There was no point at all trying to wait for Sherlock Holmes. No point at all. And yet giving up was a mistake John had vowed never to make again. Afghanistan had taught him that much, But when Sherlock had told him he wasn't interested that night in Angelo's, John had given up, tried to move on, and yet never been able to forget.
"This phone call," Sherlock was saying, voice clear enough through the phone for it to seem like he was standing right next to John, as infuriating as ever. "it's my note." John frowned, not quite understanding. "That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note?" John shifted, took his phone away from his ear for a moment. Maybe he should just run up to the roof and find out what the hell was going on, regardless of Sherlock's wishes. "Goodbye John."
"Nope, don't." he said, as if words would stop him. "SHERLOCK!" he yelled. But as he called, Sherlock turned off the phone, tossing it casually aside. John watched in horror as Sherlock spread out his arms, looking for all the world like an avenging angel. "No." John whispered, voice breaking. Slowly Sherlock tipped forward, then fell, coat flapping behind him, like a rock.
Somehow, most likely thanks to his training, John managed to stumble forward. The world was tilting like it did when you spun around one time to many, or had had a few more pints than was necessary. Except it was so much worse. A crowd had already begun to gather, and John continued to stagger over, only to find himself in the path of a cyclist, knocked to the ground.
"Sherlock." He said, lying on the floor. He was sure he was hurt, but nothing- nothing- mattered more than finding out if Sherlock was ok. Course he wasn't ok, he'd fallen of a building.
He pushed at the crowd, harder than he'd been pushing his feelings down ever since he met Sherlock- very hard. They tried to push him back, keep him away from Sherlock, shrouded in his long coat. He yelled at them, barely aware of what he was saying, only knowing that even now, when his best friend was dead, he couldn't say it. "Let me through!" he gasped. "I'm his friend." He knew his words were garbled, but he didn't care. John fell to his knees, aware of hands still attempting to pull him away.
Heart in his mouth, he grabbed Sherlock's wrist and felt hurriedly for a pulse. Nothing. Medics surrounded Sherlock's prone body, loading him onto a trolley and rolling him away.
The visit to the graveside had been the hardest thing he'd ever done, but for once John accepted he'd have to carry on, move on and keep going. It couldn't matter that curly black hair in the street, his blog, or visits to the hospital in which he might see the sign for the mortuary. It couldn't matter that all that reminded him of Sherlock, and that it hit him anew, like the gunshot that hit him off in a far foreign field, every morning.
"Don.'t. Be. Dead." He had said, and walked away. He'd paused at the gate, just once, and looked back. Said the words- just three-, which he hadn't been able to say for so long. "I love you." He'd said, and got into the car, driven away.
It had been a long day at work, and the tube that brought him home had been stuffed to the breaking point. So John got off two stops early, like he did at least once every week, and walked home. He passed the play park, full of squealing figures, and a figure clothed in black. John's stomach clenched, in remembrance of old memories.
He walked past quickly, hunched over with the cold. This would have to be his last walk home, he decided, before he froze to death. Someone stepped in front of him as he turned onto one of the little side streets- his little shortcut. John jerked to a stop, and started to move, but the stranger stuck his arm out, preventing him. It was the figure in the black coat from the park. He looked up, about to make some biting remark, but his words died on his lips.
It was Sherlock. John's stomach clenched, and for a second he just stared. Taking in the familiar, if slightly thinner, face. He still towered over John, and the hand he held out was still slim fingered and calloused. Before he was entirely aware what he was doing, John's fist smashed into the side of Sherlock's face. Sherlock reeled back, but didn't return the blow.
There was a pain in his chest, and he could see a little of it echoed in Sherlock's eyes. His heart was breaking all over again, and yet he marched forwards and pulled Sherlock's face down to his level. John planted a solid kiss on Sherlock's mouth, tasting the time between them, and then drew back. There was shock in Sherlock's eyes, but he didn't object, there was no objection in those beautiful eyes.
He cleared his throat. "John-" he began, but John interrupted, holding up his hand.
"No." he said firmly, taking a step back. His throat was dry and he was stunned he'd had the courage to kiss Sherlock bloody Holmes. "I THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD." And now he was yelling, letting the stopper loose on the emotions he'd bottled for three years. "YOU FUCKED UP MY LIFE SHERLOCK. YOU Bastard. I WAS A PILE OF SHIT AFTER YOU FELL. FUCK YOU, YOU ASSHOLE." John paused, breathing hard. "I'm not going through this again." He shook his head. " I can't let myself feel that way, ever.
Sherlock looked confused, turning up the collar of his coat as he always did when he was deep in thought. "But John-" he said, and John was sure he heard the barest trace of hurt in his voice. He knew if he didn't walk away now he'd follow Sherlock, and he just couldn't.
So, although it hurt him physically to do it, John turned his back on the man he had mourned for so long, and walked back onto the main street. No more shortcuts for him either, not if it meant running into people who were meant to be long dead.
Sherlock didn't come after him. But he did say something, almost too soft for him to hear. "I did it for you."
Anger pumping through his veins, John turned, still walking, and said, as bitingly as he could. "As far as I'm concerned, Sherlock, you died that day." This time the hurt was obvious in Sherlock's eyes. John turned and all but ran for it. He didn't make it far before the silent sobs began, shaking his body. He stumbled to the side of the road and leant against the wall that bordered it, letting the teas flow freely.
John slept worse that night than he ever had. Even right after Sherlock had 'died' and he'd been woken periodically, heart in his mouth, shouting "SHERLOCK" to an empty room. That didn't hurt as much as knowing he was alive, and that John had turned him away.
Mary didn't comment on his bloodshot, sleepless, eyes the next morning. They'd moved in together just under three months ago, and John had an engagement ring concealed under his bed. He'd been meaning to propose today, but somehow Sherlock's face kept popping up in his mind whenever he considered it.
"So I'll be back next week on Friday." Mary was saying. She was going away to stay with a friend in Italy, and John was going to miss her.
John's phone buzzed, telling him he'd got a text. Thinking it might be from Mary, John turned it on.
I'm sorry. –SH
Three words- two technically- but enough to make John weaken. The bulge of the engagement ring, which he'd transferred to his pocket was enough to make him steel himself and quietly slip the phone back into his pocket.
The bad dreams continued, the ache in his chest only worsened. Then one morning, all of a sudden, John woke up to find he'd slept through the night. Maybe he had begun to get over Sherlock, he had thought hopefully. Maybe at last he could just get on, forget him, pretend he had died that day and was really lying underneath that horrible tombstone.
Of course not. When John awoke on Saturday morning, three days later and still sleeping soundly, there was something different. He could hear the sound of two people breathing. Optimistically he thought Mary might have returned. He rolled over, face to face with her. John opened his eyes, a smile already on his lips, only to find himself staring into a set of eyes that definitely didn't belong to Mary. These eyes weren't the beautiful blue of Mary's, they were the achingly familiar gold-flecked hazel ones: Sherlock's eyes. And where Sherlock's eyes were, was the rest of him.
He was lounging on Mary's side of the bed, wearing his purple shirt, and smiling. "Morning." He said shortly, and rolled over. He started to get out of bed, but John reached over and grabbed his shirt, pulling him back into a sitting position by the hem of his shirt.
"Bloody hell Sherlock!" John exclaimed. "You can't just leave." Sherlock sprawled awkwardly back on the bed, looking for all the world like a deer in the headlights. "Why are you here?"
Sherlock avoided John's eyes. "I have a key." He whispered sheepishly.
"What?" John's eyebrows rose. "How?"
"Mycroft." Sherlock announced, explaining everything with that name.
"But why were you in my bed?" John persisted.
"You haven't been sleeping well John." Sherlock commented, fingering the bed's duvet. "You do need a new duvet John." He observed. "You've had this one three years, and Mary only ever washes it if someone stains it."
Momentarily distracted, John gaped wordlessly at Sherlock. This he remembered: the deductions that John never understood. "Right." He forced himself back on track. "I've been sleeping well since Wednesday." He said.
Sherlock gave him a pointed look, and John gasped. "Have you been-?" Sherlock nodded, and John lapsed into silence. It stretched on, that silence, until eventually Sherlock spoke up.
"Did you mean what you said that first time in the graveyard?" John's head whipped round, mouth falling open with a quiet pop. He groaned inside. He remembered perfectly well what he'd said, every word from the first choked remembrances to his admission by the gates.
"John?" Sherlock prompted. John knew it was pointless to delay it any longer, so he propped himself up on one elbow.
"Yes." He admitted shortly, avoiding Sherlock's eyes as best he could. "Yes, I did." He waited for his formerly dead best friend- was best friend even the right term?- to say something. There was a familiar look in Sherlock's eyes, the sort that had always let John know to stand clear before the dam broke and Sherlock slotted that last puzzle piece into place. John shifted warily, wishing he could tell what the detective was thinking.
"Come on John." Sherlock said abruptly, getting out of bed and pulling of his coat, which he'd tossed over the back of John's desk chair. Complaining furiously, John rolled out of bed, struggling into his trousers.
"Where?" he asked, intrigued. Sherlock smirked, that infuriating smirk that told John Sherlock wouldn't be telling. John and Mary had been sharing a small, modern flat on the top floor of an apartment complex near North Gower Street. Almost falling down the stairs in an effort to keep up with Sherlock's long strides, they stumbled down and out onto the street. They walked for a few minutes in silence. John finally asked something which had been bothering him for a while.
"You tell anyone else?" he asked. Sherlock glanced down at him.
"Molly." He replied, embarrassed. John could feel his ears heating up, but he kept stubbornly silent. Sherlock had told Molly? Sherlock had told Molly and not him? Suddenly Sherlock grabbed his wrist and pulled him off onto a side street.
"Here we are." He announced proudly, gesturing towards a Police Public Call Box that stood, unattended, in a small alleyway between two houses. Hand on the door, Sherlock looked back at John, who was still staring incredulously at the box.
"In there?" Sherlock nodded, looking impatient.
"Yes, in here. Now come on." Sherlock disappeared into the box, door closing behind him. John eyed the box nervously, and then plunged through the door after him.
John staggered forward a few steps, off balance, and looked up. It was brighter than he had expected, and, when he opened his eyes, much larger. There was truly only one way to describe where he was standing. It was bigger on the inside. He was just looking around in wonder, when Sherlock appeared from a doorway underneath a large platform. He steered John out the door, John still gaping.
"Wrong Box." Sherlock said, annoyed. They hadn't walked more than a few stops, when John yanked him to a stop.
"What was that?" he asked, disbelief colouring his tone.
"That." Sherlock replied, trying to get John moving again. "Was the Wrong Box."
"What's in the box?" John queried, still holding Sherlock firmly by his wrist.
"Which one?" Sherlock was clearly distracted, pulling out his phone and checking his messages. John was about to angrily insist that Sherlock tell him what on earth was going on, when the creak of a door distracted him. He spun round to see a man with floppy brown hair and a bow tie peering out of the police box.
"Did someone knock?" the man stepped out of the police box, straightening his bow tie, and closing the door behind him.
"That box." John stammered. "It's bigger on the inside."
"Yes." The man replied cheerfully, looking them up and down. "I'm the Doctor."
John stepped forward and stuck out his hand. "John. John Watson." He introduced himself, then pointed at Sherlock. "And this is-"
"Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock joined John in front of the Doctor, looking interested.
"Oooh Sherlock Holmes!" The Doctor exclaimed, seeming excited. He turned tail and popped back inside the box, seeming to expect John and Sherlock to follow him. John glanced over to Sherlock, who nodded. Unable to help it, a smile began to spread on John's face. It was just like it had been back before Sherlock…
John pulled open the door and slipped back inside the impossible room. Sherlock followed, and they both tried to take in the improbable size of the whole thing again.
"What is this place?" John asked, turning round in a circle, trying to locate the Doctor, who'd disappeared.
"It's my TARDIS!" called the Doctor, suddenly walking out of one of the doorways. An unfamiliar figure- two in face- trotted out behind him. "Time And Relative Dimensions in Space." The Doctor ran up the steps to the console, and yanked down a lever. "This is Amy and Rory." He gestured to the two strangers who'd walked in behind him. Amy and Rory, meet Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson."
"Hullo." Said Amy, a tall ginger woman with a Scottish accent. "This is Stupid Face." She slung her arm round Rory. "Aw look at him." Rory seemed to be quite used to the name-calling.
"Hello." He said awkwardly. The Doctor yanked a lever and suddenly the box started to shake, sending John stumbling backwards into Sherlock, who caught him. Together they tipped backwards, ending up on the floor beside the doors. John gazed up, about to thank Sherlock for taking the bulk of the fall, when he realized how close he was to Sherlock's face.
"Owwww." Yelled Rory, clutching his ankle in pain. John scrambled hurriedly to his feet, and ran over to help. While wrapping Rory's ankle up in some bandage-like stuff that the Doctor insisted he'd picked up on a planet called Castrovalva, John cursed himself for losing his cool so close to Sherlock.
The Doctor took them all over the universe. They almost died every day, and ran a marathon while they were at it. Sherlock insisted on having a calendar, and marked it every time a day had passed. Time travel, he had commented, didn't give them an excuse to forget the passing of time.
"When are you going to tell him?" Amy asked John one day over hot chocolate in the console room. John's ears blushed pink, and he looked away.
"Tell who what?" Amy sighed. "Is it that obvious?" John queried after a moment of silence, the blush spreading to his cheeks.
"Yes." She said simply, and took a drink of hot chocolate. "It's cute really."
And life went on. John couldn't bring forth the courage to tell Sherlock how he still felt.
Rory died a few times, but they always got him back in the end, generally after much crying on Amy's part, and followed by lots of kissing. One day, they met the Daleks.
The Doctor never spoke about the Daleks. Cybermen, Zygons, and Graske, sure, but never the Daleks. Amy pointed this out as they sprinted away from the flying pepper pots as Sherlock liked to call them.
"They must have some weakness." Sherlock hissed as they ran.
"Well of course they do!" The Doctor yelled, trying to run and fit his exterminated fez back on his head. "But unless you've got an anti-dalek gun- and if you do, I disapprove- there's nothing we can do." The sound of the Dalek's periodical calling "EXTERMINATE" echoed off the walls, getting gradually fainter until, abruptly, then rounded a corner and found themselves face to face with an unusually silent one.
"LIFE FORMS DETECTED!" It screeched, waggling its plunger at them.
"What you going to do, clear out a couple of sinks?" Sherlock sneered, grabbing Rory by the arm before he could slip right into the path of the Dalek. The Dalek shifted its eyestalk. It paused.
"EXTERMINATE!" it yelled, and fired a beam right at Sherlock. John yelled and jumped at Sherlock, shoving him as far out of the way as he could. He heard Sherlock yell out in a cry of pure agony physically painful to John's ears. The familiar buzz of the screwdriver sounded, followed by a loud explosion from the Dalek. John looked up briefly to see that it had exploded, the Doctor standing angrily over the remains of the Dalek.
Sherlock was lying on the ground, lifeless. John's shoulders slumped and his breathing sped up. Not again. Not again. He repeated to himself, feeling desperately for a pulse. "DOCTOR!" he yelled, anger and that all too familiar pain surging through his veins. He struggled to his feet and tackled the Doctor to the ground, trying to wrestle the TARDIS key off him. But his vision was too blurred by the tears that were coming, thick and fast now.
"I'm sorry." The Doctor cried. The Doctor recognized the pain in John's eyes, it was an old enemy of his, echoed every time he lost someone. Rory and Amy pulled John off the Doctor and to his feet.
"The Daleks are coming." Rory said nervously, shooting glances back over his shoulder every few seconds. The Doctor looked at John, broken and sobbing, and whipped out his sonic screwdriver.
"Not this time." He yelled. The Doctor ran to the wall and pressed down the sonic. Within seconds, the panelling came loose and the Doctor began to pull away the metal. Amy and Rory ran to help, pulling it away until the wiring behind was exposed.
"They're still coming." Rory announced tersely as the Doctor searched through the tangles of wire and machinery. As the Daleks rounded the corner, wiggling their plungers and whisk-y things and shouting EXTERMINATE, the Doctor pulled out a large ovular thing, with blinking red lights and EXTERMINATE inscribed on the side in burnt and rusting lettering.
"STOP!" The Doctor yelled, holding up the machine, he sonic pointing threateningly at the device. "Stop or I'll triplicate the flammability of this device." The Daleks stopped in their path.
"WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?" Asked the first of the Daleks, eyestalk roving over the four standing figures and the one prone one.
"I just want the use of your rejuvenation capsules." The Doctor said calmly, backing away a little.
"WHY?' Echoed a second Dalek.
"Does it matter?" The Doctor sounded exasperated. There was a pause, a pause that seemed to last a lifetime to John. A flare of dangerous hope was lighting in his heart, and he dared not depend on it.
The Daleks led them to a row of chambers, not unlike the ones the Doctor had found doubled as teleports when they'd met the Silurians. Rory and John gently set Sherlock down inside and retreated, closing the door on his still body. One of the Daleks rolled forward and fitted its plunger to the button beside the capsule. A bright light lit up the inside, traces escaping through the lining. John shielded his eyes, and then the capsule door opened, and Sherlock walked out.
John made a choked noise and rushed forward, taking the detective in his arms standing up on his tiptoes to plant a solid kiss on his lips. Sherlock seemed a little surprised, and stiffened, but responded after a second or two. John heard Amy give a little whoop of happiness, which made him smile.
"Can we finish this in the TARDIS?" Rory asked, casting a worried glance at the Daleks, had starting shouting EXTERMINATE again. The Doctor hurried over to John and Sherlock, placing a hand on John's shoulder. Amy seemed to know what was going on, and, Rory's hand in her own, place her arm round the Doctor's shoulders. He shoved back his sleeve and pressed down on a large button- a large button on the vortex manipulator- and they all ended up back in the TARDIS.
Immediately Sherlock and the Doctor were at the console, yanking lever at impossible speeds and soon the TARDIS had dematerialized. John let out a sigh of relief and stumbled over to sit beside Amy. He leant back and closed his eyes. After a moment, Amy got up and walked off. Someone else sat down, and John opened his eyes to see Sherlock sitting beside him awkwardly.
"John." John looked around to find that the Doctor, along with both Amy and Rory, had disappeared- maybe to finish that game of monopoly they'd started last week.
"Sherlock." John said evenly.
"Thank you." Sherlock said softly, pulling John into his arms. John breathed in Sherlock's scent, wrapping his own arms around Sherlock.
"I love you." John breathed, voice muffled by Sherlock's purple shirt. He looked up to see unexpected tenderness in Sherlock's eyes. He got up and grabbed John's hand, pulling both of them up to the console. Sherlock circled the console until he found a series of switches, which he inspected for a moment before flicking one of them. The shaking of the TARDIS slowed, and John smiled.
Sherlock led him to the doors, which he opened in on them. They were in space, drifting among the stars. John gasped in wonder. "Beautiful isn't it?" Sherlock said.
"I thought you said-" John began, remembering the night they'd chased the Golem.
"Doesn't mean I can't appreciate it." Sherlock finished with a smile. "Especially with you."
Footsteps alerted them to the return of the Doctor, Amy and Rory, who joined them at the doors. Amy sighed softly and leant on Rory's shoulder, one hand in his and one in the Doctor's. John and Sherlock leant together, arm in arm, and watched the stars go by.