I don't own anything. One-Shot possible continuation in regards to positive feedback. I hope you like it :D I wrote another John story, I wonder which you'll prefer :)
Thank You
John Watson woke with a start before wishing he hadn't. A tremor of pain shook through his injured leg and shoulder as he whole body trembled with the post-nightmare horrors and cold sweat. He calmed himself after a few minutes, reassuring himself. He takes things one step at a time nowadays. If he was less of a man he would have killed himself already. It's been a year. A year.
He sits up slowly in bed, feeling his bones creak as he goes and the tiredness in his limbs. He wonders when he got old. He reaches for his cane, and heads to the kitchen. He tells himself not to think, and goes on automatic. Turn on kettle, mugs out, sugar, milk. He grabs the teas and shuffles without his cane into the empty living room and sits heavily in his chair. Glancing down at his hands he realises he's once again made two cups – black, two sugars . A sadness grips his heart and a lump forms in his throat. He puts both mugs down and sits for the longest time, willing unwanted thoughts out of his head –brilliant deductions, a violin playing, gun shots. He takes a sip of his tea and realises it has gone cold, he wonders why he got up in the first place.
He checks his watch and swears, he goes as fast as he can getting ready. Just before he leaves he goes back into the living room to grab his wallet, noticing the clouds and wind thundering outside. He wonders if it's worth it. A year. Miserable for a year. He makes as if to go back to bed but stops himself as his eye snags on a photo –The two of them laughing together at the Christmas party. He steels himself, smiling slightly. Warmth pours back into his aching heart. His voice shaking slightly, he says.
"I'm going out now. I won't be back for a while, some people have work you know." He smiles lightly, "Don't wait up."
He steps outside and realises he's going to miss the bus as rain starts to pour on his head and the chill of the wind picks up. He looks around for a cab to hail but there are none in sight. He runs. He watches as the bus drives away. Better walk he thinks.
He's soaked to the bone and shivering with the cold and his leg is having pain spasms. Late again, his boss tried to rage, but she didn't have the heart. Sarah was always soft on him, especially today. He hates the look of pity in her eyes. He turns to go to his office and notices the whispering group in the corner looking at him. They don't think he'll last the week, neither does he.
Patient after patient flies by. He goes through the motions. Sarah bursts in and demands he's needed in the emergency room. The first time in two months. Sarah's throwing him a line. He gets ready. He was called in too late. The patient dies. He goes outside to tell the family and wife the good news. The kids wait eagerly round the corner. He leaves early. He used to love proving people wrong. Now he's too tired to care. When did everything become so grey, he wonders.
He doesn't go home, not directly. He sits until it gets dark in the harsh winds and rain. A black car rolls past and stops across from him. Mycroft climbs elegantly with his umbrella out of the car. John gives him a slight shake of the head. He nods solemnly. He drives away.
John heads home. He clambers slowly up the stairs. His hands are so numb it takes him a total of twelve tries to successfully get the key in the door after dropping them twice. He gets in. Home at last. He hears a beautiful melody. He wonders if he's still on the park bench and maybe he's blissfully dead. Apart from death could never be this uncomfortable, he can barely stand on his aching leg. He enters the warm room, drawn by the sound of the violin playing. He looks into the living room.
Sherlock.
Sherlock is playing softly his back turned towards John, he doesn't acknowledge him outright, but continues nearing the end of the song. If this was death, John wonders why he didn't do it sooner. He vaguely notices his vision is blurred and lets the tears fall. He doesn't remember being this happy, he thinks with a lump in his throat.
With a final stroke of the violin Sherlock turns. The world seems to stop. John makes an odd strangled sound. It's Sherlock. Sherlock's high cheekbones flush in pleasure as a huge dazzling smile splits his face, silver eyes shining and unbounded love surges through him.
"John." He breathes.
The cane drops from John's slackened grip. He feels drips of rain run down him and hears them drip onto the floor. Tears are pouring from John's eyes. He can't move. This moment is perfect. This is the best day of his life. Like an alcoholic being sober for twenty years and then being allowed a glass of the finest of wines, he drinks it in.
John numbly stumbles forward, unable to express his thousands of pure emotions.
A sight he'd thought he'd never see. It was impossible to be this happy. Sherlock's mouth moves but nothing comes out, unsure of what to say. He looks into Sherlock's eyes and understands. He pulls Sherlock into a bone crushing hug.
"Thank you." He sobs uncontrollably. John doesn't know what's happened, or why. He's not sure if he's dreaming or dead or this is real. What John knows is that he's thankful that whatever force that has been controlling his life decided that for once, John could use some colour back in his life. Even if only for a moment. And for that, he was grateful.
Reviews are love. I'd like to write more but I'm not sure if anyone would want to read. Maybe I'll write something else anyway :). Thanks for taking the time to read all the way through, it means a lot to me.