As John sat in the taxi, old memories rushed his brain, stampeding, trying to break down the walls he had constructed in order to block out the pain. But his walls always had crack,s and the first time he rode in a taxi with Sherlock hit him hard. Sherlock's arrogant brilliance radiating off him, his excitement bubbling. John didn't know it then, but Sherlock was on the edge of his seat, ready for the new case. John sighed and repressed the tears already forming in his eyes. He shut his lids and ran his hands over his face, casually, trying to not make a scene to the cab driver.
The road twisted and turned and John finally arrived at the apartment they once shared. "I'll be right back, just need to grab a few things," and with that, John shut the car door and walked over to the door. 221B. The shiny numbers seemed to taunt him. 'You don't live here any more, neither does that curly headed friend of yours'. John ignored and slid his key into the lock. He shut the door quietly behind him and crept up the stairs, to their floor. John opened the door and grief flooded him. No, no time for this. I can't afford to do this now. Stop it, John. He walked across the floor to his old seat. It has been months since John has even set foot in the building, but he remembered where every object was. John's heart stopped when he saw Sherlock's violin. He shook his head and continued his search. He found an ink pen and a piece of note book paper. John wrote quickly,
He runs, I run. He laughs, I laugh with. He jumps, I jump, too. We fall together.
John groans as he stands up and walks to the door. He does one quick look over of the place again, and walks out. When the door closes, he sticks the note in between the door, where Ms. Hudson would be sure to find it. John walks down the stairs and hopes back into the taxi. The driver puts his arm around the passenger seat and turns back to face john, and questions, "where to?"
"To the corner of Montague Close and Borough High Street, please," John manages to croak out. The drive was 25 minutes of terrifying silence that gave him too much time to think. Buy the time they reached his destination, he was nearly in tears. He threw money at the driver and bolted out the door. John started for the toll area and passed through. The air was cold and heavy with moisture. Usually John would appreciate a day like this. Him reading a book or writing new stories on his lap top, Sherlock going on about a case or playing with his experiments. But today was a different day for obvious reasons. John felt scared and nervous. Terrified.
I miss you so much. We used to get into so much trouble. I never had the chance to tell you I love you. I would have jumped for you. You're stronger than me. I envy you, you bastard. You don't have to live with the guilt, grief. and pain that comes after. You are not a fraud. You were real. God damn, you Sherlock Holmes. God damn you.
John was nearly in tears as he walked towards the edge of the bridge. Hands stuffed in his jacket, scarf wrapped tightly around his neck. One of Sherlock's old scarfs, of course. He smiled as he felt it brush softly against his chin. Ready?
John wasn't ready, but he knew if he chickened out for the third time this week, he would be kicking himself later. And he was running low on cash. Mycroft tried to help him with funds but John's anger and pride got the better of him. Mycroft would still send cash every week. John only used it twice. Once when the money was low, and today. The day he felt change was in the air.
As he made his way to the brick wall, John wished to hard that Sherlock was alive. That he could see him once more. He put his right on the ledge and then the other. He heard mummers from the crown behind him and he tried to block them out. Quick and painless. Hopefully. The fall isn't a full proof plan, but at least it might render me broken or unconscious, therefor unable to swim, and drown. Death is fun, hey Sherlock? You would know all about it. And falling.
The crowds hushed words turned into loud statements. "He's gonna jump?" "What is he doing?" "Some one call the police," but John wouldn't give them time, no. He just needed a few more seconds to collect himself. He put his hands up and closed his eyes and sighed. This is it...
John put a foot forward and almost walked right off the bridge, right off the earth. But a hand grabbed his collar and chocked him back with an ungodly force. "What the bloody hell did you think you were about to do?" The condescending tone, so faint, was replaced with blunt rage and worry. The man brought him into his arms from behind and they both fell backwards onto the ground. John's face went white as he cried, and he turned his head to see his cheek boned idiot behind him, crying. His hair was its usual dark mess and his eyes the fierce blue they've always been.
"Sherlock," he whispered, more of a question than a statement.
"Of course, you idiot. That is my name. What the hell were you thinking?"
"You jump, I jump," John whispered. Sherlock leaned down and kissed John. It was full of passion and desire. Sherlock just wanted to hold John for forever. But John pulled away and stood up. "No, no, no! You left me! I thought you were dead, I was ready to die, to kill myself. And you left!"
"It was for your own safety, John! Not like I wanted to leave! It is terribly complicated and I think we should wait to talk about this somewhere more private," Sherlock had barely finished his sentence before John started up again.
"No, I don't care. You didn't call, no letters, no emails, no subtle hints! You could have at least told me after wards," John's anger was surprisingly dying out. He meant for the words to sound harsh and have a sting, but he only grew quieter and the realization that not only was his pray answered to see him one last time, but he had kissed him. Truly kissed him. His argument faded out and his eyes found his shoes. "Why?"
Sherlock could see John's lip tremble, his hands unclasp, his shoulders release tension. The way his eyes stared down at his feat told him he had lost will and was just disappointed with him. John was a mess, too. Hair long and every where, a beard forming. No shower in five days at least. His cloths wrinkly, which means they have not been washed in weeks. He knew he had moved away from Ms. Hudson, but he never imagined his dear John loosing himself this much. He knew John would be sad, he predicted it. Sherlock was off on how much John's emotions for him would swallow him up and leave him dry and bare. Sherlock felt a sudden wave of guilt crash into him and he made small steps to John, slowly closing the gap between them. "I am so sorry, John. I was wrong. You do need me, more than I had ever imagined," and with that, Sherlock leaned in and kissed John. This kiss was different, though. More aware and less intense. But the sweetness and thirst of it made up for lack of intensity.
John took Sherlock's hand and they walked away from that spot, different than before. Sherlock slowly returned to the world, ready to face on the challenged that lie ahead. John was never the same again. He now was always with Sherlock. Next to them on the couch, cuddled up, in his bed, with Sherlock's head resting on his chest, in the shower, with kisses and a passionate love. Sherlock loved every minute of it. John thought Sherlock was the world. They now often take walks to the spot where it all changed. The bridge was their favorite spot to analyze the people that walked by.
Ms. Hudson never found the note. Sherlock and John tore it down when they got back home. She didn't need to know.
But she wasn't shocked to see their hands locked together. Neither was Mycroft, nor Anderson. No one was.
Change is good. And life goes on.