AN: Hello. This is my first Sherlock fanfiction. I worked on it for a few hours, and I hope it's good.
If you have any advice, feel free to leave it in the reviews. Do not flame me. It's my first fanfic.
Although, constructive criticism is welcome.
Hope you enjoy (:
It's been about three years now, John guesses.
Of course, even after three years, he still thinks of Sherlock every day. Everywhere he goes, random people he sees, can trigger the painful memories of Sherlock. At times, it can be completely unbearable for him.
The emotions John has gone through are wide and spread. Of course, he feels anger. He's angry that he jumped, angry that he said nothing to him, angry about basically every aspect. But then again, there is also the confusion.
Why. Why couldn't Sherlock have told him? Did Sherlock feel as if he couldn't tell John that something was wrong? That's what stumped John. They were… Friends? Were they not?
"I don't have any friends, I've just got one."
Those words echoed through John's racing mind.
Like Ella had said, he should probably move on. He had started to see a lovely woman by the name of Mary a few months back, and the relationship was looking promising. But something lacked, and John couldn't exactly pin point it. He thought relentlessly at what it might be, but he couldn't figure it out.
Perhaps it was the trust that John had had when he was with Sherlock. That was one aspect of their relationship—
Relationship.
It was a funny thing, their "relationship." Of course, he and Sherlock were colleagues, but there was always that lingering feeling that it could also perhaps be something more than that.
He wasn't gay though… Or was he? No, he couldn't possibly. He had always had feelings for women. He could fathom being in that type of relationship with any but— He sighed.
Maybe he had had feelings for Sherlock, but he highly doubted that they were reciprocated. The guy didn't even act like a bloody human half the time, for fuck sakes! But there was a small part of Sherlock that was capable of social interactions, and even possibly, caring for individuals.
He thought of the time that Mycroft had told Mrs. Hudson to shut up, and Sherlock had roared at him. Or the time that he had saved The Woman from being executed by those terrorists.
So maybe there was a chance that Sherlock…
John internally kicked himself.
"Remember what Ella told you… Stop it, just stop it. Sherlock is gone. Dead. He will never come back. Miracles don't happen," he thought angrily to himself.
John got up, deposited three pounds on the table for the coffee he had barely touched and walked out of the café, towards 221B, hoping that maybe Mary would be home from the practice.
But there was something that John did not know.
-O-
A few hours away, a very alive Sherlock Holmes was absent mindlessly sipping a coffee (black, no milk, no sugar.) in a café quite similar to the one a certain John Watson had strode out of a few moments previous.
His appearance hadn't changed much; just a haircut and a new coat. It's not really like he had to change much, he wasn't afraid of being recognized by anyone, seeing as most of Moriarty's people had all but given up or disappeared. The only person that would recognize him either way was his peevishly annoying brother, of who on occasion would pay him a visit and discuss any matters of importance, and sometimes, the conversation would take a turn, and they would discuss John.
A few months previously, he had learned that John had started a relationship with a young woman by the name of Mary Morstan. Upon learning this, he felt a wave of jealousy envelop him. But he quickly dismissed it.
Really, Sherlock had no right to feel jealous. Of what Sherlock had heard from Mycroft, this woman was making John quite happy.
Today though, Mycroft had also reported that there was discussion of marriage. Sherlock didn't know how to react to this.
Over the past few months, Mycroft had been trying to get Sherlock to come out of hiding, and return to London so he could re-unite with John. Sherlock had vehemently disagreed to this. He felt that if he returned, John would be angry. (Why wouldn't he be? He had every right.)
Then, of course, Mycroft would taunt Sherlock about being "scared". He would also play the affection card.
"Oh for Christ sakes Sherlock, give it up. Everyone from here to Timbuktu can see that he had feelings for you. And I'd bet you anything that you returned those feelings," he would taunt.
Sure, Sherlock could see how John's behaviour would change around him the months before the fall. If they were ever stuck in a situation where they were in close proximity of each other, his breathing would increase, his pupils would dilate… Sherlock knew the signs of attraction. But did he return those feelings?
He considered everything.
Yes, John Watson was an attractive man. He was jovial, happy, and very loyal. He was trustworthy, honest, gave praise at every option available…
Sherlock concluded, that yes, he did, in fact, have feelings for Dr. John Watson. But with everything considered, it would not work. Everything was far gone, and it was way too late.
"Mycroft, I highly doubt John has, or had any feeling of affection for me. And I can assure you, I had none for him," Sherlock stated.
"Very well Sherlock, I must get going, very important work at the government to get back to. Please, call Mummy, you know how she gets if you don't check in every once in a while…" Mycroft stated.
"Good-bye Mycroft. Also, have fun on your little date tonight with Lestrade…" Sherlock said non-chalantly.
Mycroft turned pink.
"How do you know about that?" he hissed.
Sherlock all but smirked, as he watched Mycroft grab his umbrella and stride out of the café.
Sherlock, once again, was alone with his thoughts. He looked out the café window, into the street, and was reminded of the first night that they had met, both sitting inside Angelo's, waiting for the cabby to show up. That had been quite a night…
He felt a pang in his chest. In a way, he missed John. He missed the small things. The way he'd complain about Sherlock's experiments, the way he'd vehemently deny that he was involved in a relationship with Sherlock…
He quickly stood up, deposited a few crisp notes on the table for the coffee, and strode out of the café, into the cold, blustery October air.
Maybe he should pay a small visit to Dr. Watson…
Sherlock ran into the street and hailed a cab.
As he got into the cab, the cabby asked where he wanted to go.
"221B Baker street, please," he murmured.
The cab sailed down the street.
Within the next few hours or so, there would be a knock on the door of 221B Baker street, and everything, for both men, would change.