Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, or make any money from this story.
A/N: Hey! So, I found this in an old notebook. I wrote it just after series two to sort my Reichenbach feels out. I decided to type it up and post it even though it's been a while since the series and the new one's not due to start yet. I didn't do much editing on it, because I rather liked how raw it is. I hope that you all like it! Please review and let me know.
The Red Buttonhole.
The world turned grey the day that Sherlock Holmes died. At least, it seemed that way to John Watson. The moment he realised that there was no pulse in the limp wrist he held, all colour drained away.
There was nothing but shades of grey.
Time passed slowly, rhythmically. Tick tock. Tick tock.
John often sat on the couch at Harry's, just watching the clock. Tick tock. Tick tock. Waiting for his life to end. There was no point to it any more. Not without his mad best friend and their thrilling chases through the streets of London.
He'd never kill himself. He was a soldier. He would stand strong. He would not break. (He refused to admit that he was already broken.)
Besides, Mycroft had taken away his gun.
John sneered subconsciously every time he thought of the elder Holmes brother. The man who had given Moriarty everything he needed to destroy Sherlock. Bastards. The both of them.
Mycroft had come to Harry's about a week after the funeral. He'd explained that he would pick up the rent until such a time as John decided to return to work. If he decided to return to work.
He'd also taken the liberty of removing Sherlock's personal belongings from the property.
Except the violin.
That had stayed.
Because Sherlock had willed it to John.
His beloved instrument. The only material item he'd seemed to actually care for. And he'd trusted John with it.
The stoic, ex-army doctor had actually broken down in tears when he'd heard that. It was such a great honour. A gesture of affection. That was his proof that Sherlock hadn't lied. Hadn't made it up. Wasn't a fraud.
Was a hero.
Mycroft had promised to ensure that John remained safe and comfortable for the remainder of his life. Promised to look out for him.
"I know what happens when you look out for people, Mycroft!" John had snapped. "You tell their enemies everything about them. Give them the ammunition they need to bring their lives tumbling down around them."
He'd leapt to his feet, towering over the seated man.
"You helped Moriarty destroy Sherlock. You aided him in his mad obsession. You turned him loose when you could have ended him. You are the reason Sherlock ended up with nothing. You are the reason your little brother committed suicide. The blame is on you!"
Hauling the other man to his feet, he'd all but dragged him to the door and thrown him out.
"Leave me alone, Mycroft. I don't want your help or protection!"
That night, he'd cried on his sister's shoulder, professing a desire for it all to be over. Saying that he hated life. That he was alone again and just wanted to be with Sherlock. The only one who'd ever fully understood him.
The next day, he'd come back from an appointment with Ella to discover that Harry's flat had been broken into, the only missing item his gun.
Angry though he was, his desire to avoid Mycroft for the rest of life was greater. So he lived on without the comfort of the Browning.
He stayed with Harry for six months before deciding it was time to go back to Baker Street. After all, if Mycroft was paying the rent, who was he to turn down free accommodation?
Plus, Mrs. Hudson was getting lonely.
It was hard on her, losing Sherlock. She saw him as a son. John too. It was cruel of him to stay away for so long and deprive her the comfort that his presence provided.
The day after he moved in, there was a tap on the door and Lestrade strode in solemnly. John was furious. Shouted for what could have been hours about betrayal, and how Lestrade should have shut Donovan and Anderson down before they convinced him to go to the Chief Inspector. Sherlock wasn't a fraud, and Lestrade knew it. He turned his back on a friend who was being hunted by a psychopath. He didn't deserve forgiveness.
Eventually he wound down, and offered a bag of frozen peas for the bruise forming on his jaw where John had hit him.
Up in the flat, Lestrade had apologised, saying that he knew he had been wrong. He admitted to being scared that he would lose his job if Donovan had gone over his head and he'd tried to hide his involvement with Sherlock.
"I was trying to help him from inside the Yard," he mumbled sadly. "I knew he was innocent, I wanted to find a way to prove it, but he ran off. Maybe if we'd got him to the station...I'm sorry."
John forgave him. It wasn't his fault.
Things were strained between them for a while. But slowly, the camaraderie returned. They go to the pub sometimes, or Greg will pop in for a cup of tea. There will always be that guilt there, though. Both knowing that things will never be the same.
John went back to work around the eighth month mark.
He didn't want to. But Harry, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade were worried about him. Said he needed to see people. Said that he can't lock himself away from the world.
Even Molly, who kept mostly to her lab visited occasionally. Told him Sherlock wouldn't like his behaviour.
But what's the point?
There's nothing there for him any more. No thrills. No danger. No life.
Still, he went. He treated patients. He acted as though everything was OK. As though he'd one day move past Sherlock's death. As though he'd be happy again.
He knew it wouldn't happen. The nightmares, which had petered off after he moved in with the detective, had returned. Only now, its not the war that haunts him. Now, night after night, he relives the fall in his dreams.
Sherlock's coat, like a pair of broken wings still trying valiantly to maintain flight. The dull thud as he hit the pavement, a shattered china figurine. The precious rubies spilling from that incredible mind.
Every night he woke up in a cold sweat, Sherlock's name on his lips. He never slept more than five hours. It showed. There were dark smudges under his eyes.
That's not all.
He'd lost weight. Food tasted like ash. He's never hungry. He ate just to fuel the transport. And God did it hurt to think that phrase.
He looked older, too. There were lines in his face and grey hairs he never had before.
He was a ghost. A shell. Nothing.
And he didn't care.
Harry started drinking again near the two year mark. John let her. Didn't try to get her back on the wagon. Considered joining her. Would liver failure kill him quicker than the crushing, all-encompassing emptiness?
He decided that it wouldn't.
He spent his nights in the flat. Staring blankly at the telly he didn't bother to turn on. Drinking tea with Mrs. Hudson from time to time. Cradling the Stradivarius like a newborn.
How he wished he could hear its owner play again.
He took good care of it. Took it to be tuned every few weeks. It's the only time he left the flat of his own accord.
He didn't mind the trouble. It was his last tangible link to Sherlock. The violin was his. Then John's. Theirs.
The months continued to pass. A blur of grey. Endless days of shadow.
Two years and ten months.
It was early evening and Mrs. Hudson had gone to her bingo night with Mrs. Turner.
John was sitting in the flat. Silence. Stillness.
A knock on the door.
Maybe it was Molly on her way home from work. It was Friday. She liked to bring Chinese. Make sure he ate something.
He hauled himself to his feet. Went downstairs. Opened the door.
A red buttonhole.
It's the first thing he saw.
A red buttonhole.
Surrounded by dark blue wool.
He raised his eyes. Met grey-green irises.
Colours exploded in a dizzying array. It was so bright. The whole world seemed new.
Was it always like this?
No time to think on that. All his focus is on the man standing before him on the step.
"Sherlock?"
"Hello John," that smooth baritone, familiar and warm, washed over him.
"It's not possible," he heard himself whisper. "You're dead. I saw you fall."
"I'm not dead John," the taller man responded gently. "I'll explain, if you let me in."
He extended a hand to gesture at the hallway.
John reached out and snatched the slender wrist, pressing his fingers to the fine blue veins.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Strong. Steady. A pulse.
"It is you," he murmured. "You're alive!"
He reached out, his free hand wrapping around Sherlock's lapel. It's solid. Warm. Real.
The detective wraps his other arm around the doctor's shoulders, pulling him close.
"Yes, it's me," he exhaled into John's hair, ruffling the short strands. "I'm back."
John's entire being expanded. Life flowed back into him, filling every cell with joy. Colour. Sound.
He had no idea just how muted the world had been. It's like he's been trapped in a glass box, cut off from everything. And Sherlock took a hammer to that box. Smashed it. Rescued him.
"Come inside," he urged, stepping back, pulling the younger man in by his wrist.
Sherlock raised an amused eyebrow as he swung the door shut behind himself.
"Are you going to stop taking my pulse any time soon?"
Surprised, John glanced at his hand, the fingers still pressed gently against Sherlock's wrist.
"No," he replied absently. "I don't think I can."
Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh, but the effect was ruined by the indulgent smile he graced the doctor with.
"I had expected you to be angry," he commented as John pulls him upstairs.
"I'll be angry later," the ex-soldier knew it was a promise. "Right now I'm too happy."
Tugging Sherlock down on the sofa, John curled as close to him as he could. He was warm. Solid.
"I want you to know, before we go any further," the detective murmured. "That I did it to protect you. If I hadn't, you would be dead and that is unacceptable."
Under John's fingertips, the pulse remained steady. Strong.
"Why did you wait so long to come back?" he asked.
"I had to make sure the threat was gone," Sherlock turned his face into John's hair, breathing him in. "I needed to be sure that you were safe."
Something warm bubbled up in John's chest, and he burrowed into the familiar blue scarf. It smelled of spice and cigarettes. Mystery. Sherlock.
"I'm glad you're home," the soft words are muffled, but Sherlock heard them. His lips curled into a smile against John's scalp.
"Me too."
Silence fell across the flat. But its not the hollow, dead silence of before. No, this is a rich, living silence. Filled with deep breathing, the occasional rustle of clothes and the beat of strong, steady hearts.
Later, there will be shouting, crashes as objects are thrown and tears. Following that will be the tender strains of a violin melody. But for now, John is happy to sit quietly in the bright new world that Sherlock offers.