It had been three years since he saw his body sprawled out on the ground. Three years since his best friend had jumped from St. Bart's and bled onto the sidewalk, the rain washing it away and taking John's heart with it. Three years since he last felt alive, rather than some healthy human being with the mundane mind of a zombie. John had begged at his grave for one more miracle, just one more wish granted.
So why wasn't he reaching for the man that lie on the floor?
John stood in the doorway, his key still in his hand, but the grip was growing tighter as his tremor started up. The medical bag that the hospital had issued to him was in his other, and it suddenly felt like he was carrying 100 tons. So, he dropped them. He dropped them to see if like any other time he'd seen Sherlock, the noise would jolt him from sleep and remind him that his best friend was dead. But he didn't wake up. The clatter left a ringing in his ears and his chest became tight. Surely, this was a dream. John had never dreamed of an entire day, feeling the shadow of a long swirling coat dull his emotions over. "People have dreams like this." He thought, balling his hands into fists. But everything seemed so real, from the smell of freshly brewed coffee to the squeak of hospital cart wheels. It was all so real, but he was here.
Sherlock Holmes was a dead man who resided in a polished wooden box under six feet of suffocating dirt. He couldn't be here in the flat, bloody and bruised, rail thin and looking as he had dropped dead.
"Sherlock!" John whispered as he grabbed the man's wrist, checking for a pulse. Just because he was dead in reality, doesn't mean John was going to let him die again in his dreams. His pulse was there, though a bit slow. Blood was running through this man and his heart was alive and beating. Suddenly, his dark lashed fluttered and pale orbs showed. John's hand went to his hairline automatically, pushing the dark strands from his forehead.
"John..." the deep baritone of his voice cracked and it was so, so weak. John shushed him, surveying for any injuries. He looked roughed up, but not anywhere near death. "John!" a bony hand wrapped around his arm and held on like a security blanket. The ex army doctor gave a hollow laugh. "What a cruel dream this is..." he mumbled, unbuttoning Sherlock's shirt to look. Again, there were bruises and a few cuts; nothing major. Upon looking at his back, John felt sickness wash over him. Sherlock's back was a mess of green and blue and black, the scars from multiple stitches decorating the canvas that the bruising was painted upon. His stomach went into a knot and John wanted to step away, to just wake up and see that he was having another nightmare. But as Sherlock whimpered his name, and bony fingers reached for his, it all became to real.
"Sherlock...Oh bloody hell..." John drawled, grabbing at the hair on his scalp. "John..." Sherlock croaked. "Water..." He rose quickly, running to the sink and grabbing a glass. He put the tap on it's highest, watching the clear liquid fill an equally sheer container. Water splashed out of the cup and onto the flooring as he hurried back. "Sherlock, help me out here. You've got to sit up..." John said softly, trying to prop the man up. Sherlock gasped in pain as John's hand touched his back. He gritted his teeth, trying to remain calm as the army doctor brought the glass to his lips. The water was cool and refreshing to his parched throat and he wanted so badly to gulp it all down but he had to pace himself or otherwise he's choke and then John would surely think it was his fault. They sat there until the glass was empty and Sherlock's voice came out with more life and volume. He grabbed John's jumper, feeling the soft, weathered knit in his palm. "Sherlock..." John began. "I know that it hurts, but you need to stand up. I'm going to bring you into your room." Sherlock nodded and braced himself to stand, groaning in agony as the muscles in his back moved. John helped him up, carefully draping his lean arm over his shoulders. They walked, or rather John dragged Sherlock towards the room, nearly dropping him as he attempted to open the door that had been closed for so long. Ms. Hudson would go into his room every month or two, replacing the sheets and letting the room air out. Those were the days John stayed out as late as he could, then retreated to his own room without a glance towards the open door. But now, he dragged the person who formerly resided in it through the doorway and helped him onto the bed. Sherlock winced and cried in agony when his back hit the furniture. John stayed with him until he quieted down, then turned to leave.
"John, please stay...Don't leave me..." Sherlock pleaded, latching onto his arm. John eased the bony fingers of his flatmate's hand off, and held his hand briefly. "I'm going to retrieve my medical bag. I'll be right back." he told him. Sherlock nodded, reluctantly pulling his hand back as John left the room.
Once outside, John took a deep breath and felt himself shudder. His stomach was in knots and it hurt to breath. Seeing Sherlock pleading not be alone, holding onto him as if he would slip through his fingers like sand; it bewildered him. He walked back to the door, shutting it and grabbing his bag. Out of the corner of his eye, something silver glinted and John bent down to inspect it. He realized that it was the dog tags he had given to Sherlock as a gift for Christmas. They showed his name, birth date and occupation; Consulting Detective. John noticed that the key to the flat was on the chain with them, clinking merrily despite the scene that was unfolding. He stuffed them into his pocket and went back to the room. Sherlock's eyes dashed back to doorway as John entered and he reached for him immediately. John allowed him to hold onto his hand as he opened the bag, gathering bandages and standard wipes to clean the cuts with. "This is going to sting a bit..." John warned, gently taking his hand from Sherlock to open the package of wipes. Sherlock nodded, and closed his eyes, awaiting the pain. He hissed as it touched his skin, leaving an unpleasant burning afterward. John cleaned all the cuts thoroughly, then gently placed the bandages over them. Sherlock tried to remain quiet throughout the ordeal, even when John had to move him so that he could access his back. Everything moved painfully slow, and both of them thought it wouldn't end. After an hour or so, Sherlock was patched up and John sat with him on his bed.
"John..."
"Sherlock, when was the last time you ate?" he suddenly asked, not realizing he had cut Sherlock off. The detective lay there, trying to recall and after more than a minute passing, John put his face in his hands.
"Christ Sherlock, can't you manage on your own? You look like a bloody skeleton!" he exclaimed, groaning in disappointment at the way Sherlock continued to treat his body. Sherlock remained quiet as John dashed out of the room, and he heard the cabinets open and some cans being shuffled around. The fridge followed and a plastic top was being yanked from a container. The splash of soup pouring into a pan on the burner met his ears and he could almost taste the delectable cooking of Ms. Hudson. John started the burners, lingered in the kitchen then shuffled back to Sherlock's room. He sat back down for a moment, then reached into his pant's pocket and pulled out Sherlock's dog tags.
"Here. These were on the floor." he dropped them in Sherlock's hand and watched as his long fingers danced over to the raised engravings. "John, you probably want to punch me, but if you give me time, I can explain-"
"How much time?! How much more time can you possibly need, Sherlock?!" John exploded from the pent up anger and launched off the bed, staring at Sherlock incredulously. Sherlock tried to grab his hand, but John pulled away.
"Don't touch me. God Sherlock, I still can't even believe this isn't some sort of sick, twisted nightmare that I'll just wake up from." he began to pace, then stopped and tried to even out his breathing. "Just explain. Right now."
Sherlock nodded and tried to figure out where point A had started. "On the roof at Bart's. Before you had arrived, Moriarty was there. I figured out the code, but he just said there wasn't one. He ended up shooting himself, and I had to make you believe that I was dead." John held up his hand. "No, no you didn't! Moriarty was dead, so there wasn't a reason to continue! You thought too much into something again and ended up disappearing for 3 bloody years!"
"John, listen-"
"I mourned for you Sherlock! Do you know how many times I wanted to join you?! I-"
"It would've been myself joining you if I hadn't! Moriarty had guns aimed at your bloody head!" Sherlock sat upright, the sore muscles in his back cramping and making him flop back down. "He...He had guns on Lestrade, Ms. Hudson and you! I...I had to make you believe I was dead if you were to live..." Sherlock covered his face. "You think that I wanted to leave? I wanted nothing more to come home..."
"Then why didn't you? I believed that you were gone, and so did everyone else!" His tone was bitter, but it had softened a bit. Sherlock let out a dry laugh. "I had to tear down the rest of Moriarty's web. I went everywhere; America, France, you name it. If they weren't all dead and I came back, a bullet through everyone's temple would've been my welcome back present." Sherlock made a noise in his throat and feverishly blinked his eyes. John stood there, watching the man who had always been held so highly, who had solved countless cases and saved lives; saved his life as hot tears welled up in his eyes.
"Sherlock..."
"I'm sorry John, I really am. I understand if you want to leave, or if you want me to leave but I was only gone because I had to be. God, if I could've just come home."
"Sherlock..."
"Oddly enough, I hated being alone. I hated being there without anyone, just spending three bloody years hunting down cohorts and pulling a bullet in their brains. I couldn't stand not knowing what was happening to you and I...I..."
"Sherlock!" John pulled his hands from his face, taken aback at the sights. Sherlock was crying and his eyes were filled with agony and hate for himself and a longing that he would still have a place in their hearts. He looked like a broken, crushed man. A sob racked his thin frame and his pale, burning eyes made contact with John's.
"I missed you, so much John. It hurt, and I don't know why because I was in no physical pain but it just hurt so much." Sherlock was on the verge of a mindless ramble, just pouring out every thought that was occurring in his haywire mind. John grabbed Sherlock's shoulders, tipped his head down and met Sherlock's lips in a kiss that made his breath stop and the flat grew quiet. They stayed there, lost in a completely different world where everything was tranquil and good, and Sherlock had never jumped from Bart's, John had never nearly joined him on several occasions. But they broke away from each other, each man catching thier breath. Sherlock said nothing, he just stared at John with a sort of stricken grimace. John felt a lump grow in his throat; had he misinterpreted Sherlock's deep need for any friendly human contact, which had apparently been for John alone, for love?
"I...I'm going to uh, check the soup." he managed, fleeing the bedroom. He walked to the kitchen, turning off the burner and watching the bubbles in the soup slow in size and number. He stumbled over to the sink and felt sick. He had just ruined the friendship a man had to fake his own death for, had to kill man after man just to make it home safely. Sherlock had rescued John, he had made his tremor and limp disappear and he just ruined the relationship they had built. John felt his throat close and thought that he could faint, just drop dead from exhaustion of himself and this life. Suddenly he was being spun around and pulled close to Sherlock and Sherlock kissed his hairline then whispered into his ear.
"John Hamish Watson, I love you and I'll be damned if I let you leave my sight again before I say it." John grabbed a fistful of Sherlock's shirt, clenching it tightly. "Sherlock Holmes, I love you too and if you ever try to leave again, I'll kill you." They looked into each other's eyes for a moment, they burst into laughter, the deep baritone of Sherlock's voice rumbling against John's chest. John could feel Sherlock's heartbeat and could kiss him and touch him and entwine his fingers with his and this was him. Sherlock Holmes was alive, and he was here, laughing with John Watson despite they fact that they were both crying.
Sherlock slouched just enough so that John had to stand on his toes to meet Sherlock's lips, and the kisses were quick and repetitive, but held just as much meaning as if they held onto one. They broke apart again and couldn't stop laughing, couldn't hear enough of the joyous pitches in each other's voices and couldn't be any closer.
Sherlock Holmes was back from the dead and so was John's heart.