A/N: I haven't posted anything in a while, but I hope you like this one. Sherlock is definitely an obsession of mine, and I wrote this to get it out of my system, then decided I might as well post. I live on reviews, so feel free to leave any thoughts and opinions you may have! Also, if you have any prompts for me in either this fandom or that of Harry Potter, I'd be thrilled to take them into consideration, thank you.
"He's my friend, let me through!" This is the anguished cry that was heard that fateful day three years earlier as a smallish man with salt and pepper hair tried to push his way over to the bloodied, crumpled figure lying broken on the street.
When he finally reached Sherlock, as John remembered far too vividly, all he could do was collapse over the empty, lifeless body before him and cry until it was taken away. He knew the moment he saw Sherlock fall that he would be of no use, but all he cared about was reaching his friend before the body was removed. All he wanted was to say goodbye before anyone else could.
The funeral and the burial were hard - the days leading up to and following them were harder. The silence of the building without Sherlock's constant rambling was unbearable. Just John and Mrs. Hudson, alone and much too quiet.
John didn't move a thing. Every paper, every article of wrinkled clothing thrown on the floor, ever shoe and every last eccentric decoration remained exactly where Sherlock had left them. The only differences in the apartment were the return of John's cane when his limp came back to him with a vengeance, one cup of tea instead of two each morning, and that awful, roaring, deafening silence.
It turned out to be a good thing that John left the flat alone because three years later, a miracle occurred. John was returning from his appointment with the psychiatrist - he'd started back up with her after he lost Sherlock, though he knew his friend would have disapproved - and he was having an extraordinarily average afternoon. As he entered the flat, he kicked off his shoes, removed his jacket, and started toward the couch as he always did so he could cast his cane aside.
However, after two steps, John stopped dead, the shout his pounding heart yearned to expel getting trapped in his throat. A man sat cross-legged on the sofa reading a newspaper, and in seconds John had dropped his cane and picked up his shotgun, holding it with a perfectly steady hand. "Who are you," he began calmly, "And what are you doing in my flat?"
The man on the couch folded his paper and set it on the coffee table with a serenity to rival John's. "Well, I hadn't thought you'd be so hostile when we met again," Sherlock remarked, rising to greet his old friend.
Hurriedly and with wide eyes, John set his gun back down. "What the hell are you doing here?"
"I live here," Sherlock answered simply, as though he hadn't a clue what John was on about.
"You don't live anywhere, you're dead!" John exclaimed, as if Sherlock needed reminding. "Do you mean to tell me you've been alive this whole time? All the last three years you've been alive?"
"Obviously." The only answer Sherlock could really be expected to give at a time like this.
John wanted to hug his old flatmate and hit him all at the same time - perhaps he did. He couldn't remember later, having been in too much shock at the time. Conflicted as he was, there was most definitely a moment in which John simply stared at Sherlock's very living form in silence.
Once he got past his surprise, however, John called joyfully for Mrs. Hudson to bring up three cups of tea. The remainder of the afternoon was spent explaining how Sherlock had survived and how he'd been in hiding for three years, continuing his work under the radar and waiting until it was safe to return to Baker Street.
The pair got onto the topic of a case Sherlock was hoping to take on and made plans for investigation the next day, and that was it. It was as though they'd never been separated. For the first time in three years, John and Sherlock both were happy. They were both finally whole again.
It was only two weeks. Two blissful weeks until stragedy struck the pair once more. They were only separated briefly - they were never apart for long. But it only takes a second for a drunk driver traveling much too fast to hit a man in the middle of the road.
Sherlock, of course, was the first to be told. He was the sole ICE number in John's phone, and even if he hadn't been, Lestrade would've known that he was the person to call.
Although in general Sherlock wasn't one to leave his work under any circumstances, John was an exception. As soon as he got off the phone with Lestrade, he dropped his pen and paper, pulled on his coat and scarf, and ran out the door. Although he generally avoided taxis since the case with the dreadful cabbie, the first one he saw he claimed without caring who else wanted it. Once inside he practically screamed the directions at the driver, and when they finally arrived at the hospital he shoved the money into the man's hands with utmost impatience.
Sherlock had John's room number in under a minute and was soon sprinting up the stairs - elevators were much too slow - and toward his friend. However, just as he was approaching the entrance to the ICU, a doctor grabbed him by the arm to stop him.
"Slow down, where do you think you're going?" The man in the annoying white coat asked briskly. "This wing is locked off, it's long past visiting hours."
"Please." Although it was true Sherlock never begged, this again was the exception, and the look in his eyes was desperate. "My friend is in there. I need to see him."
The doctor, not quite as merciful as Sherlock had hoped and refusing to bend the rules, heaved an exasperated sigh. "I'm sorry, come again tomorrow."
"He's in intensive care, he may not have a bloody tomorrow!" Sherlock shouted as he rarely ever shouted, pushing past the doctor and trying desperately to open the doors to the ICU. "Please, you have to let me see him!"
"Security!" The doctor called out, then repeated it into his walkie talkie. "Security to the ICU entrance please."
It didn't matter to Sherlock that men were coming for him - he had to get to his friend. And as the guards grabbed onto his arms and began to drag him away, Sherlock screamed out an all-too-familiar phrase, the only words he could seem to find: "He's my friend, let me through!"