can't breathe a word of this to anyone, not even Mrs. Hudson. Especially Mrs. Hudson!" he added, trying to lighten the mood and failing to do just that as John grimaced back at him.
"Moriarty cannot know that I've been here. It would destroy everything. I just needed…"
Alarm bells rang loudly in John's head. You're working with him?! He wanted to scream at the scrawny man. But he knew that Sherlock had no time to explain at the moment, so he was just going to have to trust him.
Sherlock lifted the doctor's hand and entwined their fingers for a brief time, trying to reassure both of them that this would not be their final parting.
"It's ok."
"It's not ok."
"I know, but it is what it is."
The dark line returned to John's vision as he clamped his eyes shut, his mind refusing to feel the detective pull away.
And with that, Sherlock was gone again.
[END CHAPTER 1]
A note from the author: this is my very first fanfic! I would love to hear anything that you thought about it, the praise and the criticism. This only took about 2 hours to write (it was more like word vomit haha) and maybe an hour of editing. Thinking that there might be another chapter or so if people find it interesting. Thanks so much for reading!
Also, sadly I do not own Sherlock.