'John.' The shout rang through 221B Baker Street. John sighed staring at his laptop screen. He counted 3, 2, 1, the door sprang open revealing Sherlock Holmes. He was a tall thin man with a mop of unruly black curls, sharp prominent features and exceptional cheekbones. He was wearing a purple shirt that clung to his slender frame and simple black trousers. His green eyes sparkled.
'John, we've got a case! Finally,' he jumped around searching for his black coat and scarf.
'3 months and then something, and something good,' his voice was filled with glee, and John knew that any normal person would find that disturbing. Sherlock was a consulting detective, the only one, and the best. He solved complex crimes that the police couldn't handle and John was constantly praising him. He claimed he could tell a computer programmer by his tie and a pilot by his left thumb, although John did not doubt that one bit.
'Come on John,' he called impatiently as he tugged on his coat. John sighed again, but smiled and stood up. Five minutes later, they were out the door and on their way.
Sherlock was sulking, curled up on the sofa wrapped in his dressing gown.
'Come on Sherlock, it wasn't that bad,' John tried to say. Sherlock turned to face him angrily.
'It took 5 minutes John, 5 minutes!' he exclaimed. John stared at the wall. The case had been fruitless; it had taken Sherlock less than a minute to figure out what had happened, purely by noticing details that the police had overlooked, and now they were stuck again, nothing to do except shoot holes in the wall and write a blog.
After about an hour Sherlock stood up and marched over the table and into his bedroom, slamming the door behind him. John watched in confusion before giving in and picking up his laptop again.
Stupid Lestrade, stupid John, stupid Anderson, thought Sherlock as he paced his room. He hated this; being stuck up in the small apartment, his mind working faster then an engine, his eyes picking up every detail, his brain forming answers to everything and anything. He sat down abruptly running his fingers through his hair. He would have to wait. Wait until the next case.
John awoke to a series of loud bangs. Groaning, he sat up and looked around. It was still dark. He dragged himself out of bed and creaked down the hallway to the kitchen.
'Sherlock, what the hell are you doing?' he asked groggily.
'Experiments!' Sherlock replied. Sure enough, he was standing at the table with test tubes, Bunsen burners and all kinds of chemicals surrounding him.
'Couldn't this wait?' asked John. He peered at his watch through the gloom. 'It's 5:30 in the morning.' Sherlock chose to ignore him, and after a minute John left.
'Goodbye Sherlock,' he called from the hall.
'Goodbye John,' Sherlock whispered to an empty room.
'Bored,' moaned Sherlock, sprawled out on the sofa.
'What was that?' said John sarcastically, looking up from his newspaper.
'Bored,' repeated Sherlock, not picking up on the sarcasm. He was lying on his back with his head on the armrest staring at the ceiling. They had been there for the past 3 hours and John was tired of hearing Sherlock complaining. Suddenly he sprang up from his seat, throwing down his newspaper.
Before either of them knew what he was doing, he marched up to the sofa, bent over Sherlock's startled face, leant down and placed a soft kiss on his lips. Almost instantly the reality of what he was doing hit him and he leapt backwards, blushing a deep shade of red. He ran out of the room and Sherlock distantly heard the sound of a door slamming.
He gazed at the ceiling in shock his eyes wide, his heart beating wildly in his chest. John kissed me, he thought. Thoughts were racing around in his brain and his breathing was quick and shallow. After a minute or two he regained normality and sat up. He couldn't stay sitting for long, as the adrenalin still pumped through his veins, and he paced the room anxiously, running his hands through his hair.
John sat on his bed with his head in his hands. His face was still burning with embarrassment. Why had he done that? He couldn't even begin to imagine what that had done to Sherlock, the man who felt almost no emotion. Jesus, he thought, I have just ruined our friendship. He cursed himself. He soon realized that they would have to talk it over, and it was better getting it out of the way now, then leaving it for days. Timidly, he left the room, peering round the door. Sherlock was still pacing and immediately noticed John looking at him. John walked as casually as he could up to Sherlock, suddenly unsure of what to say or do.
'S-sorry. I do not know what happened,' he stuttered. To his surprise Sherlock didn't look angry at all. He looked the complete opposite. He looked happy. He gave him a quizzical look.
'Why do you look so happy?' he asked. Sherlock blushed.
'Sherlock, are you blushing?' he asked incredulously. The slight pink in Sherlock's cheeks deepened. He cleared his throat.
'N-no. Why would I be blushing?' he asked. He looked everywhere but at John.
'Sherlock, is there something…something you want to talk about?' John asked quietly. Sherlock's head snapped up finally meeting his gaze.
'Why?' he demanded sternly. 'Why would there be something to talk about?' he was suddenly angry. John had kissed him; John should be the one explaining his actions.
'Well, I did just kiss you Sherlock.' He mumbled. Sherlock's expression softened slightly.
'Why did you do that?' he asked somewhat curiously, scrutinizing John. He sighed.
'I don't know.' He replied. 'You said you were bored so I did something to shock you. I-I sorry.' He finished.
'To shock me?' inquired Sherlock, wanting to know everything that had run through the soldiers mind.
'Yes. Look, I don't know what came over me. I was caught between kissing you and hitting you, and I didn't want to hurt you.' That last sentence made Sherlock's heart clench with love for the man in front of him. Something must have changed on his expression, as John seemed to go, if possible, even redder.
'Sherlock…why are you looking at me like that?' he asked. Suddenly, all the pieces fell together; the blushing, the happiness, that look in his eyes as he looked at John.
Without even thinking John backed away. Instinctively, Sherlock moved forward, closing the space between them.
'John' he murmured. He grabbed his wrist preventing him from moving any further away.
'What the hell are you doing?' John shouted. He snatched his hand away and left without saying another word. Sherlock was left standing in the middle of the room, his heart shattering. He had never felt this emotion before, and he probably would never feel it ever again.
The next few weeks turned into months, with John barely seeing Sherlock. He was always busy on cases, rarely spoke and whenever he was home he was doing strange experiments. John couldn't fight the feeling that this was to do with the way Sherlock had acted those few months ago, and it scared him. What if Sherlock really was in love with him? If anything happened, that was their friendship ruined, but John couldn't help drifting off in a daydream occasionally and wondering just what it would be like. He found himself staring at Sherlock more and more often when he was around, and the times when Sherlock noticed, he didn't want to be caught.
Sherlock had been away for nearly 4 days and John was beginning to wonder what had happened to him, when he got the call. His phone rang and he raised it to his ear.
'John,' came the panicked voice.
'What? Sherlock, it that you?'
'Yes, John I need you to do something for me.' His voice was distant.
'Yes, Sherlock what's going on? I mean, yes, I'll do anything for you.' He instantly regretted the last two words, but he wasn't sure if Sherlock had heard or not.
'I need you to come to St Barts hospital now. Be quick and I'll call you when you arrive.' He hung up and his voice was replaced with the long dial tone. John stared at his phone before grabbing his jacket and bolting out the door.
He was outside the hospital in 15 minutes, and his phone rang again. Confused he picked it up and started making his way to the door.
'Stop' commanded the voice. He halted.
'Go back to where you were before.' John obediently walked back a few paces until he was directly opposite the building.
'Look up' said the voice. His heart jolted as he slowly raised his head. Sherlock was standing on the roof of the hospital, his long black coat blowing gently in the breeze. He looked perfectly calm, holding the phone to his ear.
'Sherlock what's going on?' he demanded.
'Moriarty's dead' he saw Sherlock give a small smile. 'And now it's my turn.' John's blood turned cold as his brain processed the information.
'Sherlock, I don't understand.' He whispered. Sherlock gave a harsh laugh.
'This is what people to isn't it?' he said. 'Leave a note?'
'Leave a note? Leave a note when?' John was almost angry now.
'I'm a fake.' Shouted Sherlock, his face twisted in agony, his voice breaking. 'Everything about me is a lie'
'No. Sherlock no.' said John. 'When we first- when we first met, you knew everything about my sister.' Sherlock smiled a sad smile.
'Nobody could be that clever.' He said quietly. Tears slid down his face against his will, and John realized this was the first time he had ever seen Sherlock cry.
'You could.' Whispered John, his throat closing up.
'Goodbye John.' Sherlock threw down the phone in finality.
'Sherlock. No. Sherlock.' John shouted, but he was too late. Sherlock fell forward, his body gracefully falling, his arms outstretched. He hit the pavement with a sickening crunch. Johns head span, and he stumbled forward in a daze and-WHAM. A bike hit him full on, and he went flying, hitting his head on the road. He managed to pull himself up and he scrambled forwards. There was now a crowd gathered around the body.
'I'm a doctor.' He said, then more angrily then he had intended. 'I'm his friend, let me through' the sea of people parted down the middle, revealing the crumpled figure that John knew so well lying in front of them. He pushed his was through still not entirely sure of what was happening, and knelt down beside his friend. Pressing his hand against the fast cooling cheek, tears fell freely down his face as he looked down at Sherlock Holmes. Within minutes he was taken away, and John sank down into dark oblivion.
John barely registered the service. He was surrounded by people, some of which he hardly knew, and was constantly being comforted. He hated it. Eventually, he left the church and walked solemnly up to the black marble headstone. No one else was around. Awkwardly, he cleared his throat. He stood there talking for what seemed like hours but could only be minutes, pouring his heart out until he took a deep breath.
'I was so alone. And I owe you so much.' He said. He walked forward a little, placing his hand on the cool marble. 'Please, there's just one more thing, one more miracle Sherlock, for me.' He closed his eyes. 'Don't be…dead.' His voice broke on the last word. 'Would you do that, just for me.' He whispered. 'Just stop it, stop this' He breathed out, clenching his fists, trying to stop the oncoming flood of tears. He sat down silently next to Sherlock's headstone, letting his tears fall on the ground. After a while, he wiped his eyes, muttered one final goodbye and turned to go. If he had turned around however, he would've seen a pair of bright green eyes, eyes that he knew so well, filled with tears.
John returned wearily to the apartment and all he wanted was to sleep. He made his way down the corridor and was just about to turn into his room when he noticed the door to Sherlock's room standing ajar. He gulped and although the emotion was unbearable he stepped forwards into the room. It was dark and messy as usual, with clothes strewn across the floor and random bit and pieced from experiments. John didn't know how long he just stood there in the doorway, breathing in the scent of Sherlock. Eventually he knew he had to leave. He turned to go, but before he shut the door, he whispered an almost silent goodbye to the forever-empty room.
Spring, summer and autumn passed slowly, filled with pain and anguish. The first few months were the hardest but as time went on the pain lessened slightly, never completely, but slightly. He found the only way to escape from all of it was work. He would spend all his time at the hospital, throwing himself into it with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. People thought he was almost back to his normal self, but they had never seen him alone. The nights were the worst. He could barely sleep, and when he did his dreams were filled with a never-ending scream, and always ended with that crunch that chilled him to the bone.
Quickly, too quickly, Christmas was approaching. John did what he always did, bought presents for the people he cared about and spent time away from the gloomy flat.
He spent Christmas with Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly and Mycroft at Lestrade's house. He gave out his gifts and received a few himself. Towards lunchtime he found himself laughing and talking with the others, and he saw them give each other hopeful looks out of the corner of their eyes, but after a few hours, he lapsed back into thoughtful, mournful silence.
He had also noticed that he seemed to be dealing with this worse than even Mycroft. He had mourned for the months following his brother's death, but seemed back to his normal stern self. To his surprise Molly was the one who was coping the easiest. John assumed she would be consumed by grief as she had harbored a large crush on Sherlock, but she barely spoke of him and never looked sad. The afternoon came and it was time to return home. He thanked everyone for the gifts, hugged them and within 15 minutes he was climbing the stair to 221B Baker street.
He yawned as he pushed open the door and he wanted to sink down into a chair and sleep forever. It took him a moment to see the box on the table. It was relatively small in size and wrapped in red and gold paper with a silver ribbon tied neatly around it. The curious half of Johns mind sparked up and he picked it up in both hands, gently shaking it. He decided it was safe and slid off the ribbon, followed by the paper. He lifted of the lid and nearly dropped the package. It was a phone. But not just any phone, it was the pink phone, or at least a very good copy. With trembling fingers he picked it up examining it. As he was holding it, it suddenly gave a loud beep. He jumped. Hurriedly he turned it round in his hands and saw the screen lit up with a message. He read it through, his heart racing.
Merry Christmas John – SH
He closed his eyes. This was bad. This was very bad. He pinched the bridge of his nose, willing the hot tears to subside. It's a joke, it must be a joke he thought. But he couldn't help wondering if it might just be from the man he achingly wanted it to be from. While he was thinking this it suddenly gave another beep, and another and suddenly the whole room was filled with the loud noise. He looked back at the screen, quickly scanning through the messages, each one making his heart clench painfully.
I miss your coffee – SH
Has Mrs. Hudson cleaned my room yet? - SH
Do you still wear your jumpers? I liked them. – SH
Do you miss me? – SH
After reading the last one, he sat down put his head on the table, and cried until he had no more tears left to cry, and his mangled heart was once again, torn to pieces.
He knew this day would be difficult. He stretched and climbed out of bed, shivering in the cold morning air. He glanced at his calendar: 15th January. Exactly a year since Sherlock's death. He got up as usual and ate his breakfast not trying to distract his mind today. He would let himself think about it this time.
It got to midday and he couldn't take it any more. Everything he looked at brought back memories and he felt like he was going mad. He abruptly stood up and grabbing his coat he left the flat.
The movie had been awful but he didn't care, at least it had been an hour and a half where he had been relatively calm. He sighed and sat down on the same spot on the sofa. He practically lived there now, apart from when he was at work. He stole another look at he clock. 4:03pm. It been 4:20 at the time of death. He hid himself behind the newspaper, immersing himself in an article. He flicked his eyes up every few minutes, counting down. 4:14, 4:17, 4:19. He stood up, pacing the room. The clock struck 4:20 and time seemed to stop. The memories of that day came flooding back in such a tidal wave he staggered and held onto the table for balance, clutching his head. He righted himself breathing deeply, and that was when he heard it. He would never mistake that single beep for anything else in his life. He grabbed the pink phone reading the message avidly.
I followed you on the bus today. You thought you recognized me for a moment. I will never forget the look on your face when you realized it couldn't be me. I'm sorry – SH
That was it. Something inside him broke when he read this. Yes, that had happened. He didn't know what to say. The world spiraled around him, his thoughts tangling up with reality. All he knew was that he couldn't go on like this. He was a mess, a wreck without Sherlock, the one man he had cared about in his life, the person he would die for. He smiled at the irony of this thought as he calmly went to the desk, sliding open the top drawer. He felt the smooth cold metal familiar in his hand. He smiled. The torture was finally over. He raised the gun to his head his ears ringing so much that he missed the next beep of the phone and didn't see the message that read:
John, I'm sorry. Open the door. – SH
His fingers tightened on the trigger.
The door banged open to reveal a shadowy figure standing there. John's eyes flicked open eyeing the visitor calmly. The man stepped into the light, and the gun fell from Johns limp fingers. Sherlock rushed forward, colleting the gun and removing the bullets, his long fingers deftly opening the shaft of the gun. When he had finished, he looked up from under his dark curls and fixed John with a piercing gaze.
'Hello.' Was all he said in his deep baritone voice that John had missed so much. To his surprise John smiled. This made him frown. He had been expecting John to be angry, to shout and scream at him, to hit him and yell at him. He knew that was what he deserved. He had sent John to hell and back.
'Hello' said John quietly. He turned around silently and left, leaving Sherlock bewildered.
Three hours later John returned from his room, his hair tousled. He had been sleeping. Sherlock stood up to allow him to sit down, as he was obviously still recovering from the shock of his dead friend coming back. He paled as he saw Sherlock and sat down shakily.
'I'll make some tea.' Said Sherlock kindly. John nodded at the floor not making a sound. Sherlock busied himself in the kitchen.
He had only made tea a few times before, but he had watched John make it often when he thought Sherlock wasn't looking. He picked up the steaming cups of tea and was just turning round when he tripped over something and dropped the mugs. They smashed, spilling tea everywhere. Sherlock cursed, immediately mopping up the mess. He had tripped over a shirt. His shirt. He briefly wondered what it was doing in the kitchen before sweeping up the broken china and getting rid of it. Sheepishly, he walked back to John.
'There's no tea. I dropped it.' Again, to his surprise he saw John smile sadly. Without looking at Sherlock he said,
'That's fine.' Followed by a murmur that Sherlock hear. He sank back into his chair looking at the man opposite. He was a mess. Sherlock felt so guilty at that moment, that he stood up and left, not wanting to be with the broken man in front of him. The man that he had broken.
Time passed sluggishly. John barely spoke. Occasionally he would get angry and throw things and shout, but never directly at Sherlock. Sherlock spent his time thinking and watching John. He only truly understood when the doorbell rang.
It was a Thursday afternoon and John hopped up quickly opening the door to greet the visitor. It was Lestrade. He looked happy.
'John!' he said beaming. 'How are you? John was confused, but Lestrade turned his attention to behind John's left shoulder.
'Sherlock. Everyone down at the yard is so glad to hear you're back.' He said grinning. Sherlock returned a smile but it faltered when he saw John. He had paled considerably and was looking from Lestrade to Sherlock in mute shock. Sherlock gave him a questioning look. John opened his mouth, his voice trembling.
'You can see him too?' he whispered. The truth crashed down on Sherlock. John had thought Sherlock had been imaginary, just another figment his distraught mind had made up to torture his days. He stood there shaking, casting his eyes at the floor. Sherlock couldn't bear the sight of John going through so much pain, so ignoring Lestrade completely, he rushed forwards swiftly and swept John into his long arms, curling his hands round to hold him close. John buried his face into Sherlock's neck, crying silently.
'I-I thought that…you were dead.' He whispered. Sherlock stroked the back of his head.
'I'm back John.' He said soothingly. They stood there, Sherlock whispering a continuous stream of comforting words into his ear, while John clutched him as tightly as he could, for fear he would disappear if he didn't keep him there.
After a while, Lestrade coughed awkwardly and they remembered his presence. Without breaking the embrace Sherlock looked up at him.
'Umm, I better be off.' He said shuffling his feet. 'Good to see you Sherlock.' He added before leaving.
Sherlock gently raised his hands to the mans shoulders pushing him back slightly but not completely. They looked into each other's eyes neither of them daring to break the gaze. Sherlock spoke at last.
'John, I want to tell you how sorry I am, how awful I feel for hurting you like this, but I know that whatever I say won't make a difference. I will always be the man you tore you apart. So instead of making a speech, I thought I'd just do this.' He leant forwards and captured the shorter mans lips in his own. John's eyes widened and his body froze, before he relaxed into the kiss. He suddenly felt hot tears fall down his face and all the emotion and shock of the day became too much. However much he didn't want to, he pulled away from Sherlock. The taller man looked disappointed at first but when he saw the state of John the look in his eyes only made him cry more.
He raised his hand and cupping the soldiers jaw, he gently brushed away the tears with his thumb. They looked at each other.
'I promise John, that I will never do that to you again.' He breathed. They were inches apart and Sherlock could see every teardrop clinging to his eyelashes. 'I love you.'
John looked up into those startlingly green eyes that knew so much and knew that he was telling the absolute truth. Placing his hand over Sherlock's he whispered.
'You gave me one more miracle, Sherlock Holmes. You came back. I love you.' He placed his arms around the detective, and they stayed there, locked in the embrace, as flat mates, as lovers, and as friends.