Three years.
Three long, agonizing years of hallucinogenic mirages, mental breakdowns, and flat out denial are all the progress John Watson has had since the suicide of his dear freind, the Reichenbrach Hero.
Well, that and a bushy moustache.
But all facial hair aside, he still felt the same ache that he experienced upon seeing the brilliant mind bruised and bloody. A nagging hunch was there too, that something wasn't right. He couldn't believe it until his palm met the cold tombstone, but it was carved right before his eyes.
Sherlock Holmes.
Even then, John was pleading, begging for a miracle from a dead man. It seemed so confusing, still did.
Here he was, three years later, standing in the very spot he saw him fall, heard him die.
And still, there was the tugging in the back of his mind.
Johns psychatrist said it was called mourning, but he knew better. He had lived that reaction on a daily basis before. This was instinct, something embedded deep, and impossible to nonetheless, he drops his eyes from the ledge, and walks.
Past Baker Street, past the police station, past everything that used to be important.
As he reaches the farthest point out, the doctor stops in an alleyway to smoke, a habit he picked up since the fall. Everything had faded away from him, and the only thing he could do about it was shrug, and light a cancer stick.
The rich tobbaco fills his lungs, and John finds solem tears streaming steadily down his cheeks. He missed Sherlock, plain and simple, missed everyone.
"I could use a cigarette."
A stranger speaks in the distance, frightening him, but it was, familiar, in a way. The smooth formation of every word, meticulous and sharp. It almost sounded like...
No. It couldn't be.
"S-Sherlock?"
Like an angel, the tall man steps forward, raising his arms out.
"Hello, John."
Oh, he had defiantly lost it.
He looked the same really, no drastic changes, but there, just in his eyes, lurked something older...something human. Sherlock smirks, letting a few tears fall.
John can't help but close the distance, using his shaken hand to lightly cup the man's cheek. The detective smiles then, wrapping his own palm round Watson's wrist. He leans into the touch, closing his eyes.
"You died, Sherlock. I heard the crack," John joins his companions exhausted actions. "I saw the blood."
He feels like crying, or yelling at the man for leaving him there, but he was just so weary right now, so broken. John gives in, and opts for the less hurtful option. His body stumbles forward, into the arms of the sole man that was able to bring the battered soul underneath back to life. Wet lines mark the detectives clothing, and John finds himself murmuring apologies, out of spite. Sherlock, quick to catch on, silences them with a stern formation of the army doctors name.
The two men's feeble bodies buckle, and they sit in the random alley, emptying their emotions onto one another.
"I had to protect you, John. Moriarty had snipers, and..." He mutters profanities, but falters with a catch of Johns attention. Hot tears trail the wrinkles of his smile. "What matters now is that we're safe. Everyone is."
With the fuzzy veil lifted, the man suddenly finds himself aware of their situation, and hustles up, pulling his companion with him. He flashes another brillant smirk.
"People might talk..."
"Oh, bloody hell!" Without warning, John dives towards the man, bunching up his coat, and kisses him, with what feels like decades of pent up passion and frustration. The detective goes lax quickly, delivering the gesture back with equal ferocity.
Hands tangle in hair and shirt collars, tiny sounds of pleasure leak from their lips.
When they pull away, John attempts at forming a sentence, but his ragged breath slows it down.
"Do you think I even care what people say? Three years ago, I was used to being referred to as your 'partner', and I sure as hell don't give a damn now."
"John..." The doctor releases his grip, and steps back, rubbing at the back of his head.
"I'm just so happy to have you back, and I want to show you that..."
Sherlock smiles, hovering over to the smaller man. He tentatively touches his hands, speaking in an emotional tone, reminiscent of his feelings.
"Then show me."