Saturday, 11 February.
04:59.
You attention-seeking prick, couldn't you at least have the decency to let me sleep? It's bad enough that I see all these blasted little reminders of you everywhere I go. Do you really have to barge in on my nightmares?
Honestly, you'd think I'd be used to it by now- christ only knows I had enough of them after Afghanistan. But this is different, this time it's worse. I'm back in the field after an IED blast and I'm trying to hold a soldier's chest together long enough for reinforcements to arrive, and then all a sudden there's this sharp pinch in my shoulder and I look down and there's a hole and it's bleeding and oh god it hurts but I have to help the soldier, I have to keep him alive... And then I look at his face and it's you and you're dying and I can't save you, I can't breathe, I've lost too much blood and everything's swimming and fading and then it's gone.
Everything's supposed to be better in the morning, but it's not, because you're still gone when I wake up.
06:43.
Maybe it'd be better to just end it all- to take a step off a ledge and just tumble into nothing. To feel what you felt.
It'd be a relief.
John had left his laptop lying open in the kitchen when he left for his shift, and she had just meant to tidy up the place for him- not too much, she isn't his housekeeper, after all. But the poor dear had been through a lot recently- too much for anyone- so why shouldn't she make things a bit easier for him? She didn't mean to read it, honestly.
Mrs. Hudson held a shaking hand to her mouth as she reached the last line. It had been so rough those first few weeks, trying to keep him eating and sleeping and just making it through to the next day, but she'd thought he was doing better, working fairly regularly at the clinic and even going out for the occasional pint with Gregory. Never in a million years did she think he would even consider...
She stepped away from the table and paced despite her wretched hip, trying to process the words on the screen. Then, with a decisive nod, she closed the laptop and hurried back down to her rooms with it tucked under her arm.
Once safely in her kitchen, she set it down and rummaged through her rubbish drawer, finally digging out a memory stick Mrs. Turner from next door had given her with some family pictures on it, forgetting that she didn't actually own a computer. At least it could come to some use now. After fumbling a bit she figured out how to transfer the text file; John had saved it to the desktop, thank heavens. Pocketing the stick, she returned the laptop and hailed a cab for the cemetery.
Reaching the marble headstone, Mrs. Hudson's steps became less hurried and more hesitant, almost nervous. Her eyes flickered towards a nearby angel statuette as she spoke. "Hello, dear... I've brought you a little something from John- well, sort of, he doesn't exactly... Well, I thought it would be a lovely idea to let you see... or to leave it here, since I suppose it's a bit difficult for you to- well, I'll just set it here, shall I?" She put the drive down gently in front of the stone and turned to leave, but paused as if as an afterthought. "Now make sure you read it, Sherlock Holmes- if he's never needed you back before, he does now."
The words were directed at nothing, but again she glanced at the statue. "It's time, dearie."
As she walked back towards the waiting cab, a memory from almost a year ago sprung to her mind.
"I'm angry." He said it almost with a laugh, like he was embarrassed of the emotion.
She patted his arm gently. "It's okay, John. There's nothing unusual in that. That's the way he made everyone feel. All the marks on my table and the noise, firing guns off at one in the morning..."
"Yeah."
"...Bloody specimens in my fridge- imagine! Keeping bodies where there's food... And the fighting! Drove me up the wall with all his carryings on..."
John pulled away from her slightly, frowning. "Yeah, listen, I'm not actually that angry, okay?"
She caught herself a moment too late. Here they were at his best friend's grave and she was ranting on about him... "Okay. I'll leave you alone to... you know." Silly old woman- when would she learn to hold her tongue? It had always gotten her into trouble, even when she was a schoolgirl. She bit her lip as she walked between the headstones to where the cabbie sat waiting.
Out the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of motion; a swirl of black, just for a moment, disappearing behind a tall statue. But that was impossible, it couldn't be... Before she could stop herself- damn her tongue again- she called his name. "Sherlock!"
The spectre stopped, turned; and there he was, clear and solid as the stones around them. "Hello, Mrs. Hudson."
Her hand flew to her heart and she glanced back to where John stood over the apparently empty grave. "But how-"
He quickly put an arm out to steady her, gently guiding her into the cover of the trees. "I can't explain why or how, there's no time- suffice to say that it was the only viable option and there were sufficient... factors at risk that made its completion necessary."
"Necessary! Factors at risk, my foot, there is no cause for-"
Sherlock suddenly pressed his finger to her lips, halting her mid-sentence. Through the silence they could clearly hear what was being said behind them.
"You… you told me once… that you weren't a hero. Umm… There were times when I didn't even think you were human, but let me tell you this. You were the best man, the most human... human being that I've ever known and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, and so... there. I was so alone... and I owe you so much."
Mrs. Hudson started furiously at the man beside her. "Don't you see, can't you tell what you've done to him? You've got to tell-"
"I can't."
It was the tone of his voice rather than his words that made her pause; he sounded broken, almost frail, nothing like the unfeeling detective the world had once known. She said nothing else as their attention was pulled unwillingly back to the words filtering over the breeze.
"... But please, there's just one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me, don't be... dead. Would you do that just for me? Just stop it. Stop this…"
The pair of them watched as John finally broke down.
After a moment, Sherlock spoke softly, keeping his sight trained on the doctor. "It's for his safety, this, his and yours. Moriarty may no longer be a threat, but there are others- sweeping tendrils of a crumbling cobweb, poised to strike at the vaguest hint of my survival.
"I need to clear out that cobweb, do you understand, Mrs. Hudson? Then, and only then, can he know. Will you make sure of that?"
Could she make sure of that? Was it even possible to keep a secret of this magnitude, of this importance, hidden from the very person who needs to hear it most? "I- well, I can try..."
"Please." His eyes, piercing and pleading, revealed the urgency of the request. She was shocked to see the beginnings of tears.
"Al- alright. I'll do it."
He relaxed visibly. "Thank you."
"For how long, though? I don't know if he'll make it, Sherlock, really I don't..."
Sherlock winced at the reminder. "A month? Three months? And even then it may be more... prudent for me to remain away longer, depending on- circumstances."
Back down the hill, John slowly regained his composure and strode back to the cab. To anyone else, he would seem perfectly normal, but Mrs. Hudson hadn't cared for him for three years for nothing. His shoulders slumped just the tiniest bit more, his old limp was slightly more pronounced; he looked as if he'd aged ten years in as many days.
She knew Sherlock could see it too, how much his absence was affecting his friend. But she saw how badly it hurt him to stay away, how much it tore him apart to be alone after finally finding out what companionship was like. And she also knew that it had to be for a very, very good reason that he hid, because there was very little that could keep him from the things- and people- he cared about.
"You'll remember to sleep?"
He looked down at her, momentarily surprised at the abrupt change. Then he smiled slightly. "When necessary, yes."
She glared at him. "None of that, dearie. Five hours a night and two meals a day at the least, and don't make me call your brother, assuming he knows about this wretched business... The healthier you are, the quicker you work and the sooner you're back home- where you belong." Her voice broke a little near the end.
Unexpectedly, he pulled her into a short but tight hug. "Believe me when I say, Mrs. Hudson, that getting back home is my top priority."
A few moments later and she was climbing into the cab where John was waiting silently. "Sorry I held you up, dear, I know you want to get back to Harry's... I was just admiring some of the flowers."
The afternoon following her graveyard delivery, she was folding laundry in the kitchen when her phone buzzed in her pocket. She jumped, unsurprisingly, as she'd been starting at shadows all day, waiting for some sign that her message had been received. According to the new text, it had.
Cemetery storage shed, as soon as convenient. Knock four times on lower door panel. -SH
The shed was fairly easy to find, if a little secluded, tucked away in the far corner of the yard and nestled against a bank of trees. She hurried across to it and signaled as instructed, wary of any unwanted watchers. A click as a bolt was drawn back, and then the door swung inwards.
The first thing she noticed was his hair, apparently left to its own devices for quite a while- it now brushed the shoulders of his rather tattered overcoat. His eyes were surrounded by bruise-like shadows, but they shone with the same intensity, growing brighter as she rushed forward to hug him fiercely around the middle.
But to her surprise, he pulled away sharply and pressed a hand to his side with a grimace. "Sherlock! What in heaven's name-"
"It's nothing in the grand scheme of things, I promise you. Just a minor stab wound." He sat down carefully on a crate and gingerly began to pull his coat off, stopping every few seconds to catch his breath. Underneath, Mrs. Hudson could clearly see the stained dressing peeking through a hole in the shirt that he had obviously not changed since the incident occurred.
She recovered herself quickly and went over to help, chiding him as if he were a child caught sneaking a biscuit. "You had best be explaining yourself after this, young man, or so help me I will drag you to a hospital, secrecy be damned. Have you at least got clean bandages somewhere?"
The coat was off- now for the shirt. He hissed in pain as the dried blood caught and pulled away from his skin. "Bag in the corner- bandages and aspirin."
Opening the bag, she found not only the requested items but a beaten-up laptop and a few bottles of water as well. As carefully as possible she cut away the old wrappings and used one of the latter with the remains of Sherlock's shirt to gently sponge off the wound. It didn't look good- all around the inch-long gash the skin was red and inflamed, and gobs of pus oozed out at even the slightest pressure. "Oh, heavens... I'm not sure aspirin is going to cover this. You need a doctor, like it or not."
He glared at her, stubborn as a mule. "No dizziness or fainting, no vomiting, and my heart rate is perfectly normal, so no serious abdominal injury, no serious infection, and therefore no urgent medical treatment required. Just wrap it tightly, please."
She opened her mouth to reply, but closed it- there was no use in arguing. Annoyed, she tied off the bandages, handed him a few pills and a water, then sat down on a neighboring box. "What happened to you, Sherlock? And did you read what I left you?"
"As to the first, the shortened version is that I rather underestimated my last thread's tenacity. Apparently, this Irish fellow was rather close to Moriarty in ways I didn't anticipate. I made the mistake of cornering him on a rooftop last night, and he had his switchblade out and stuck in my side before I managed to get my gun on him. Needless to say, however, he won't be troubling us again."
Mrs. Hudson quickly pushed that image out of her mind, sorry she'd asked. Then, when he didn't continue, she asked again. "And did you read it?"
His lips tightened, and he nodded curtly.
"Then you must come back, really you must- if only for a day, just let him know you're alive so he doesn't- you know-" she broke off.
"It's not that simple." He stood abruptly and went to stand at the dusty window, one a hand to his injured side and the other holding unkempt locks away from his face. "How much of it did you see?"
"Just what was on the screen, I didn't move it up or down or anything... I didn't want to read any more of his private things, not after the nightmare one- gave me the willies."
Wordlessly, he crossed to the corner and handed her the laptop. "Start from the beginning."
Sunday, 5 February.
21:47.
Nine more days till hell. Well, not really- but it'll feel like it, I suppose.
Funny. Used to be I didn't give one whit about being alone on Valentine's- it's just another corporate-made holiday, isn't it? But then you came along, you with those quirks and deductions and that ego and god that ridiculous hair and those impossible eyes, and now I'm dreading that day like it's the end of the world but I know it's not, because my world's already gone.
It's only been a year. Hasn't felt like it. I still wake up at 4am just because I got so used to hearing that blasted violin of yours... I miss it. Mycroft took it somewhere... not sure exactly, but he mumbled something like 'mummy' as he walked out. It's too quiet now that it- that you're- gone.
Gone. I still can't say the other. That'd make it real, and I can't believe that. I can't give up on my miracle, not yet.
Tuesday, 7 February.
19:25.
Who am I kidding? You aren't coming back, you never will come back. There won't be any miracle. You're gone for good, and I hate you for it. You left me alone, you bastard, alone with a rent to pay and a home to keep and a godforsaken hole in my chest that isn't ever going to heal up.
19:59.
Why the hell did you do it, anyway?
Because of him? It wasn't because of that crap you fed me on the phone- you're not a fake, your blasted ego would never allow for it. I know- I deduced- that much. I picked up a lot from you, and you probably didn't even notice.
But you'd be proud, I think. Maybe. Or at least mildly pleased.
Thursday, 9 February.
22:39.
I don't hate you. To be honest, I think I
01:43.
Oh, sod it. You're never going to see this anyway. I don't think, I know I love you, and I've known it for ages. I love how you don't know that we go around the sun or what a deerstalker is and you still outsmart everyone in everything. I love how you pretend not to care about people, but would throw a man out the window for laying a hand on Mrs. H. I love how your entire being relaxes when you pick up that instrument of yours. And I love that you choose to spend time with me, just an ordinary idiot.
Didn't know, outsmarted, pretended, relaxed, picked.
Chose.
She closed the laptop slowly and looked up to where he waited, toying with the edge of his bandage. "Well, I don't see what this changes, honestly- if anything he needs you back even more."
He spun around to face her. "But it changes everything! I can't just walk up to him after reading that, it's too- I'm too-" Giving up, he growled in agitation.
"Confused? Which is perfectly understandable, given the circumstances, but..."
"Please, Mrs. Hudson, be reasonable." He waved a hand dismissively. "Confusion is mundane, normal, bearable, but this? This is something entirely different."
At her bemused look, he sighed exasperatedly. "Don't you see? Confusion is like the start of a jigsaw puzzle- every piece of information is there, it just needs to be placed in the proper order to make sense. Here, I have no information at all, no pieces to rearrange... As much as I loathe to admit it, I'm- I'm lost." He trailed off and slumped down against the wall, pale and defeated.
It was the most vulnerable Mrs. Hudson had ever seen him- his emotionless facade was slipping, just a little. So he is human... bless him, she thought fondly. Out loud, she asked, "So that's what you want me to do, then? Help fill in all the missing bits?"
He hesitated, then nodded slightly. "Your experience in this area is considerably greater than mine, so any... observations you can contribute, any conclusions…"
She laughed a little in disbelief, remembering the fiasco that had been her marriage- adulterous murderers didn't sound like 'great experience' to her. "I'll leave the science bit to you, dear. But-" she spoke more confidently now- "observations, though, that's just telling what I see, isn't it? Nothing fancy or complicated?"
Sherlock sat up, looking slightly more lively. "Yes, exactly... What have you seen?"
"That you love him too."
"Mrs. Hudson! Ignoring for the moment that the feeling is not a corporeal object and therefore is not visible to the eye-"
"Tosh!" She had rarely spoken so spiritedly against him. "It was perfectly visible, you just weren't looking in the right places!"
He sprung from the floor, frustrated, but staggered and had to brace a hand against the wall to keep from falling. Slowly, he lowered himself back onto a crate. After catching his breath, he replied a bit more calmly. "Fine. Then when, may I ask, did you see this?"
Without a moment's hesitation, she told him. "Every morning when he walked in the room you would always smile and relax a bit, whether you realized it or not. And it was there when you would turn to him for help, to make sure you don't say anything 'a bit not good,' or when you would instinctively check behind you to make sure he was still there, still following. And then when you threw away everything- your work, your reputation, your life- just to keep him safe, and when you stayed away no matter how much it hurt you, just to make sure he stayed that way- I've been around a lot longer than you, Sherlock Holmes, and I have never seen anyone love someone as much as you love John."
For a very short moment, Sherlock sat speechless. Then he stood gingerly and returned to his post at the window, leaning heavily on the sill. "It's true, what I said a few years ago- England would fall without you."
"Oh, rubbish," she waved the compliment off embarrassedly. "All in the world I did was say what I knew, dear."
A rare smile flashed in her direction, then his gaze refocused out through the grimy panes.
They remained silent for a while; Mrs. Hudson was content to just sit with him, feeling inexplicably as proud as a mother of her son. To have sacrificed so much, stayed away for so long... Gregory's words filled her head, but she realized that they weren't completely right after all- this great man had far surpassed being a good one and become one of the best, in her mind anyway. She didn't think John would disagree.
A sudden movement broke her train of thought, and she looked up in time to see Sherlock reel away from the window, stumble, and collapse to the floor. Falling to her knees beside him, she yelled louder than she ever had in her life. "Help, somebody!"
John knew there wasn't really any reason to visit the cemetery; after all, it was Sunday- he'd have been going the next day anyways. But still he found himself in the back of a cab after his afternoon shift, hands twisting unconsciously around his cane.
The grave was deserted, as usual. Besides himself and Mrs. Hudson, the only other regular visitor was Mycroft- if you could call twice in six months regular.
"But then, sentiment was never a strong suit for you Holmes chaps... at least it never was for you, was it?" Talking to a headstone- silly, yes, but it was better than silence. "Although, near the end, I thought maybe... no. No, it'd take a bit more than some boring old doctor to change you around. Always so set in your ways, outlasting God to get the last word in, you stubborn arse..." He trailed off, frowning down at the etched letters. "But you didn't, did you? And that's what bothers me most, I think. Not that you didn't trust me enough to tell me what was going on, or that I didn't trust myself enough to say how I felt- feel- but that you didn't get the last word. And it makes no fucking sense."
With an aggravated sigh, he turned away and started the long trek back to the street. But before he could take more than a few steps, a muffled cry rang out from behind him that sounded horribly familiar.
"Mrs. Hudson!" No, no, not her too please not her... He took off for the far shed as fast as his leg would allow and threw his weight against the door handle, but it held fast. "Dammit- Mrs. Hudson, the door!"
He heard the lock click and was immensely relieved to see that his landlady was the one opening it, looking pale and shaken but otherwise unharmed. John pulled her into a quick hug. "Are you alright? What's happened?"
"He just collapsed, I didn't know what to do... Oh, bother, it wasn't supposed to happen like this, but you've got to help him, please!"
"What wasn't supposed to-" He looked over her shoulder and froze. That couldn't be- no stop it stop it now it isn't him…
And yet his brain refused to be lied to, his eyes refused to ignore the obvious. Black hair- longer, but still those unmistakable curls. Impossibly thin, but still visibly athletic. Scar above the right clavicle, from an experiment gone awry. John had had to stitch it himself.
Once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. But this was the impossible... and yet here he was, alive.
And injured. John took a deep breath, and another, pushing his realization aside until it was almost another dream, until he was just another nameless patient needing a doctor. Letting his medical instincts take over, he hurriedly pulled away the already stained bandage. At once a noxious odor filled the room, but this was less concerning than the streaks of red spread beneath the skin. Damn. Damn, damn, damn!
"What's the matter? John?" Mrs. Hudson's tremulous voice called from the doorway.
He'd accidentally spoken out loud; where was his unfazed surgery mindset when he needed it? Quickly he stood up to look her in the eye. "There's a possibility of blood poisoning- he'll be fine, as long as we get him to a hospital immediately. I need you to call for an ambulance, can you do that?" Without waiting for a reply, he pushed his mobile into her hand and turned back to his injured- no stop it not friend- patient.
Pressing the inflamed area around the wound produced copious amounts of pus- no surprise, not with such a deep infection, so not quite as worrisome. After carefully draining and rinsing away what he could, John turned his attention to the stripes. Those were tricky; with no way to tie a tourniquet around the infected veins like he would in an arm or leg, he had no way to stop the bacteria's inexorable march toward Sh-no stop it the patient-'s heart.
But what if he could slow it, at least long enough for the medics to get here? Feeling for a pulse and finding one, he timed the fluttery beats while carefully forgetting the time when there wasn't a pulse to be found. One-fifteen, one- twenty, maybe? Either way, it was dangerously fast. Rummaging in his pocket, he pulled out a worn-looking iPod and put the buds into the man's ears. Classical was first on the screen- almost without meaning to, he scrolled to Mozart and chose one of the violin adagios.
As the music filtered through the tiny speakers, John kept a hand pressed against his patient's wrist, alert for even the slightest difference in pulse. Nothing seemed to change, the beats still flying feverishly quick. Tightening his grip, he squeezed his eyes shut and let himself pray for the first time in a year. Come on, please work... one more miracle, please. "Please, Sherlock."
It was as if the name was a catalyst. All of a sudden, the heartbeat under John's fingertips seemed to jump, then evened out to match the tempo of the violin- relaxed and slow, slow enough to keep the staph away from the heart until the ambulance could get there. The breath he'd been holding exploded from his lungs in a relieved sigh as he let his hand drift shakily down to rest on Sherlock's palm.
Sherlock. Some better-fortified part of John's mind registered the beginnings of shock as reality set in. Sherlock's alive, he's alive and breathing and laying right in front of me and god he's real, I'm touching him so he must be.
"John? John dear, the paramedics are here!"
Mrs. Hudson's insistent shaking jolted him enough to explain the situation and help maneuver his friend onto the stretcher, but he couldn't make himself let go of his hand.
Once in the ambulance, it only took one glance for a medic to see his shaking limbs, shine a penlight into his eyes, and foist a blanket and bottle of water on him. "Take these, please, you're going into shock."
Like that isn't obvious, a sneering voice muttered in his head. Still, he pushed them away. "I don't need them, I'm fine, I promise-"
"Sir, really!" This time, she put the blanket around him and tried to pull him away to the corner, away from Sherlock. John got in a few punches before a sharp prick in his arm forced him into darkness.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
What was that infernal noise doing here- and for that matter, where was here? Sherlock tried to open his eyes, but some kind of weight was apparently holding them shut. Alright, other senses then. Firm, but not hard surface, pillow under his head- in some kind of bed. Obvious, even a moron could figure that one. Sharp smell, cleaning agents most likely-
Hospital. With the realization came a rush of adrenaline, making his heart pound and the beeps race. Hospitals were public, they meant danger, recognition. Moran would find him and it would all be over and John's death warrant would be good as signed.
Sherlock fought to sit up, to hide or leave or anything, but the sudden surge of noise had brought the nurses running. Before he could get anywhere, two of them were on his shoulders and a third injected something into his IV, and sleep quickly took over.
"How's he doing?"
"As well as expected. We've cleared out all of the infection and stitched up the entry wound, but there are a few other injuries that will take longer to heal, especially when he has to be kept sedated."
"Yeah... Sh- the man really doesn't like to be confined, especially in hospitals. But as long as he's progressing."
Sedative- that explains his sluggish thinking, the morons. And that voice- he knew that voice. He attempted to sit up but found leather straps around his wrists, tethering him to the bed.
The nurses were quicker with the drugs this time, not letting him fight for more than a few seconds.
"Sh- Sherlock? Um. You awake?"
Of course he knew that voice- he'd been dreaming it for the past year. His eyes snapped open to see John sitting beside the bed. "Wh-what- John!" Damn his lead tongue! "Get out- Moran, he'll-"
John sprung forward and put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, gently keeping him to the bed. "From what Mrs. Hudson tells me, he won't be doing anything to anyone, thanks to you."
Thanks to- oh. The memory came back, too slowly- the rooftop in Dublin, the gun in his hand, the knife... He sat up and raised a hand to feel his side, only to notice that the straps once binding him in place had been removed.
"I had them take off the restraints- figured it'd be a better wakeup than... well." He gestured awkwardly at nothing, then settled into his chair. "And they're cutting out the sedatives, so your head'll be back to better-than-normal in a bit."
"You said my name."
"Sorry, what?"
Sherlock leaned back into his pillow. "Just a moment ago, you used my name. Before you were avoiding it."
There was silence for a moment before he replied. "Saying it makes it- this- real."
Abruptly Sherlock was climbing shakily from under the covers, ripping out his IV and setting off a cacophony of beeps in the process. Once balanced, he turned to glare at John. "I refuse to speak with anyone while lounging around like an invalid."
He expected resistance, a call for security maybe, but instead John merely switched off the protesting machine, sent away the nurses that had run in, and went over to shut the door. Turning around and leaning against it, he put his cane down and crossed his arms defiantly. "There- just the two of us, equal footing and everything. So speak."
"What I did- leaving for so long, pretending to be dead- it wasn't just a simple means to an end. I had to do it, for a reason of the utmost importance."
"A reason? Oh, this ought to be good." John tightened his arms across his chest. "What the devil was so important that you had to trick the entire world into thinking you'd snuffed it?"
"You."
Whatever he'd thought he would hear, it wasn't that. "Me? Why on earth-"
"There was a target on your head, John! One second, just one instant of you not believing in my death and you would've been eliminated. It was an... unconceivable outcome. I couldn't risk it." Sherlock looked away, finally allowing himself to grip the bedframe weakly.
John let himself relax, unsure how to respond. After a moment, he grabbed his cane and took a few steps forward. "So what made you come back? After it was all over, I mean. You had to know how difficult it would be for me- everyone- to take in."
"I read your blog. The personal one, from your laptop."
"I- but how-"
At his sputtered exclamations, Sherlock looked up and raised an eyebrow. "Mrs. Hudson didn't tell you? She found it open and made a copy for me when she read some things that were rather concerning. I, of course, read the entirety of the file in the interest of thoroughness and another- detail- caught my attention."
"What- oh." Realization dawned, and John's face flushed. "That was- you were never supposed to know that. Not that I mind, now that you're back and you do, but I didn't want to- to spoil it, I suppose." He looked away, slowly making his way back to the chair.
A hand on his shoulder stopped him. "Spoil what?"
"Our friendship, colleagueship, whatever you'd call it. I knew you were utterly devoted to your work, so even when I completely figured out how I felt I kept quiet so I wouldn't ruin anything." He kept his eyes down, focusing carefully on a speck of dirt on the floor.
"Until recently, I would have thanked you for doing so."
He looked up at that. "Until recently? What changed?"
"'I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams.'" Sherlock's smile was bitter. "I had nightmares of you- of losing you, just as you did of losing me. And I began to think that that, possibly, your sentiment was not unreciprocated."
John's mind went reeling. "So, you're saying that- that you-"
"Love you? It took a rather stubborn landlady to make me see it, but yes, I do."
Breaking away, John put a hand to his head, unable to speak.
Sherlock's face fell slightly as he sat down on the bed. "Of course, it is perfectly understandable if your feelings have... altered... as a result of my actions-" But the rest of his words were cut off when John wrapped a hand behind his neck and kissed him.
He had been kissed before, of course- as part of a case, or a few unfortunate experiences half-remembered from his uni days. But this... After a moment of wide-eyed shock, he let himself lean forward and return the gesture, wrapping his own long arms around John's back and pulling him closer. The cane clattered to the floor, forgotten as they pressed together, the feeling of chapped lips catching against soft ones and every little gasp convincing them that the other man was there, that they weren't a dream or a fantasy or a hallucination.
John pulled away after a few moments, but left his forehead leaning on Sherlock's. "You brilliant idiot... you've done nothing at all to make me love you less."
FIN.
OH MY GOODNESS this took a while to write.. almost five months, give or take a few days. I'm not sure what to do now that it's over :o Anyways, hope you enjoyed it!