A/N: This is a little post-Reichenbach drabble (season 2 finale SPOILER ALERT!) written because of reasons. The Fall hurt, and I needed to make it okay. /sob
I've got the time between their separation and reunion as three years, because I believe that's what it was in the original story? I haven't read it for myself, though, so I do apologise if I'm wrong.
'Graffiti' refers to the Believe In Sherlock movement that's sweeping Tumblr and Twitter. If you haven't seen it, look it up! Our fandom truly has the coolest fans ever.
Without any further ado...
'Hello, John.'
The expression on Sherlock's face was hesitantly apologetic, asking for forgiveness under the wary smile that twitched the corners of his mouth upwards. John was frozen, staring at the man in front of him in utter disbelief.
'It's been… three… years…' he said finally, his voice shaking slightly.
'I know.' Sherlock offered another apologetic almost-smile. 'I'm sorry.'
A second later, John's fist had plunged into the side of his face. Sherlock stumbled backward, clutching his jaw.
'IT'S BEEN THREE. YEARS!' John bellowed, his entire body shaking.
'John, I'm sorry—'
The doctor aimed another fist at Sherlock's face, the detective just barely managing to duck out of the way.
'John!'
'Do you have ANY – IDEA—' John shouted, punctuating his words with more punches, aimed at any part of Sherlock he could reach, '—how MUCH—'
Sherlock dodged a particularly violent swing. 'John, I did it for you!'
The doctor stayed his raised fist, falling back to let out a laugh of disbelief laced with the bitterness of three-years-worth of agony.
'For me?' He let out another hollow laugh. 'Sherlock, for three years, I thought my best friend was dead,' he said, his voice catching on the last few words. 'Do you have any idea how that— no,' he breathed another bitter laugh, ignoring the tears stinging in his eyes. 'No, I don't suppose you do.'
Sherlock watched him grimly for a few moments, quietly accepting the sting of John's words as a retribution, of sorts, for the pain he'd caused him up til now.
'John,' he said finally, his tone earnest. 'That day when I was up on the roof, there was a sniper trained on you. If I didn't jump off that roof, you would have been shot.'
John's brow furrowed as his mind struggled to take into account this new information.
'I… what do you…?'
'Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade… they would've been shot, too. I had no choice. I had to jump.'
John fell into another stunned silence. A million questions were buzzing around the inside of his head, but were smothered by a sudden surge of emotion – a curious aching mix of shock, admiration, and something else he couldn't quite describe, but he felt as though he might drown in it.
'Sherlock…' he said finally, struggling to find the words. 'You… but— … why? Why didn't you – I don't know, give me a sign? For so long… I really thought…' John choked slightly on the words, biting his lip.
'You were only safe as long as I was dead,' Sherlock explained seriously, eyes searching John's. 'I'm sorry, John. If I'd tried to contact you, let you know I was alive, it could have jeopardised everything. Moriarty knew how to get to me.'
He cast a dark glance down at the rain-soaked asphalt. John watched him, brow furrowed again slightly in confusion.
'Wha—'
'You, John.' Sherlock's reply was curt, his tone a mix of impatience and just a tiny bit of what sounded like bashfulness. He cleared his throat, casting his glance upwards again, but not meeting the doctor's eyes. 'Moriarty chose to get to me through you. If they'd found out we'd been in contact, they would have come after you. I couldn't let that happen. Not to my only friend.'
He paused, looking back at John finally, eyes silently asking for forgiveness.
'Three years was how long it took to unravel Moriarty's web.'
John shook his head slightly, running one hand over his jaw, looking skyward and anywhere but at Sherlock in an effort to stall the tears that were brimming in his eyes.
'Bloody hell, Sherlock…'
'You're alive, aren't you?' Sherlock said, watching him. 'I'd do it again if I had to.' He offered another hesitant smile. 'I'd be lost without my blogger.'
John choked out a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob, tears spilling over and streaking down his face at last. His hand rose almost immediately to cover his eyes, as though hoping to stifle the tears before they took hold, his shoulders shaking.
Sherlock stepped forward to close the remaining distance between them, wrapping his arms around the shorter man, secretly glad that John couldn't see the tears stinging in his own eyes as well.
'You do that again,' John choked finally into Sherlock's coat, 'and I'll bloody kill you myself.'
Sherlock laughed, blinking back his tears.
'I like the graffiti, by the way,' he said, steadying his voice. 'I'm honestly touched that you never lost faith in me.' Though his tone was teasing, the smile that came with it was genuine.
John's answer was still muffled by his coat.
'Shut up, Sherlock.'