Do not own anything of the BBCs this is purely for fun!
My first story, please be kind, and enjoy!
He stared through the heavy rain at the dark wooden door that used to be his favourite home. He turned his head slowly to see the back of the taxi drivers head; he was silent, like Baker Street in these early hours of a Monday morning.
'6.50 mate' said the driver not turning from his current position to look at John.
'Err, I'm sorry, I only have the 6' John explained apologetically, not really feeling sorry.
'That'll do' the man replied and took John's change without looking at him.
John sighed, he opened the taxi door and slowly moved out, he collected his walking stick from the foot well, and hobbled to the doorway slamming the taxi door rather loudly behind him. As the large brass encased '221B' loomed larger, he started to search for his old keys. The grind of the key in the brass lock seemed to echo through the rain, painful memories flashing through his brain;
'Well this is a prime spot. Must be expensive'
'Yes, Mrs Hudson - the landlady, she's given me a special deal...'
John paused in the rain. He shook his head, trying to rid the vision of his friend.
The hallway was dark; a slight smell of damp greeted him as he closed the door to the miserable street. He remembered what Mrs Hudson had said once about the basement room. Too difficult to rent out because of the damp. He was glad she was on holiday, an old face he wouldn't have to explain his wiry, hollow and wasted away appearance to.
John looked up at the old staircase, asking himself why he had to be here, even though he knew full well why he had to be here, Mrs Hudson had written to him, explaining her predicament; her doctor had sent her on a holiday in an attempt to lighten her spirits, she was frightened of leaving the house; especially with London crime rate on the increase. John was here to house sit.
Mrs Hudson had warned him, in her letter that as John was not officially moved out, she had left things exactly as they were upstairs. Just like a museum.
John heavily stepped up the stairs, slowly, to accommodate his limp. The house was silent apart from the heavy rain pattering the windows. It added to the sadness, Baker Street never used to be this way, there would either be ecstatic violin chords, yelling, random gun shots, hell, even text tones and typing. John had reached the living room. Mrs Hudson was as good as her word; everything was just as Sherlock and he had left it seven months ago.
John caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, he jumped, and he didn't recognise the thin White face, the short wet grey hair, and the cheekbones that he had now acquired. He looked like a shorter Sherlock. He chuckled darkly at his image and turned away. He stood staring at the violin propped up against the large couch near the back wall. He didn't know how long he had stood there before he decided to go to Sherlock's bedroom.
It still smelled of him. He didn't turn the main light on, he just stood like a ghost in the corner beside the door; taking in every inch of Sherlock he could. It still hurt. He'd not been worth living for. John was not enough to keep Sherlock on this world. He began to cry, to sob. After 10 minutes or so, he stood resolute, swallowed hard, and shook himself in a military fashion.
He decided to rid his cold wet jacket and trousers, throwing them over the chair beside the bed. He struggled with his jumper and t shirt, but they soon joined the pile of clothing on the chair.
It was only now that John realised he was still in Sherlock's room. Was this weird? No, he thought, no, he just missed his friend. He clambered into the bed, making sure his stick was within reach.
He whipped up the duvet and sheets, wafting a cloud of Sherlock's musk, mainly mild peppermint, at himself. It hit John like a tonne of bricks, he couldn't contain it, and he broke down again, crouching into a ball in the middle of the bed. He really really missed his best friend, he was hurt, and Sherlock wasn't there to take care of him, no, this time, Sherlock was not the help, he was the cause.
-Sherlock-
He rolled around the street block, driving aimlessly, he saw drunken teenagers, adults, possible burglars, potential bank robbers, but it didn't matter. He wasn't going to stop them. He had decided that tonight was the night. He had tracked down the last of Moriarty's men and had shot him from afar...27 times. A little excessive he would agree, but he didn't want to take the risk of one surviving. However, he was now free. Tonight was the night that Sherlock came back to life.
Sherlock identified an excellent parking space on the corner of Baker Street. He switched off the lights, including the yellow 'taxi' light upon the roof. He had enjoyed his time as a London cab driver, more especially, his latest game of intercepting John Watson's taxi rank calls and being there to pick him up and drop him off. He was also rather fond of his 'you-won't-recognise-me-I'm-a-taxi-driver' hat.
Sherlock took this time to gather his thoughts, how bad could it be? Seven months away was not that bad. However, John did look awful, he had glimpsed him a few times before he picked him up, and he had removed the centre windscreen mirror to avoid eye contact with his passengers, John more so, so he had not had his usual two minutes to deduce his appearance.
He had, however, picked up that John had a new psychosomatic limp, most probably as a physical manifestation of trauma. He had not eaten this week, at least two whole days, he was living alone. He had tried to contact Harry, with no success, and judging on that left trouser leg; he had been watching too much daytime crap telly - meaning he was without a full time job.
Sherlock pulled up his coat collar and looked down the street. It was approaching 4am, not a soul braving the rain down here. He got out of the taxi, locked the doors and ran down the street, coat billowing out behind his thin frame.
He stopped outside 221B. He blinked at it through the rain, looking back at the taxi; he made the transition and approached the door briskly, not making any unnecessary moves. He swiftly closed and locked the door behind him; blowing a wet curl out of his eye he turned on his heel to face the empty corridor. Silently, he bounced up the familiar staircase. He paused in the living room. Within 40 seconds he had identified three items out of place. Old Newspaper, a pair of abandoned socks and John's laptop was missing.
Sherlock smiled, he ran to the fridge, 'yes!' he whispered frantically, even his fingernail experiment was still in the egg tray, wow, that was a really impressive result, he slammed the fridge door, smiling. He bounced up the second staircase to John's bedroom. He opened the door quietly and popped his head slowly round the wooden boundary.
He frowned. The room was empty. How odd. If he wasn't up here, where had he gone? He raced down the stairs, bathroom was empty, and he frantically ran down to Mrs Hudson's living quarters, no landlady, and no friend. Sherlock padded his temples with his index fingers, he dropped him off. He had watched John, albeit, slowly, approach 221B and unlock the door. This was only an hour ago.
Sherlock climbed the stairs slowly; there was only one room he had not been in. His own. Surely John wouldn't be in there, what would he be doing? Sherlock twisted the door handle and slowly pushed the door open. He walked inside. There, there was John. Wrapped up in Sherlock's sheets. He was slightly snoring, his face red and blotchy even in the dim street light flooding through the window.
Sherlock was transfixed by this image. Things were bad, much worse than he had calculated.
He approached the bed and sat down beside his friend. He paused. Friend? Would a friend really be struck by his death this badly? Sherlock did not understand relationships, but he had always had strong feelings of protection towards John, he wasn't just a colleague, he was a cook, carer, investigator, doctor, partner, housemaid, soldier, comedian, and lifesaver. John was a way of life.
Sherlock suddenly felt something he had never felt before, it was more than admiration, he couldn't name it, but it made him want to curl himself round his friend, underneath his own old sheets.
So, as a man who believed his brain was foolproof, he removed his wet clothing, and clambered into his old bed. He mentally noted that John was almost nothing but cold bone as he cuddled around him; he felt a stab of guilt. Maybe this was much worse than he first had thought. He shifted around John until he was Satisfied, his arm draped over John protectively. Sherlock decided to let John sleep; they would discuss it in the morning.
-
John woke. He stared at his view of the rooftops outside the window; the sky was bright blue with fluffy White blobs of cloud dotted around inside it. He looked to the wallpaper that covered the Walls surrounding the window, it was hideous. How on earth had that survived without bullet holes and the living room wallpaper hadn't?
'hmm ghumm, cheom' followed by a male cough made John freeze. He felt paralysed from head to toe. Someone was in this room. Worse, someone had slept in this room, with him, and was now having the audacity to clear their throat as a morning greeting.
John felt the mattress move underneath him, he remained as stiff as a board, not moving, not breathing. A warm steady hand grasped John's midriff and pulled, John, still acting like a goat in danger, went with the force until he lay on his back, the only thing moving were his eyes. And what a sight they saw.
John's eyes met with a pair of very familiar steel blue ones encased in bone White flesh. His dark curls in disarray framing his forehead and covering the tops of his ears. John, still immobile, stared at the man's face, intently examining every feature, starting with his eyes, his dark eyelashes, his calm but worried expression, his long nose, his thin pink lips, and back to his eyes.
'Not sure about you, but that's the best night's sleep I think I have ever had.' Sherlock said lightly, beaming from ear to ear at John, the smile faded however as Sherlock became slightly frightened that John had not moved of his own accord, and more importantly that he didn't seem to be breathing. He playfully smacked John's chest, vaguely registering the dusting of hair there.
John gasped, but still stared unblinkingly up at Sherlock, now with slight water retention in his tear ducts.
'Hi John' Sherlock said rather quietly.
'Sher-sherl...' John stuttered, his eyes blinking now, to hold back floods that threatened to appear. Then he stopped, he sat bolt upright, looking around the room, looking back at Sherlock, ripping the sheets off of him. They both sat face to face in their underwear. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at John.
'Are you him?' John questioned sternly.
'Am I who, John?' Sherlock asked, genuinely confused.
'Moriarty? Are you here to kill me?' John asked calmly.
'No, John, I'm Sherlock, your Sherlock. Moriarty...' Sherlock paused, before looking away '...was the man you buried 7 months ago'.
John wheezed, he stared at Sherlock, almost expecting something. He rubbed his eyes. 'You made me...believe...you were dead' he said slowly between deeply controlled breaths.
'Yes, John, but you see, I had no choice. You couldn't know about Moriarty until it was safe. That day I jumped, I jumped into the skip lorry in front of St Barts. I organised that bicyclist to bump into you so that you would arrive in time to see Moriarty's body with a rubber mask attached to his face. Molly helped me-'
'What? Why did you do this? You were supposed to be my best friend, you don't even appreciate Molly, what is going on here? You betrayed me!' John interrupted Sherlock with a full blown confused rant. Tears slid uncontrollably down his face now as he struggled with the sheets to get to his feet on the hard, cold wooden floorboards.
Sherlock struck out and firmly grabbed John's wrists stopping him from moving away.
'John, I had to, there was a sniper rifle aimed at your head' Sherlock hissed desperately 'I had to disappear for the safety of all those I loved.' he stood too, standing close to a shocked wet eyed John.
'I had to track down Moriarty's army. And I finished yesterday. We are free, John.' Sherlock smiled, though a tear betrayed his controlled appearance, he was hurting to see John hurting. John fell to his knees, his legs gave in, Sherlock went willingly with him.
'You're really here...for me?' John tentatively questioned.
'Yes John.' Sherlock confirmed.
'And you're not a fraud?' John questioned, hoping he knew the truth already.
'Not a fraud at all. I lied about that to help you adjust to my absence' Sherlock said proudly.
John laughed. A loud, harsh noise from the back of his throat that was uncontrolled. Sherlock smiled and then frowned.
'John, you haven't been eating'. Sherlock stated.
'didn't seem much need' John shrugged.
Sherlock leant over and embraced his friend. John breathed deeply, fresh peppermint, slight hint of cigarette smoke and chemical cleaning agent. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock's back. Snuggling into the taller man, clinging to him, afraid that he will wake up any minute.
Sherlock teased off John's hold on him, just enough to lean back and see John's face. He recognised the lines of slight panic, hunger and disbelief. He couldn't help it; he leaned forward and placed a delicate kiss to John's lips. John closed his eyes and sat back on his heels; he opened his eyes after a few minutes and looked at Sherlock's expression of shock with mild amusement.
Sherlock lifted his right hand to his face, touching his mouth with his fingers, he was confused, why had his body done that? He was not aware of any decision to do so. John smiled weakly and moved round to cuddle into the man again. Sherlock looked down interestedly as John's hair brushed against his bare chest. He rather liked the feeling and decided, just this once to let the whole thing slide. But he would have to experiment later with this new chapter of their friendship.
After a few more minutes of Sherlock resting his head on John's head and rubbing his arm with his hands, he moved to look at John in the face.
'Come on John' he said helping him to stand up and helped him to the kitchen. 'Now, let's get some food into you...we also need to discuss that limp'.
-
'Mrs Hudson!' Sherlock bellowed.
'Yes, dear?' came the call from downstairs.
'Cup of tea please?' Sherlock called sarcastically.
'Just this once dear, not your housekeeper!'
John smiled at his newspaper; she'd been saying that for years.
A police siren echoed round the street outside. Sherlock jumped up and threw his dressing gown behind him like a cape, dramatically he ran to the window, leaning on the frame.
'Ahah! The game would appear on, John.' Sherlock said enthusiastically.
John looked up 'What is your guess?' John asked.
Sherlock scoffed. 'I do not guess, John.' John smiled. 'But I bet it's a robbery'.
Johns smile extended and he looked up expectantly as Sherlock breezed over to him, bending slightly to kiss John lightly on his lips. John hummed his satisfaction before getting back to the paper. Sherlock rushed away to throw on his everyday crisp outfit, back in time for Lestrade to fill him in. It was indeed, a robbery, of course.
Sherlock snapped at Mrs Hudson on his way down the stairs that he did not need a cup of tea, and then the three men went out into the cold. En route to the police station, Sherlock identified a man at the side of the road;
'Hardly a challenge! He is obviously our robber, LOOK at his SHOES!'
The car screeched to a halt and John jumped out to bolt after the criminal in question.
Sherlock followed suit.
John smiled despite his current position of crime fighting; Sherlock was free from his ultimate enemy, resulting in John being free too. The limp once again had disappeared, he was loved, he was in love, and it was all fine, just as he had predicted at the start.