A year and a half… it had been a year and a half since Sherlock had jumped off of the roof of St. Barts, and the days hadn't gotten any easier for Dr. John Watson. The only thing that barely kept hold of his sanity was the fact Lestrade kept calling him in for help. It killed him to go into St. Barts, but Molly was nice enough to let him in through he back entrance.
On this particular day, however, she refused, and had to come out and walk him around to the front of the building.
"You need to get through this, John," she sighed. "You're not the only one that's hurting because he's g-gone…" She looked down at her shoes.
"I can't… I just can't yet…"
"Come on, John. I promise, once you get this over with, it'll be better." Molly smiled encouragingly, taking John's hand. John slowly walked across the street, and, in his mind's eye, he saw what had happened a year and a half ago. He could see the people crowding around Sherlock's body, and he could nearly feel the biker knocking him to the ground.
However, he closed his eyes as he passed past the spot. There was nothing there, now, but they had roped it off for the longest time to clean.
John shut the thought down as they entered the building, because he knew work was at hand.
"Wh-who's the victim?"
He glanced around the waiting room, and saw that there were only two people sitting there in the area. A rather short lady who was crying quietly, and a tall figure hidden behind a news paper.
"43 years old, shot, but he doesn't think that's what's killed him."
"He? He who?" John allowed himself a small ray of hope.
"Lestrade, of course," Molly said, turning to John with a sympathetic smile.
"Oh. Yes, of course. Yes… well, I'll have a look, shall I?" John asked, stepping towards the body on the metal slate. Again, he felt the slight sickness that he always felt along with seeing a body stretched on a metal slate… it hadn't been so bad in the army, or afterwards. Not since him… John again shook off the fight and started getting down to business.
"Well… there's nothing that I see that would point to anything BUT a shooting. Why does Lestrade think it's something else, again?"
"I'm not sure," Molly said, shrugging. "He just said to get you in here right away because there was something different about this one."
"I don't see anything…"
"That's because you see… but don't observe, John. A year and a half, and you're still an idiot."
John froze at that deep voice, and looked up at Molly. She was staring, and had turned pale.
"Sherlock?" John turned around slowly, and stared at the black coat and scarf covered chest that he was almost instantly met with.
"I know who I am."
John lifted his head to look up at the Consulting Detective and, without a moment's thought, drew back his arm, and slugged him in the jaw.
Sherlock stumbled back into one of the metal tables, and held his jaw.
"John!"
"A year and a half! A bloody year and a half, Sherlock Holmes!" John yelled, slamming a hand on the table beside him, and nearly breaking the dead man's arm. "How? HOW, SHERLOCK?"
"The how isn't the point now, John," Sherlock sighed, but he smiled nonetheless.
"It isn't—Sherlock, I saw you! I bloody saw you!"
Sherlock smiled mysteriously, which made John even more on edge.
"DAMMIT, you machine! Tell me what you did!" John yelled, slamming his fist onto Sherlock's chest. This time, the Consulting Detective caught his arm and held it there.
"Do you feel that, John?" he asked.
"Yeah. It's your heart, or what you've got of one…" John was crying torrents, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't stop them. "Dammit, Sherlock… One and a half years…"
"Why are you reacting this way, John, it's not rational."
"Not… it's not… rational! You're serious, aren't you?"
John turned to appeal to Molly, but Molly had flitted out of the room at the first sign of violence.
"John… the only thing that matters is that I'm here now."
"Oh, yes. It doesn't matter that you left all of us, ripped my bloody heart out, and left the Yard in shambles!"
"I'm not a part of the Yard."
"Sherlock, you ARE the Yard!"
"I didn't rip your heart out either, John, you'd be dead."
John rolled his eyes.
"It's a figure of SPEECH!"
"I see. Well, what does it mean?"
"You left me, Sherlock. You… hurt me."
"I did it to protect you… and why do you c-"
"Why do I CARE? Because you're my life, Sherlock! I barely remember what my life was before I moved into 221 B with you, and I don't want to remember it, because you're not in it! You know what? Nevermind… just… work your case, do whatever it is you want to do—"
"How long, John?"
"How long… what?"
"You are expressing… love, are you not? You're acting in much the way that Molly does, or the way that a husband and wife do in our cases."
John stared at the detective.
"Well… it… certainly took you bloody long enough. Good deduction. I'm going home, I need some sleep."
"It's only nine."
"I have barely slept in the last year and a half, Sherlock. Good. Night."
"Goodnight, John…"
John turned and pushed the door open, and was almost through, when Sherlock spoke.
"And I reciprocate your feelings, John."
John smiled. Close enough.