Almost lost:
It had been almost a year. A year without cases, a year of empty fridges with only some leftovers from the takeaway of the night before instead of nasty and colourful chemistry experiments, a year since de last polite text with an implied rude demand of his presence somewhere at once, a year of dull existence without the excitement and the adventure... A year since The Fall. A year since him.
After the first couple of months of solitude and overall sadness, the always supportive Molly, with the help of Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson, lured him into getting a job at the hospital. They said the routine would make him better, that to do something productive should help him ease the loss. It didn't.
Every morning, John made his body fall over the edge of his bed. He would dress himself with the same clinical effectiveness as always since he left the army. He would descend the steps one by one, counting them: twelve per row, with a stop between them for the change of direction. He would skip quickly the living room, too many memories in it to not be painful, and go straight to the kitchen, where he would fill just half of the kettle and pull out the same mug. Cold milk and two sugars, nothing to eat. Once finished the laconic breakfast, the mug to the sink, clean it and back to the cupboard. Always the same. Then he would put on his jacket, take the briefcase with his medical files and leave, exactly at 8:15. He would walk all the way to the hospital and start his round at 8:45 with clinic precision. 12:30 to 13 was the launch time, so he would get whatever sandwich offered that day on the cafeteria, one or two sips of a bottle of water and back to work. The end of his round was at 17. Then he would get his things from the lock on the hospital's basement and walk back to Baker St. Getting take away for dinner if the leftovers on the flat were not "healthy enough to eat". Get home, eat in the kitchen, keep the remains on the fridge, go to bed with the medical files of the day and work himself out over medicine enough to be able to succumb to exhaustion and get a few hours of moderate rest over the nightmares until the next morning.
That was the routine which kept John going for that hellish almost eight months, in which he thought of himself as a walking corpse, not felling nor living the days as they passed away.
But that was it. Not more unbearable empty routines. Not more walking corpse. Not more pain. He just wanted to be with him. To see Sherlock again. To be able to tell him everything he wasn't able while they time under the same roof.
That morning he disconnected the alarm and slept for almost half an hour more than he used to, not being able to stand the nightmares too much. He got out of the bed and went for a shower. He put on his favourite jumper and a pair of well fitting jeans. He wanted to leave a good last impression at east. He made his usual tea, filling just half of the kettle, but instead of drinking it on the kitchen he went to the living room and seated on the couch. On the low table in front of him was a medicine bottle full of sleeping pills: One for a good night's sleep, two for a heavier knock out, tree may get you out of the game for even a day, and go on, but they weren't strong enough to kill you by their own... Except if you mixed them with the depression's best friend: alcohol. That was why there was a bottle of absinthe beside the pills. The note he had prepared the night before tucked in his pocket. He got it out, unfolded it and read:
I know these is a selfish choice to make, but I can't bear him not coming back to me ever again, so I'm coming back to him.
John H. Watson
John spirited his tea and began to drink.
After the second and a half mug full of the green liquid, his head was spinning like a wheel. It felt so good.
When he had made his way over three quarters of the bottle he took the first pill. Then another. And then another. And then another. And then another.
His vision was blurring, and there was an estrange zum in his ears.
He laid all long he was on the couch with his hands on his chest, mimicking the pose he made when he was on his mind palace.
By the time he was starting to not feel more than his throbbing head, his twisted stomach and his pounding heart, someone stormed in the apartment.
-Oh my God! What have you done, you idiot?! –A too well known voice for him screamed in panic as a black silhouette launched over him like a bird of prey – MRS. HUDSON, CALL AN AMBULANCE NOW! CALL AN AMBULANCE! JOHN, STAY WITH ME! STAY WITH ME!
And then all went dark.
When he began to regain consciousness, the first thing he noticed was a heat source on his shoulder and upper arm. He mentally frowned. Why on Earth would he ache all over his body in the afterlife? Was that the afterlife? It had to be, right? He had overdosed himself, after all, to be with him once again. And for a moment it had worked, he was there, in the flat they shared, back at his side. His last memory was being wrapped by those long arms against his flat and hard chest.
But all was still dark, so John tried to open his eyes, and had to look through his eyelashes because of all the immaculate white and bright light that surrounded him.
Once his eyes adjusted, he turned lightly his head to see what that heat source was.
Black locks of hair. And now he could distinguish a rhythmic breath.
His still throbbing head clicked on.
-Sherlock? – He managed to say with a hoarse voice.
The brunette head on his shoulder shot up as if someone pocked him with a needle.
The face that met him was one of pure anguish: Red eyes that screamed to have shed too many tears lately, circled by profound black circles, accompanied by the most sickening pale skin to have ever been seen.
-John? – The detective asked tentatively. – Oh, thank God, John you are awake. – Sighed in relief, while standing and hugging the smaller man tightly, hiding his face in the crook of his neck.
-Sherlock? What happened? –Asked confused, returning the hug as tightly as he could with his aching limbs.
The other man unearthed his head from his shoulder, framed his face with his too big and slender hands and looked him right in the eyes, as if he needed the reassurance that the man in front of him weren't going to vanish at any moment leaving only an empty hospital bed.
-You almost died, John. You tried to overdose yourself with absinthe and sleeping pills. I-I almost lost you today, john... – The detective stated with his eyes colouring again in red and tears, his voice cracking.
-Wait. You aren't dead? – The confusion spilling all over his face.
-No, John, I am not dead. I'm sorry I had to lie to you, but I needed to fool Moriarty for taking his network down without being discovered. And in order to do that I needed to be dead. To everyone. But I couldn't bear to stay away from you, so I put vigilance on your daily routines. When they told me you didn't leave the apartment these morning I knew something was wrong. I'm so sorry, John. I don't know if I will be able to make it up to you ever for all the pain I have caused. I can't even ask for your forgiveness. I would understand if you didn't want to see me again... –Sherlock started rambling, looking more and more distressed with every word.
-Oh, shut up, you bloody idiot. – Cut John him out, grabbing him by his collar and pressing his mouths together. Sherlock went still, but after a moment he relaxed and returned the kiss enthusiastically, John's hands flying to the back of the others neck. When they parted from each other, Sherlock pressed his forehead to his and allowed a little smile tug the corners of his now pinkish lips.
-Don't you dare to try die on me ever again, Dr. Watson. – Said, caressing his cheeks with his thums.
-The same goes for you, Mr. Walking Dead. –John snorted a little. – And now, if you'll excuse me, I almost died, you know, and I would want to sleep like two weeks straight.
-I should leave you then... –Sherlock said, starting to pull away from him.
-Oh, no. Not so quickly, detective. –He said, with a little grin on his face. – Shoes off.
-What? But John... – He started to protest.
-No "but's", Doctor's orders.
-Then I think I will have to commit. – Sighing theatrically, kicking his shoes of and crawling carefully on the bed. He embraced John with both arms, pulling him against his chest, and buried his nose on his nose on his sandy hear, living little kisses.
-Yes, you should.