John was fuming. Not about anything in particular, but his inadequate night's rest meant that everything about today had grated on his nerves.
Each patient that he had seen had irritated him beyond belief, but John did not know how, or why. Then the icing on the cake had been the woman who accosted him on his way home, flapping an insurance leaflet in his face like it contained the key to curing cancer.
She had retreated, thankfully, after a sharp remark from John, leaving him free to gratefully stagger up the stairs of 221b and enter his apartment.
John was just glad the day was over, because he didn't think he could handle much more of anything at the moment.
After passing through the doorway, John automatically glanced at the chair which Sherlock usually adorned. But as he did so he felt the ache in his heart convert into a sharp pang to of grief. He angrily rubbed away the tears which had sprung to his eyes and he mentally reproached himself.
It's been two years dammit. Can you not function without Sherlock Holmes after two bloody years?
He tried to cast his mind onto other matters and, as it normally did nowadays, it settled on his fiancée, Mary. John's features softened into a small smile as he remembered the evening he had proposed to her, her smile, her dress, her delight when he produced the ring...
With Mary filling his mind like a big soft comfort blanket, and a smile playing upon his lips, he continued through to the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea.
Nevertheless the ache in his heart had not gone, it would probably never go.
John was brought out of his reverie by the click that signalled the water had boiled. John was just reaching for the handle of the kettle when he heard a hesitant knock at the door. That must be Mary! thought John as his smile broadened, and he quickly snatched another mug from the cabinet above him.
"Come in!" He called as he finished making the two cups of tea.
The footsteps which entered the flat were not Mary's. The footsteps were not Mrs Hudson's.
John froze and bit his lip, a thousand thoughts running through his head as he slowly turned around...
"Oh my God…"
John swallowed in an attempt to dispel the hoarse tone of his voice.
"Hello John."
"Sherlock!"
John rushed up to the man who had just closed the flat door and grasped his arms, as if to make sure he wasn't a figment of his imagination. Sherlock flinched almost imperceptibly at the touch, and his eyes darted around the flat, looking anywhere but at John's upturned face, and the expression displayed there.
In a moment of impulse, Sherlock met John's eyes. John could see Sherlock's mind taking in his physical state, spinning, whirring, deducing-
Seeing this calm deduction of his grief angered John more than he could ever describe. His rage dispelled the shock which had paralysed him upon Sherlock's arrival and without warning-
John raised his right arm and punched Sherlock, as hard as his anger allowed. Sherlock staggered back for a moment and John prepared to strike a second time.
Bloody bastard just waltzes back in here and expects everything to be the same even though it's not and it never will be and I- I can't-
John faltered as he gazed into Sherlock's face. The bastard was not resisting or even shocked at John's reaction. He seemed resigned, accepting…
The fire in John's eyes died as the tears trickled down his face. His hand, which was still aloft, pulled Sherlock into a desperate hug. Everything John had felt during the past two years suddenly crashed over him like wave and John could do nothing but sob like a child under this onslaught of emotions.
"Oh God Sherlock, I'm so sorry! I'm so, so sorry!"
He continued to sob as Sherlock gently returned John's embrace and his smile had a tinge of bitterness in it.
"Don't be sorry John, I think I probably deserved that."
Hearing the tremor and break in Sherlock's voice, John pulled away slightly so he could see Sherlock's face. He was shocked by what he saw. Sherlock was crying! Sherlock, who had called emotions a 'chemical defect', Sherlock, who had been 'reliably informed' he didn't have a heart... Sherlock, who was, even now, standing in front of him with tears in his eyes, and yet more tears trickling down his cheek.
He looked almost ethereal, with dark lips, stained darker by blood, and pale skin, which seemed paler in contrast to his dark hair. He looked like… John didn't know what he looked like. He embodied as many contrasts as Snow White with the air of… something else…
John knew, he knew that he could never have Sherlock. He had known, even before all of this… before everything fell apart.
John had always felt so inadequate, so out of his depth, when faced with the mad detective that he had told himself
he's not for you, he can never be yours
And how disgustingly true that was now…
John raised himself onto his tiptoes and without thought, without consideration, pressed a chaste kiss to the lips of Sherlock Holmes.
Sherlock immediately responded, deepening the kiss, and John was flooded with the rich taste of Sherlock; sweet, but with a bitter aftertaste, reminiscent of cigarettes, and a strong, coppery tang of blood.
John almost let himself just… drown, and let go, but no. He pulled away.
"I'm sorry," John began, avoiding Sherlock's gaze. "I just… ahhhm…"
Sherlock stepped past John and continued on into the room, leaving the doctor standing, facing the door, and at a loss for how to tell Sherlock, to tell him…
"Oh soldier, soldier won't you marry me, with your musket fife and drum?
Oh, no sweet maid, I cannot marry thee for I have a wife of my own..."
Sherlock's voice carried through the flat as he sang the short line from the nursery rhyme in a surreal moment which left John speechless.
The short tune ended and there was silence. John was still trying to process everything as he heard Sherlock continue into his room, but three thing kept replaying in his mind:
Sherlock was alive. Sherlock kissed him. Sherlock knew about his engagement to Mary...
It occurred to John later, as he introduced Sherlock to his fiancée, that he had never asked Sherlock how he knew John was engaged. But John found it hard to care as he gazed at his soon-to-be-wife and his best friend, conversing amiably over cups of tea.
It was probably Mycroft… John thought... the bloody bastard.
A/N So I decided to slightly rewrite my oneshot 'Soldier, Soldier' but was loathed to take the original down. I eventually resolved to upload the update separately and, well, here we are!
I think this is an improvement on the original but I would love to hear your thoughts. So please review, pm me, favourite this... all the good stuff :) thank you, as always, for reading!
much love,
FizzingWhizzbee