I own nothing…
So this is my second attempt at Sherlock fic…
Read/Review/Enjoy?
John scrubs his hand over his face as he studies the sagging bones curled up on the sofa…
Sherlock wasn't…
Even after four hours of discovering Sherlock standing in the middle of the living room…their living room and carrying on as if he hadn't missed a thing…
Even though it's been three long, trying years for John; Sherlock says nothing—
and John says nothing; instead his brow collapses ( those lines on john's face are more pronounced than Sherlock remembered.) And John cannot really be blamed for drawing back and punching Sherlock hard as he can in the face.
And Sherlock does nothing more than press his hand to his eye and cheek; as if that would stem the pain that starts to radiate from the sight of contact.
And John cannot be blamed for screaming about Sherlock being a sodding idiot…a heartless fool for letting him believe that Sherlock was dead for all this time.
And he himself was a right git for grieving so hard, because apparently Sherlock is made of stone and just stands there as John screams and curses and…and…
John can't help that he collapses to the floor, sobs racking his body— and he doesn't know what to do but twist and turn trying to outrun the feeling that he's been swallowed whole…like he always does. And of course, he fails at that…like he always does.
But he can't say that he doesn't shiver when he feels a warm…very alive hand touch his shoulder. And he feels a mass of heat wrap around him. And he feels bones where he hadn't felt bones before…and in the back of his mind he vaguely registers that Sherlock is way too thin to be healthy…even for this kook.
And he can't say that he doesn't sink into the embrace and think that Sherlock no longer smells of Sherlock…instead he smells of stale sweat, dirt and…death.
And that makes John sob harder.
And Sherlock's cracked lips brush the side of John's face as he whispers two words in his ear.
And John shivers.
But he believes him with all his heart.
And after a while John stops cry; Sherlock still clings to him.
And after a while John untangles from Sherlock…trying to shake the feeling that he's been touched by a ghost.
Sherlock is alive.
Sherlock is real.
And somehow Sherlock ends up curled on the couch that is his…and John's draped in his chair, clutching the Union Jack pillow. And John takes in the deep purple bruise blooming under Sherlock's eyes…the visible nicks, bruises and scars that were not there three years ago.
John does not know this stranger.
There's a niggling fear in the back of his skull, trying to claw its way out.
What if Sherlock disappears again?
John's eyes blink shut as he breathes out; trying to calm the wild beating in his chest— no need to be having a heart attack now.
John stares at Sherlock's rising and falling— swallowing past the ache in his chest.
Sherlock's safe.
He grits his teeth as what he couldn't tell Ella bubbles up in his throat. What he has not said aloud…it worms its way past his lips. Little slivers of half-bitten words whispered in the pitch night.
"I loved you."
A/N: So what did you think? Let me know...
Thank you for your time.