A/N: Managed to muster up something post-Reichenbach. Found this bittersweet to write.
Summary: Three years since John watched his heart bleed out in front of him. Three years since John lived properly. Three years since John's seen Sherlock breathing. Three years, and everything's changed. But nothing's faded. Post-Reichenbach. S/J
Rating: T for Light slash.
Nothing's Faded
by
Blackcurrant Bonbons
This is not real. This is not real.
He's dreaming. Of course he's dreaming.
Maybe he's dead. That'd be nice.
Death brings happiness.
Death brings a closure.
Death brings Sherlock.
Sherlock is dead. Of course he's dead.
John recalls with perfect clarity the inky raven falling from the sky, wings billowing in a flurry of calm chaos.
John is finished. He is numb, disconnected. Like a balloon, he is untethered, weightless, floating.
His wingless bird cannot fly. His bird is doomed.
His heart impacts with the cold, unforgiving ground, with a thud that sends shivering implications under John's feet.
John's heart bleeds out life onto the life concrete, the greedy, porous earth claiming John's life-force as its own.
John is weightless. John is heavy.
His heart is dead. Therefore he is dead.
Then why does life does defy logic? Why is Sherlock stood before him?
Three years it's been.
Three years since John watched his heart bleed out in front of him. Three years since he's lived properly. Three years since he's seen Sherlock breathing. Three years, and everything's changed. But nothing's faded.
Three years.
The gaping, ugly gash in John's chest aches, bruised and singed. Hollow.
I will burn the heart out of you.
"John," he whispers.
John gulps. He cannot speak. His knees tremble, his fingers shake, his brain buzzes.
His chest aches.
"I-I thought," he whispers, mustering speech after a tense moment, his voice hoarse and unused. His lips quake. He compresses them into a harsh, straight line.
He gulps. "You're dead." John hangs his head. "Leave me. Please. I'm not-not stro-" His voice breaks on the last word.
He is not strong enough.
John holds out his hand, motioning the apparition away.
The man does not move.
Instead, Sherlock reaches for his outstretched hand, grasping it gently between his cool, pulsing fingers.
John sobs quietly, choking on the growing lump in his throat.
His eyes are bleary.
Three years.
Sherlock brings John's hand slowly level with his face.
Keeping his tumultuous blue eyes locked onto the doctor's face, he presses John's hand palm down against his wet cheek.
John caresses the stubbly marble cheek like a long forgotten memory, wiping away the salty grief. The heat emanating from Sherlock's hand sends pulses of dangerous hope through John's own.
John maps the contours and crevices of Sherlock's hollow face, storing their feel carefully. He cannot forget, because this will soon be gone.
He presses his fingers gently against Sherlock's chapped pink lips. He strokes the small, newly formed wrinkles on the detective's forehead.
"John."
John feels the baritone voice rumble through Sherlock, and he savours the intensity.
"I'm not leaving you-" The ice detective shuts his eyes suddenly, sucking in a deep, shaky breath, tremors running through his thin frame. "-ever again."
He will spend every day thanking God for this last miracle.
John grips Sherlock's hands tightly; their eyes locked together, one pair flickering greedily over the other.
John is weightless. He falls heavily to his knees, not releasing his grip on Sherlock.
His tether, his heart.
John inhales Sherlock's familiar scent deeply, imprinting it onto his memory.
Sherlock hands tighten in John's hair, running searching fingers through the soft down.
John's silence is filled with all he cannot bring himself to say.
Sherlock joins John and sinks to his knees, cupping John's face between his hands.
"I apologise. What I have done is-"
Sherlock is cut off.
John kisses Sherlock fiercely, clumsily. Sherlock kisses back hard, trembling.
John pulls back after a time.
"Where would I be without my blogger?" Sherlock asks quietly, lips quirking upwards.
John smiles back tentatively.
It's a start.
Finis