A Johnlock fan-fic.
Three years after the fall, John still has nightmares about it. He sees Sherlock everywhere, even to the point of strong hallucinations. John still lives in 221B Baker street, their flat, well, John's flat now. That old blasted skull still sits there on the mantle, but everything else that was Sherlocks is gone. Until one day, during a therapy session where he can finally say out loud that his best friend, Sherlock, is dead, he receives one text message... WRONG -SH.
John looks down at his phone, not quite believing his eyes. His therapist is speaking, but all John can focus on is the fact that he just received a text from his friend who is supposed to be dead. He starts to draw short, ragged breaths and his heart rate goes up at an alarming rate. It's almost as if he can hear Sherlock's voice, calling him... "John... John? John! JOHN!" John startled out of his reverie, and realized that the voice he thought was Sherlocks was only that of his therapist, now standing above him worriedly.
"John, are you ok?" she asked, trying to get a glimpse of his phone screen. John quickly turned it to face in, so she could not see the message. He might tell his therapist many things, but this, this was his. His alone. It was probably some sick joke, some thing some one thought would be funny. Probably Donovan, she always had hated Sherlock. But how had he received the text at the precise moment that he said that Sher- that he was dead? All these thoughts whirling through his mind, the inner conversation had occurred in less than two seconds.
Whirling up and out of his chair, John grabbed his coat and his cane (he found himself needing it more and more ever since that day), and with hurried apologies cut the session short. Ignoring the flabbergasted protests of his therapist, he walked out into the brisk London air. Trying to suppress the rising feeling of euphoria and hope, he hurried out to hail a cab.
It seemed like that damned cabbie hit every red light on that side of London, before, when they were still a block away, John jumped out and threw him a twenty, yelling something about keeping the change as he ran towards home. Panting with the exertion and kneading his leg, John burst into the flat, half expecting to see Sherlock lying there on the couch in his pajamas and silk blue robe. But silence greeted him, as it had every day for the past three years. Today was the anniversary of his death, and John felt as if a brick wall had been firmly cemented around his heart.
Of course Sherlock had not sent that text. John looked at the body himself, he had felt for the pulse that was not there. Disgusted with himself for letting his hopes get that high, he took off his coat and hung it on the right side of the coat rack. With a great sigh, he planted himself down in the arm chair and picked up the remote. The telly always seemed so dull and boring now, after living out most of the drama-crime shows that were replicated so badly. John missed Sherlock yelling at the telly when there was no case, always going on about how stupid and idiotic everybody was.
Mostly just for back-round noise, John left it on and went to make some tea. After lighting the stove and setting back to let the water boil, his mind again wandered to Sherlock. Was it just good timing, the text? How could someone have placed it that perfectly? Only one man John had ever known could do something like that, and he was buried six feet under in woodland cemetery.
The tea-kettle started to boil, interrupting his train of thought. Wearily, John turned off the stove and poured the steaming water into a mug. As he turned to get a tea bag, a glow of orange caught his eye. curious, John turned to find that it was coming from the skull, Sherlock's skull. John walked closer, now seeing what exactly the glow of orange that had first attracted his attention was. it was a lit cigaret, burning slowly and struggling without the aid of inhalation.
Every movement painfully slow, John reached up and carefully extracted the cigaret from its perch in the left eye-hole of the skull. He looked at the brand, and gasped softly. on the side of the cigaret in distinctive gold leaf, were the two letters BC. Black Camel, Sherlocks brand. John let the cigaret fall, as a wave of dizziness swept over him. No, it was not possible! Sherlock could not be alive. John saw him! He saw the lid of the coffin close, saw the dirt being slowly shoveled onto it, burying Sherlock forever.
Then suddenly the walls seemed to be closing in on John. He left the flat, neglecting to grab either his coat or his cane. He started walking, but had no pre-determined path in mind. Before he knew it, he was standing at Sherlocks grave. The black marble headstone was so perfectly fitted to all that Sherlock was, it made John's heart ache to see such a reminder of his friend. Not really bothering to inspect it further, he sat down heavily on the grave. As he leaned up against the headstone, he felt an odd sort of camaraderie. Sherlock could have been standing right behind him, and John would have felt just the same. He missed this feeling, of security and friendship. He only ever felt it here, at his grave, but it was tainted with deep loss and heart-ache.
Thunder rumbled, and the sky grew darker. John didn't care, let the rain come. Let it wash away all the emotions, all the hurt and all the love, everything. Let it wash away any memory of Sherlock, and let him start over new. John knew though that, even given the chance, he would still choose to meet Sherlock, to become his flatmate, to endure all of the wise cracks about two men living together. He would not give those few years up for anything on this earth, except for maybe the chance to do it again, to do it better. The first few raindrops fell on Johns face, pleasantly cool against his rather over-heated skin. He turned his face to the sky, breathing in the clean smell that came with the rain.
He hefted a sigh and rose to his feet, wanting to stay, but wanting more to not catch fever and be out of work. He needed his work, the long hours of performing meaningless tasks that nevertheless kept his mind occupied. As he started to walk away, he turned back for one last glance at the headstone. But something was different. John lurched forward, suddenly feeling sick. The year that stated when Sherlock had died was painted over, and in it's place was one single symbol, a yellow question mark. Reeling as if struck, John turned and ran. It was all to much, the text, the cigaret, now this. Sherlock is the only one that could have orchestrated everything this perfectly. The only one who could have known that after seeing the cigaret, John would go to his grave site. Who else would go to such lengths? leave such clues as that? To any other person, the cigaret would have meant nothing. The gravestone would have been a simple vandal, a prank. But not to John, he knew that there was no way this many coincidences could happen so perfectly, all on the anniversary of Sherlock's death.
John stopped running, though he had not been aware that he was. A sudden sweep of sheer rage over took him. Sherlock was alive?! and In town?! Why hadn't he called, or showed up, or something! Anything else than this horrible trail of clues, leading John on the sending him crashing to the ground again. Why would he do that? John knew the answer to that question, because Sherlock was an egotistical, selfish, arrogant, bastard of a person, and John needed him. Christ, did John need him.
John continued to walk, fuming silently as he did. He headed to the market, needing to get some milk and supplies for that nights meal. Each night was a struggle, each meal, eating when he thought Sherlock would never again be able to. But Sherlock was able, and was here. John was sure of it. As he checked out, having an uncharacteristically east time of dealing with the chip-and-pin machine, he walked out. A bag in each arm, John was unable to call a cab. With an irritated huff of resignation, he started to walk back home.
After only a few steps, the rain came down in a thunderous pour, soaking John to the bone instantly. Not even bothering to speed up, John paid it no heed and just kept walking. His mind was occupied with all the possibilities of how Sherlock could have possibly survived, and all the reasons that he had made him wait so long to come back.
All of the sudden the onslaught of rain stopped, and John looked up. Startled to see his view of the sky impeded by a black umbrella, he froze when he heard an impossibly familiar baritone voice speak. "John, you will catch your death walking in this weather" John turned slowly around, and was greeted with the sight of Sherlock standing behind him, holding his old umbrella over them both. Sherlock, who John thought was dead, who had definitely jumped off of that blasted roof. His face showed anxiety and caution, as it damn well should! John thought. Suddenly, a rush of emotion came onto him. Anger, happiness, exhaustion, relief, sadness, and rage. All wrapped up into one fell swoop. John fainted. He would have hit the ground quite hard were it not for Sherlock dropping the umbrella and catching him. The groceries fell to the ground, and were left there with the umbrella as Sherlock carried John back to his flat. Well, their flat now.