It was cold.
The snow burned; even weakened by gray clouds, the dying sunlight still pierced through his eyes as it was reflected by the virgin white of snow, and the cold made pain flare where it touched exposed skin. He liked the cold, he knew he did. The heat reminded him too much of Afghanistan, and it still felt strange when he remember that he missed it- but even the agony of ice would keep him here on this bench in some strange, frozen city park for as long as it took for him to be able to think coherently again. This was what he wanted.
It was easier to be here when he didn't know anyone, when he was just a man huddled in a corner, shivering and alone, and no one dared to approach him because strangers were always dangerous; he watched people and they avoided his eyes and walked by: couples holding hands and being disgustingly cheerful; red-cheeked dog owners and a group of obnoxiously vociferous teenagers; men with their hands shoved deep in their pockets; chattering women in pairs and people just looking for shortcuts through the park. It was really too cold to be out, but people were out anyway, and parents yelled at their children to get back on the path and others kicked up dust clouds of white (much to the irritation of the people ahead of them). As the light faded the snow began to turn brown and the untouched banks were marked with childish hands and thoughtless, hurried feet, he was easier to watch this than to think. Thinking was too painful.
Thinking required remembering Glasz eyes and curled, dark hair, the deep baritone of his voice and its speed; thinking required remembering their last conversation on that roof when John had felt so helpless- but it had been far more than a conversation, yet John no longer knew how much of it had been lies and how much had been what Sherlock had truly felt that day. He thought that he would resent Sherlock for lying, but he never did. And he could still vividly remember Sherlock's last words because they existed in his head constantly, repeating endlessly like a broken record.
"Goodbye, John."
It still hurt like it had that day, when he'd felt like his entire universe had suddenly disappeared with the man he had just watched fall; he could still remember how his stomach had dropped and his blood had run cold, how he hadn't felt like he was truly conscious. It wasn't real because Sherlock wasn't dead and those cold blue eyes would stop staring once John checked his pulse, once he ignored the dark black of blood and pressed his fingers to Sherlock's wrist-
It could have been avoided, John thought now. In retrospect, all John would have had to do was decline Sherlock's offer and walk away as soon as he realized what kind of man he was. Sherlock was reckless, dangerous and brazen to the point of narcissistic, but thinking about it now only reminded John of things he was fond of; like the moments when Sherlock thought about someone other than himself, and John woke up from a nightmare and eventually fell asleep again to the detective's violin, or when he made John tea or knew when to shut up when it was clear that John wasn't in the mood to handle Sherlock's rambling (which wasn't often, but it was nice all the same when the man bothered to be a little considerate).
But the fact still remained that Sherlock Holmes wasn't the kind of man that a person forgot; indeed there were times when John had almost believed that Sherlock wasn't human, but he realized at his best friend's grave that he realized how much he needed the world's only consulting detective. The world needed the hero who didn't consider himself as such and John needed his best friend. When John Watson had given up on himself, Sherlock had given him a reason to keep running. He would never again be the John Watson that served in Afghanistan, nor the John Watson after.
"You're more than just my blogger, John," Sherlock had muttered once after a case before falling asleep. John had been just as exhausted, but he'd taken the time to push his friend towards a bed before collapsing fully-clothed on his own. And when he'd woken up he'd found a cup of tea on his bedside table and a hurriedly scribbled note about needing to be at Barts.
"You're of no use to me asleep," Sherlock had written.
You could've woken me, John had texted when he'd woken up, even though he knew he would've been in no state to listen to Sherlock anyway.
I tried, Sherlock had replied, but John never lost the suspicion that the man was lying.
John only realized he was smiling when he accidentally caught the eye of an old woman walking by who smiled back, and suddenly John was thrust back into the gravity of his situation and what he'd left behind earlier that morning- back when he could still feel his toes- and he shivered as he began to feel the cold again.
A long-coated figure took the space beside him.
"I did say I was sorry," Sherlock said. The doctor stayed silent.
"I did it for your own good," Sherlock insisted again, and though his voice was softer, John could still hear the frustration there. Good. Let the man suffer. John had half a mind to disappear and fake his own death just to give Sherlock a taste of his own medicine, but the doctor knew he never would. All he had to do was take a look at the deep shadows under Sherlock's eyes and the stark, starved angles of his cheekbones to know that Sherlock hadn't spent the last three years in hiding for nothing; John had caught a glimpse of a ring of bruises around Sherlock's neck before his scarf was tugged over them again.
He should have felt happy when he'd opened the door to find Sherlock standing there that morning.
He didn't.
"You were dead," John said finally, and he didn't bother to clear his throat even his voice scratched its way out his mouth. "I mourned you for three years."
"I had to convince you."
John closed his eyes and tried not to shiver again. "I know."
They were both silent again. The crowds were beginning to thin out, and now they were mostly alone. The families were long gone and so was the sun, but John still didn't feel like moving. He hadn't felt like doing anything for years and had kept moving mechanically for the sake of Harry and everyone who knew him, but now he felt like he'd rather stay here until he died rather than try to understand what had happened. It took too much energy to keep breathing.
"John."
The doctor didn't answer.
"Come back to the flat."
John shivered and stared straight ahead at the frozen pond. He couldn't ignore how his skin screamed in the cold, but he didn't care.
After another minute or so, Sherlock stood up and left him , without so much as a goodbye. John lingered for a while, before he finally went back to the flat he'd moved into after Sherlock had disappeared- his legs were stiff and he felt like his bones rattled as he walked, but he felt better for having gone out. He felt the cold air burn in his lungs and the icy bite of the wind on his face, and for the first time in a while, it finally felt real.
He slept that night, and for once it was dreamless.
When he came back the next day, Sherlock was already there.
It hadn't snowed overnight, and yesterday's tracks were even muddier than before. Occasionally someone would frown disgustedly at the ground as they walked by.
"I'm still looking for one," Sherlock began. It was strange not hearing his usual surety; he wasn't the same, neither of them were, and it was terrifying not knowing who they were anymore. John was aware that some of it was the fact that he refused to accept Sherlock's apology, but he wasn't ready to yet.
"Moran," the detective continued. He glanced at John before he went on. "I have a few days before he catches up."
Sherlock waited, but John kept his mouth shut.
"I was hoping you'd come with me."
"And get shot at again?"
Sherlock closed up again. John hated it. He hated all of this, hated the fact that everything he said made Sherlock look guilty, hated that they couldn't talk without it feeling like every word was another glass shard embedded in skin, hated that he wanted so badly to go back to how they had been before. John missed the cases and losing sleep and shouting about the dead animals left in the sink but there was something keeping him back from saying so.
"You've come to your senses, have you?" Sherlock snapped, and John almost laughed at the scathing, bitter tone the man used. He didn't like Sherlock looking at him and carefully choosing his words as if he was afraid that John would break. That wasn't the Holmes that John knew. This, this Sherlock, with the withering looks and lethal glares was the one John had missed three years ago.
"Maybe I have," John answered coldly, "maybe I actually want a flatmate who'll dust every once in a while."
"There's no point if it's just going to get dirty again."
"Yet you take the time to make your bed."
"I don't sleep on the mantlepiece."
"Yeah, but you live in the flat, and I didn't think choking on dust was the way you wanted to go."
They finally looked at each other for the first time since Sherlock had returned, and John could only pretend to be put out for another second before they both started laughing. People stared. Neither of them cared.
"Come with me," Sherlock asked again. John's grin faded. He shook his head.
"I don't know if I can." He'd always been waiting for Sherlock to get bored of him. Maybe now was the time.
Sherlock eyes were suddenly serious again, terrifyingly focused and stubborn and sure. "I wouldn't be here if I didn't think I needed you." He hesitated, and eventually added, "I'm not saying goodbye to you again."
John wasn't entirely sure who leaned forwards first, but at some point his forehead was pressed against Sherlock's, and the other man's lips were brushing against his lips.
"Please."
John could feel it, in the dry press of Sherlock's lips and the earnestness of the kiss; he could see their next case and the ones after, the next days spent sending each other passive-aggressive texts from across the room and giggling inappropriately at crime scenes while ignoring Lestrade's disapproving looks.
When Sherlock opened his eyes again, they realized that he'd never really had to ask in the first place.