The night had been so long. Hell, the whole year had been long. One year without Sherlock. John shakes his head. How had he even managed? The answer to that was relatively simple. He hadn't. He'd eaten like his former flatmate once had, which was hardly ever. He couldn't sleep, and if he did he was terrorized by the same image, the same record caught on a hellish repeat. Waking was no better. Reality paralyzed all the same. That's why John was awake now, head in his hands. His tears falling with no pride left. He'd never cried in Afghanistan, but this one man had been enough of a war to tear down the barricades to his heart. The implications of the barricades down were difficult; it had left John feeling exposed, and scared. But he was never alone; he had watched the walls fall side by side with a man he only now had admitted he'd loved. The barricades had also held his tears. And without Sherlock there to gripe about 'sentiment' they fell often. John was tired. So incredibly tired. He couldn't lift his head to the calling of life anymore. His eyes flitted to the clock. 11:54pm. John couldn't stand it. Not the clock, not anything. In a sudden burst of rage he flings the clock off the bedside table. The screen shatters and springs fly as it hits the wall.
"Please. No more." John begs, if only to himself. And tonight he knows exactly what he's going to do. He's thought about it for months really, but he was a coward and had never pulled through. Tonight, though. Tonight was different. In groggy movements, John pulls a pen and paper from his drawer. As he writes the silence can hear him whisper, "That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note."
There's no one to notice him leaving the flat. The usually calming street noise now sets John on edge. He's twitchy with anticipation and nerves. It's frightening to himself how eager he is to do this. The cab ride to St. Bart's is longer than usual. Years longer. John ages a million times over as he remembers every detail of the man he will now be returning to. Day one flows to the last day back to the start and over and over again. When he opens the doors he is surprised that he's not surprised that they are unlocked. No one had mentioned how long it took to climb those stairs.
The night air is breezy from this high up. Every star is a reachable summit and the moon merely a stepping stone. John walks slowly across the rooftop taking his detectives old advice and appreciating the celestial wonder above him. Every step is one less worry, one less painful night. By the time John reaches the end he is light and filled with serenity of all things. He has been waiting so long for this. One reaching step and John is observing London from the very spot Sherlock jumped a year before. John clears his throat.
"Here we are again." He stutters, blinking rapidly at his feet. "Sherlock, of all the things I never said to you, I-" here he chokes and puts a hand to his eyes, "Miracles don't exist here, but," he breathes deeply, "but I hope one last wonder can be made for me." Johns glazed over eyes search the sky again, as if he's waiting for someone to affirm that what he's doing is right. Hell, maybe it just doesn't mater anymore. John thinks.
"I never doubted Sherlock. You never lied to me. You were, I mean, well. I-. Dammit Sherlock, I loved you." John can't see clearly anymore, but he manages to choke again "I love you." The breath he takes is shaky, and for a moment John relishes in the fact that it will be his last. "Goodbye." He says quietly, and leans forward, his foot impacting the space where it will soon be with intention alone. But as he's moving an arm circles his waist and jerks him back roughly, but not roughly enough for him to miss his name echoing off the buildings in panic. He tumbles backwards directly onto the owner of the voice. Rolling quickly John removes himself from the thick folds of a black coat, untangles his legs from black slack clad ones, and spins around to face the one man he had been dying for.
"Sher-" but he can't finish. He's captivated by this man's aura, an empty air filled so familiarly that John chokes on tears. Sherlock's face is worried and innocent; for once he doesn't look bored. Somewhere he knows he should be anger. Furious even. But he leaps forward and embraces the Sherlock, determined to never to let go. At first Sherlock does nothing, but then he wraps his string arms around John, agreeing to himself that letting go isn't an option at all. He dips his head and tucks his face into the side of John's neck and tries to be strong while his doctor shakes with quiet sobs.
"John. I will never leave you again." He says uncertainly. He's not sure if John is angry yet.
"Bastard." John whispers. Sherlock shakes with a breathy laugh.
"I know."
John is delirious and obviously sleep deprived. Sherlock half walks, half drags him back to the flat. Walking up the steps of 221b again is heavenly familiar and almost therapeutic to the detective. John drops into his bed heavily, already asleep. With the flowing movements of water Sherlock pulls a chair next to the bed and sits quietly, observing John's even breaths.
"I'm sorry John. I didn't know you'd be so, affected." Sherlock murmurs in his quiet baritone. He dips his head onto the tip of his folded fingers thinking. As if it had suddenly moved to draw is attention, Sherlock notices the folded paper on Johns bedside table. With shaky hands he opens it up and recognizes John neat scribbles.
I remember when I met him, it was so clear that he was the only one for me. We both knew it, right away. And as the years went on, things got more difficult, we were faced with more challenges. I begged him to stay. I tried to remember what we had in the beginning. He was charismatic. Magnetic. Electric. And everybody knew it. When he walked in, ever woman's head turned. Everyone stood up to talk to him. He was like this hybrid, this mix, of a man who, couldn't contain himself. I always got the sense that, he became torn, between being a good person, and missing out on all the…opportunities, life could offer a man as magnificent as him. And in that way, I.. understood him. And I loved him. I loved him. I loved him. I loved. And I still love him. I love him.
Sherlock drops the note and buries his head in his arms that are resting on John's bed. The magnificent man could be seen crying then, but since only the night was present, no one ever knew.
"I love you too, John." He manages, "I will never leave you again." And that is how he slept, and for the first time in that long year, neither of them woke from nightmares.