Okay so I deleted then completely rewrote this; I didn't like it at all when I re-read it so I changed a lot of stuff though the basic premise is the same. And the title is the same, because I hate titles and I'm too lazy to think of good ones. Just a good old fashioned sort of reunion fic, no Mary just them two being idiots. I guess they are sort of ooc (IDK) and john is particularly sweary.
Important: warning for self-harm, rated M for themes
Months, it had been so many months. Was it more than a year? It had to be, it felt like so long but the image of the blood on the pavement and his lifeless body was still fresh in his mind when he closed his eyes. The tremor in his hand was back with a vengeance; he also had to dust off his walking stick for his leg was seizing up again no matter how hard he willed it to stop.
He was still in 221B, for some reason the rent was still being paid though he assumed it was just Mycroft taking pity on him, not wanting to uproot him from what he considered home. Turned out it was only home when he was still there, now it was just a flat devoid of life and personality missing its consulting detective.
Everything in the flat was unmoved, most of it being covered in dust, Mrs Hudson not having the heart to clean it, trying to leave it exactly the same way for John. The only change being the consistent placement of a cheap whiskey bottle and a tumbler on the table next to John's chair. He always told himself he didn't need the whiskey and he could stop drinking it at any time but it helped him, sometimes if he drank enough he could have a few hours of dreamless sleep. A brief respite from his own thoughts.
It was just another day in the flat, like every other, the already opened bottle by his side and a freshly filled glass to his lips when he heard someone enter the flat. He was curious but not all that interested in who it could actually be; no-one seemed to bother with him anymore, they seemed to have given up trying to fix the broken army doctor that had been left behind.
Mrs Hudson was also away for the weekend so it clearly wasn't her; the next logical conclusion was that it was Greg Lestrade. He would often (if you can call once every other month) pop in to see John and check on him, more than likely out of pity than anything else.
John heard cautious footsteps ascend the stairs (as if they didn't really want to see him) he did not even bother to turn around once the footsteps stopped near him. Hopefully they would leave if he ignored them long enough, he didn't need anyone, not anymore.
It was clear though that things never went the way he wanted and the universe had other plans. The "guest" stood there for what seemed like hours (in reality it may have been only a minute) before the silence of the room was shattered by a voice that sent a shock through him like a bolt of lightning.
He gripped the arms of his chair tightly, his knuckles turning white with the strain and his breath catching abruptly in his throat. Why would he be hearing that voice now? It wasn't as if he had more than one drink this time, he certainly wasn't asleep as the flaring pain in his leg consistently reminded him of his conscious state.
He had finally lost it this time, the grief had finally got to him and now he was hearing things it was only a matter of time before the crumbling turned into a landslide. That was what he thought before he gasped as a firm but gentle hand grasped his shoulder, it was too real but there was no way he could be here.
He couldn't even bare to think his name for risk that even if he hoped just a little it would no longer be real and it was all a terrible fucked up illusion from the pits of his own mind. But he just couldn't resist, he had to know, John slowly raised a trembling hand and placed it over the one still clasped on his shoulder.
It felt like his chest was caving in as he felt the very real hand beneath his, the warm smooth skin beneath his calloused fingertips anchoring him to reality. A sob was ripped from him as he stood up and without warning hugged Sherlock; his arms were wrapped tight around Sherlock's waist anchoring them to each other, as if he let go he would lose him again.
Sherlock let John lean against him, sobs causing his body to shake before he brought up his own arms and wrapped them around John's shoulders steadying him. Comforting him as he started talking, letting John know he was there. When John spoke softly his words cut through Sherlock slowly, the guilt overwhelming him, for what he had put John through.
"It's never been real before, you were never really here. You heard me, every day I asked you to come home and you did."
It had been three weeks since he had come back, twenty one days and Sherlock was acting like nothing had happened. It was as if their brief 'reunion' had never transpired and he had the audacity to just slot back into life at 221b acting like he had never left. As if he hadn't left John struggling to cope for months after his 'death'.
Everyone saying it would get better with time when time only seemed to prolong his grief; his mind was constantly filled with constant images of Sherlock refusing to move on. Now he was here just bloody pretending everything was okay when it so obviously wasn't!
John was currently sitting in his bedroom quietly seething at Sherlock while Sherlock was in the kitchen conducting an experiment using corrosive acid and pig stomachs or something 'for a case'. He really wished that he could go back to just being angry at Sherlock for daft things like that, like doing the experiment in the kitchen on the table, where people were meant to eat.
He was of course majorly pissed off at him for being so ignorant of their situation; he probably forgot that other people like John did in fact suffer a human condition called "emotion".
And to be the cherry on the shitty proverbial cake, while Sherlock was 'away' John had realised what Sherlock had really meant to him and now he was back and bound to notice, to deduce it.
In a way he did want him to find out, to know what he truly meant to John but on the other hand he also knew what Sherlock was like and it would never go down well. Sentiment; he was starting to see why Sherlock hated it so much (or at least pretended to), all it seemly done was mess things up and make living with your flat mate incredibly infuriating.
It only exacerbated the situation that John was angry at Sherlock for all of it, blaming him for how he felt about him, even though he technically was to blame. John just couldn't stand being angry at all it was draining and a waste of energy. After a few more moments of quiet seething at Sherlock he heard the man shouting his name.
"John?... John? JOHN!" John got up and limped slightly over to open his own door; his leg had never been the same despite Sherlock being back now, he only hoped he could fix what was broken a second time.
"What is it Sherlock?" John made sure to exaggerate the irritation in his voice as he moved out of his room, lingering at the door.
"I know you aren't busy so come here… Please." Even though the please was strained it was surprising, he very rarely said please so now of course John was wary about what he might want though he remained cautious.
After a moment's pause Sherlock heard John coming down the stairs, a faint limp still apparent in the sound of his footfalls though he couldn't figure out why, he was back; wouldn't that fix John? John finally entered the incredibly messy kitchen and sighed maybe a tad over dramatically before he spoke,
"What is it this time?"
"I may have acquired an acid burn on my finger and I need you to pass me my phone."
"I'm assuming in the process of burning your finger you solved the case? And where is your phone this time?"
"In my pocket."
"Tell you what, I will have a look at your finger and you can get your own fucking phone." Sherlock was positive there was something wrong now, John did have a temper but he was not usually this snappy or foul mouthed, even with Sherlock or at least he never used to be.
John moved over to Sherlock and put out his hands waiting to examine the injured finger but before he could react Sherlock had grabbed his wrists and pulled him down to his level so they were face to face. Sherlock kept a hold on John's wrists so he wouldn't move and studied his face for an excruciatingly long time.
John snapped back to reality then quickly pulled his arms away as if he had been burned and backed off considerably.
What the fuck Sherlock!?"
"I needed to know."
"Know what!" Sherlock stood up slowly, battling to keep his facial expression neutral, trying not to give away anything. It barely lasted a few seconds before the frustration let itself show, the infuriation also slipping through and lacing his voce.
"You know damn well what John. Why have you been acting like this when you could let your idiotic brain observe for a change and start paying attention to what is right in front of you!"
"WHY HAVE I BEEN ACTING LIKE THIS?! You fucking waltz in here three weeks ago and start acting like nothing has happened. You might have explained what happened but you haven't spoken to me, not properly and you haven't told me why. I missed you so fucking much, you left me broken and alone and I don't even get to talk to my best friend before you are back into your old ways. Treating me like I'm not worth what you done for me and it's not good enough! It not enough to know that you are still you and I have changed so much and I realised how important you are to me and you just can't get it through your THICK SKULL THAT MAYBE YOU BEING MY FRIEND ISN'T ENOUGH FOR ME!"
There was a tense silence, a silence that makes you hold your breath in case you come apart and the colour drained from John's face as he comprehended what he has just revealed. He didn't even risk a glance as him before he retreated to his room as fast as he could and slammed the door shut.
After hearing the door slam Sherlock heard John let out a exasperated yell. Though, of all the things John could have done after telling Sherlock all of that was to leave him alone. Sherlock did not move from his chair for a long while, his thoughts running through his head so fast he was struggling to keep up, trying to figure out exactly why John acted like that.
No matter how much he mulled things over the only logical conclusion that he kept coming to was that John was so adverse to the idea of wanting Sherlock and he was expressing it with anger. His brain was practically screaming at him, telling him that this was the answer, how John might leave now he knew. That Sherlock would be left alone again, that no one would ever truly care for him.
John meant everything to Sherlock and he couldn't afford to lose him but it appeared he had already lost him when he let John believe he was gone for all that time. John was an honest caring man and it pained Sherlock so much having to lie to him, but he did it to save the only person who knew he had a heart, and that heart was John's in its entirety no matter what state it was in.
Sherlock let out a growl of frustration, was finding it increasingly difficult to deal with the information flooding his brain, he needed to control it. He would kill for something right now; nicotine just wouldn't cut it this time.
He was sorely tempted but he had made a promise, he had given John his word he would never go back to the drugs and it was the only reason he wouldn't. But he needed something anything that would help his mind just slow down!
His eyes suddenly lit up as if he had the most brilliant idea, a completely debatably 'good idea' but a good idea to Sherlock none the less.
Sherlock's mind whirred as he considered the rush of endorphins that are released in response to physical damage or injury of tissues. His knowledge of chemistry and biology were certainly well versed, enough so that he knew the endorphins would interact with opiate receptors and give him perhaps a small bit of the peace that he usually found with other opiates.
He moved promptly to the other side of the kitchen to find a suitable implement since he figured he would need a rather 'sizable' endorphin release to help.
After a few moments of searching through the kitchen in one of the drawers he found a relatively sharp kitchen knife. He rolled up the sleeves of his shirt neatly, baring his arm, the picking up the blade before moving it swiftly and precisely over the skin.
His movements were almost surgical and detached as he let the pain wash over him and flood his brain with endorphins. It was as if he felt his mind physically slow down and it was blissful relief; he kept on going, his mind free to relax as he let his 'transport' fix the problem.
After John had took a moment to calm down, in all honestly slamming the door was kind of helpful, he heard Sherlock frantically searching for something in the kitchen. If that idiot was making another grand mess John was going to kill him; well that was if he could even bring himself to face to Sherlock again.
He supposed that Sherlock would be revolted at the idea of him wanting to be more, to be closer than they were, for Sherlock to actually let someone be with him. "Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side". He loathed himself for revealing what he did it would be a surprise of Sherlock wanted him to be around anymore. He wouldn't want anyone subject to such sentiment with him.
John's thoughts slowed to a halt and he tensed up listening carefully; it had become really quiet downstairs, even by Sherlock's standards. He never knew if he should be concerned or pleased when Sherlock was making no noise and he definitely hadn't heard him leave the flat.
John waited patiently with bated breath, listening for any sound of the man downstairs, he then heard a muffled thump before everything seemed to have stilled again.
He waited a moment before deciding that he was in fact concerned about him and he should perhaps go and see if he was at least alright, well as alright as Sherlock could ever be.
He was only thankful that were no drugs in the house this time, not even nicotine so his worry was abated for a short while. What he was not prepared for however was the sight that greeted him as he entered the kitchen, of all of the things that could happen he never expected this.
Sherlock was sat on the floor in the kitchen with his back resting against the cupboard door, his face in a state of bliss and relaxation, his eyes were half closed and a small relaxed smile was playing on his lips.
John however nearly collapsed next to Sherlock and despite his stoic nature he started to panic when he saw his arm.
His shirt sleeve was neatly rolled up but the pale skin could barely be seen for the viscous red liquid that was still running from the wounds, it also covering the kitchen knife that had slipped out of his other hand onto the kitchen floor.
John moved closer to him putting his arm around Sherlock's shoulders and pulling him over so Sherlock's head was resting on his chest.
"Fuck! Sherlock? Sherlock?! Come on, talk to me." John heard a mumble against his chest and dipped his head down closer to Sherlock's so he could hear what he was saying. His voice was quiet as he spoke, almost delirious.
"I know you hate the idea of me John; you barely deal with me as a friend. I saw your pupils dilate John, your pulse increased. I know you must hate reacting like that, you can't stand it just…" Sherlock brought a bloodied hand up to curl into John's shirt anchoring him in place, "just don't leave."
The realisation didn't hit John, it took a few moments to wash over him but when he did the air was ripped from his lungs. How could he have been so stupid? Sherlock had been acting normal for three weeks because he thought that was what John would like; what John would need and want.
Sherlock had always completely refuted the idea that he cared about anyone at all, 'sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side' as he had memorably said. Though when John really thought about the change he had brought about in Sherlock, it couldn't be more obvious that he cared. It just happened to be caring in his own very Sherlock way.
John's grip on Sherlock tightened pulling him closer to his chest; he raised his free hand and after a moments debate brought it to Sherlock's hair and let his fingers run through the curls, in an almost comforting gesture.
"Why are you doing that?" Sherlock wasn't complaining, it could even be called nice he just genuinely wanted to know why John was doing it. His surprising John, with his unpredictable reactions consistently amazing him more than he himself would care to admit. With John's answer surprising him yet again,
"Because I want to Sherlock, I am so sorry for what I have done."
"I don't understand why you are apologising; there is no blame to be found with you. I have done so much to you, put you through so much, and yet here you are. I should be the one apologising, for everything."
Hearing Sherlock's voice filled with that much pure sincerity temporarily stunned John. It was rare Sherlock would leave himself vulnerable like that, letting a raw expressive side of him be shown, but it spoke to John in volumes. That they were close enough and that there was something so significant between them that let a man like Sherlock be honest with him.
It had always been there, that unmistakeable connection between them. He shouldn't by any right be surprised by it now, considering how many people had commented on it before; he was just so annoyed at his ability to miss what was right in front of him.
John focused his gaze and studied Sherlock, despite his position on the kitchen floor with pale skin and clothes stained with his own blood he was still able to possess an imposing beauty anybody would find hard to deny.
It took many moments before John could bring himself to break the peaceful silence that has settled over them, only punctuated by shallow careful breaths. Though he spoke softly it still pierced through the quiet and was loud to his own ears.
"Come on, we should at least wash the blood off you." Sherlock merely nodded in resigned agreement as John shifted Sherlock so he could stand up. He stood over Sherlock and offered his hand to help him up which was accepted appreciatively.
Being an army doctor always meant John was unaffected by blood and injury however it was wholly different when it was Sherlock, his mind without warning supplied the image of Sherlock on the pavement outside St Bart's.
Sherlock grabbed John's arm as he trembled slightly, forcibly shaking the image out of his head. He could feel the piercing gaze of Sherlock on him and appeased him with a stoic nod and a firm hand clapped onto his shoulder.
He then took Sherlock's hand in his, the red transferring to blemish his own skin as he lead them the bathroom then making Sherlock sit on the edge of the bathtub. He fussed for a second trying to find the first aid box but after it was found he knelt down in front of Sherlock and cautiously took his arm in gentle hands.
He looked up at Sherlock, raising a questioning eyebrow at him, silently asking if he was going to be okay, or at least as well as he could be for the moment.
"I have had worse." Sherlock gave a small smile to John as he took the items he needed from the first aid box and slowly went to work, the true army doctor in his showing through. He soon sped up, knowing that Sherlock was fine, deft fingers working over pale skin cleaning the surface and dressing the cuts.
Occasionally Sherlock would let out a small hiss of pain where the disinfectant reached the particularly deep cuts but it was no more than he could handle; no more that he probably deserved.
After he had finished and the pale expanse of skin was no longer awash with red John let his fingers run gently over the bandages down to his wrist, then letting his hand settle over Sherlock's.
A soft smile was shared between them and John made to move but before he could get up the smile fell of Sherlock's face and he started to talk,
"John, I have never done anything like this this before. Letting someone get so close, it can be dangerous and unfamiliar to me. I wouldn't know where to start and sometimes the things I do may be a bit not good and I will never be able to become good person though I think…" He was cut off by John squeezing the hand under his and talking over him.
"Shut up, Sherlock. I know it won't be easy. It's you for god sake and since when have you ever been easy to deal with? We will just have to make it work, a case study on our working dynamic if you will?"
Sherlock never thought he would ever find a friend let alone John who would know his so well they would know exactly what to say to him when he needed to hear it.
John brought up a hand and let it brush against Sherlock's angled jaw before touching it softly to the back of his neck; he pulled him gradually forward until their foreheads were touching and their breaths becoming mingled in the small space between them.
He let his gaze meet Sherlock's and noted how dilated the other pupils were, he moved his other hand and placed it on Sherlock's cheek, the fingers cupping the angles of his face and his thumb traced over the soft skin. Still only centimetres between them that was progressively being reduced to millimetres.
Their lips eventually touched, the smooth flesh of their lips pressed together, each of them barely moving. Sherlock was hyper aware of the other man holding his breath, the feel of his stubble around his mouth and the small movements of the hand on the nape of his neck.
Hands grasped, clinging onto the other never wanting to let them go. To keep the other man from the rest of the world, to have to themselves and preserve for as long as they could so no matter how rough things got they knew it would at least last.
All of this would be far from perfect, it would be hard but if it wasn't difficult it wouldn't be worth it, and they were each more than worth it to the other? Some people would call it love or romance; there was no shortage of words people would use, but them? They would just call it right.