Chapter 1-
Post Reichenbach
It was a crisp March morning at 221B Baker Street. John Watson was busy pottering about in the kitchen making an attempt to create breakfast out of a few carrots, cheese and half a pint of milk; not to mention the numerous toes in the fridge. Sherlock Holmes was sat reading the newspaper in his favourite arm chair by the fireplace, as if nothing had changed. Of course, everything had; Sherlock had faked his death in order to keep his best friends and loved ones safe. It was when he reappeared into John's life after a long absence that some problems had occurred.
It was just an average day when it all happened. John, by now, had ceased his residence at Baker Street and had moved back to somewhere close to his old flat. The daily reminders of his friend were too much to cope with. Sentiment. Only now did it seem so important and painful. Don't be dead. John would say. He visited the spot as often as he could. He begged and begged and hoped for Sherlock to return and amaze him with his brilliance once more. Suicide. Why was it suicide? Death would seem so dull to Sherlock. He wouldn't be able to impress anyone with remarkable deductions or show off, annoy Anderson or advance his own particular, if questionable, field of science. Why would he chose it willingly?
John sat, silent, at his desk. He tried to keep up the blog. The hit counter still at 1895. It was too painful. Being stuffed up inside for weeks at a time couldn't be good for him. A walk should suffice. He left the laptop open, grabbed his coat and wearily stepped into the hallway. He returned a few hours later feeling somewhat refreshed even though he knew inhaling too much London smog could be harmful. He unlocked the door and stepped inside. Closing it behind him, he noticed something unnerving. His mind on instant alert. If there was anything that living with Sherlock had done for him, it was that he was never careless. He could have sworn he had left the laptop lid up. But it was obviously down. John tentatively tiptoed over to it. He lifted the lid. There was a video file open on the screen. He clicked play.
"Sherlock" he mouthed breathlessly.
"John. As you know, I'm not one to apologize but I think you need one. An apology. I'm not dead John. It was Moriarty. He was going to kill you. I had to do it. There was no choice and I am so sorry. I want you to try to accept this. I know it's not going to be easy for you. I needed to make sure you were safe." John suddenly blacked out.
When Sherlock received the news that John had been attacked in London he dropped everything in his search for Moran and returned home. He had to see John for himself. Needed to see the proof that John was alive. Hurt and a little broken, but alive.
He sneaked into the hospital, really he needed to speak to Mycroft about better security for John, as it was far too easy. Though Sherlock wasn't fool enough to believe his overbearing brother didn't know exactly where Sherlock was at every moment. Mycroft had probably informed his people that a shaggy haired, ginger man would paying a visit to Doctor Watson and that he should be left completely alone.
When Sherlock arrived at the door to John's room, Mycroft had naturally gotten John a private space, he eased the door opened silently and cautiously peaked inside. John was fast asleep, no doubt thanks to the machines pumping medicine into his body. Despite the bruises darkening John's face, a black eye and a rather terrible looking purple welt on his left cheek, Sherlock felt as if he had never seen anyone to look perfect. The full impact of how much he missed John hit him harder than a train and tears, unbidden, formed in his tired eyes.
He quietly lowered himself in the chair beside John's bed and carefully, oh so carefully, picked up John's hand and held it in his. More tears rushed to his eyes as he lay a delicate kiss to John's smaller, darker hand and whispered apologies against his skin. He pressed John's hand to his stubble covered cheek and breathed in the scent of the man he gave up everything for.
"I'm sorry," Sherlock whispered as he pressed another kiss on John's palm. "I'm so sorry, John."
John stirred slightly in his bed and Sherlock tensed as John's eyes flickered beneath his lids. Half of him was begging John to wake up, to see those dark blue eyes sparkling and swimming with warmth. To hear John's voice, to hear him grant Sherlock the forgiveness his doesn't and will never deserve. But Sherlock knew it couldn't be. Not yet. Not when John was still so obviously in danger.
Closing his eyes and placing one last lingering kiss to John knuckles, Sherlock made to stand up when John's voice startled him.
"Hmm…who's there?" he mumbled as he fought off the unconsciousness of the drugs. "Harri? That you?" John blearily tried opened his eyes and Sherlock's breath caught in his throat. "Hello?" John's voice was beginning to sound panicky.
"Shhh..." Sherlock soothed as he placed his hand over John's eyes. "Go back to sleep, you're all right. You're safe, John."
Sherlock moved his hand to John's forehead and brushed back his fringe. "Everything is going to be fine," he leaned over and pressed a soft kiss into John's hair.
"M' I dreaming?" John asked as he slowly slipped back into sleep.
"Yes, John," Sherlock told him. "You're dreaming," his hand was now cupping John's cheek, thumb caressing his eyelid.
John's eyes opened now and gazed at Sherlock with so much sadness and hope and utter devastation Sherlock felt himself unable to speak. All words were stuck in his throat as he stared into midnight irises that drank his face in like a desperate man dying of thirst.
John's hand reached out and touched Sherlock's face, the back of his knuckles sweeping down his cheek, before his fingers traced feverishly over Sherlock's cheekbone.
"I don't want to wake up," John said in a breathless voice. "Please, Sherlock. I don't- I can't- Please. God, don't leave me again." John's voice was tight and clogged now, clearing fighting off the tears threatening to fall.
Sherlock leaned forward again resting his forehead against John's. "Shhh. It's all right, John. I promise someday when you wake up I'll be here. But for now you have to let me go." Sherlock pressed more soft kisses to John's face and hair whispering words filled with promises he wondered if he could keep.
"Someday, John," he said over and over again as he watched his friend slip back under to lure of drugs.
"Promise?" John asked in a voice so far away and quiet that Sherlock barely heard him.
"I promise, John. I swear I'll give you your miracle."
Two months later; John was on the mend. After being discharged from hospital, he once again took up residence with his old friend.
"3 years Sherlock!" John would constantly remind him if he put a word out of line. There had been numerous arguments since the event.
