Clarity
John had been told from the start that interaction with Sherlock Holmes was not going to end well. Sally Donovan had told him that Sherlock Holmes was a psychopath. John had heard many, many things about the great Sherlock Holmes, and hardly any of them were good. So then, why was he so magnetized to this man? If Sherlock Holmes was anything at all, he was smart and he was charming, despite his ever-rational exterior. For a man like John Watson, he wanted to discover what lay beneath the exterior, what made Sherlock Holmes tick. It was the doctor in him surfacing, John supposed.
In the months that John got to know Sherlock Holmes, he felt a source of kinship emanating from somewhere deep inside Sherlock. John had an inkling that, despite his average intelligence, Sherlock saw a bit of himself in John. Perhaps the yearn for adventure. Surely not the drive to help others, the selflessness that had made John become a doctor in the first place. But through their intertwined lives, John understood his flatmate almost as much as he understood himself. He saw that everything anyone had ever told him about Sherlock Holmes was wrong. He was not a psychopath. He may be a bit eccentric, but never a psychopath. Beneath the facade that Sherlock wore in front of everyone but John, John could see that Sherlock Holmes was capable of caring.
And the feeling was reciprocated. In a much, much more intense version of the word.
John Watson was mesmerized by the enigma that was Sherlock Holmes. He desired to see the world as the consulting detective saw it. He ached to access the knowledge of almost any subject you could imagine. But mostly, he yearned for the aura that surrounded Sherlock, only to be able to throw it right back at him.
John Watson had only hoped he had realized the depth of his love for this incredible man earlier. By the time it had become a complete, whole thought, Sherlock had been lost to him. In five seconds or less, John had lost the soul that anchored him to this world.
Months had passed; John wasn't sure how many anymore. He had learned how to handle being in public again. Not that he enjoyed it much, but apparently his therapist thought it would help him cope. Sometimes, John liked to find a nice bench and watch the crowd as they passed, deep down hoping that he would see a head of dark curls walking his way. This was just a dream, always a dream, but someone had taught John how to dream once, and so he would never stop dreaming. John would lose track of time sitting alone on these benches, becoming numb to the world as he allowed himself, for who was there to illuminate his entire life?
No one.
John woke to the sound of rain pattering against the window in his room. He stilled lived at 221B Baker Street, much to the annoyance of his therapist. She urged John to let go and that continuing to live in the flat that once housed Sherlock stunted the recovery process. John knew this, but the smaller, stubborn part of himself would always remind him that if Sherlock could come back, this would be the place. This flat was where they created so many memories together. John clung to the hope that, if Sherlock was alive, he would feel the same pull to the flat that John did: the one that kept him rooted here.
He checked the time out of habit. Quarter past eleven. He had been sleeping in much later every day. As a doctor, he knew that fluctuation of sleep patterns was a sign of depression. John didn't feel depressed, but then again, he didn't feel much of anything anymore. The rain kept pattering on the window and John began to feel cold. That was one of the few things he did feel. In the kitchen, John made a cup of tea, always tea. Warmth spread back through his body, all the way to the tips of his fingers, and John realized a need to take a walk in the rain. He found an umbrella in the closet, and went back upstairs to put on a warmer jumper.
A rainy London was either of two things: hauntingly beautiful or utterly melancholy. Most of the days that John walked around London, it was the latter. Today, it was the former, much to his surprise. The sound of the rain on his umbrella calmed him, strangely. Small puddles formed on the sidewalk he walked on, rippling out as each new drop added to the whole. John watched his feet as he walked, every now and again looking up to make sure he didn't walk into anyone else who might be out for a stroll. However, John didn't quite account for the corners he had to make, and undoubtedly ended up crashing into another body. Luckily, neither of the people involved fell onto the wet ground.
"God, I'm so sorry-" John started, lifting his umbrella to speak face-to-face with his unfortunate acquaintance.
John's vision went hazy.
The world ceased to spin.
Time, inevitably, stopped.
A head of dark curls, soaked with rain. A dark coat, darkened more with the rain it absorbed. Sharp cheekbones, accenting the trail the water took as it ran down the man's face. Eyes that had clouded with loss, but still held unimaginable universes; eyes that told stories, and yet the glint of the adventurer had dulled, until it had almost faded completely. Dark rings beneath these glorious eyes, telling the truth of a sleep deprived soul. Lips that whispered one word, too soft to hear in a crowd, but loud enough to the men that stood alone in a universe that fate had created for them.
"John."
The umbrella clattered to the ground.
John flung himself forward, clutching at the sleeves of the familiar coat, a wave of emotion overtaking him. He couldn't stand; his legs dropped out from underneath him and he slid down to his knees, all the while clinging to the coat sleeves. To John, the rain became a torrential downpour. He felt like he was drowning, and the man in front of him was the last life preserver on Earth. Frozen waves of rain had brought John back to the past. Memories flooded through John's mind; he remembered how, because of this man, he had lost his psychosomatic limp. He remembered all the nights they would run through London together, chasing down madmen all for the sake of the adrenaline rush. He remembered how much he loved this man, how because of him, he had turned John's grayscale world into one full of color and vibrancy.
He was reminded of how in love he was now.
The weight of John's pull forced the taller man onto his knees as well, and his well-wrought armor of indifference shattered as he rested his head against John's. The presence and heat of the missing piece of Sherlock's existence caused the dam of words to break inside him.
"John, I'm so sorry, I never meant for it to be this way. I wanted to come back the very next day but that would have had you killed, and I couldn't have that, the world couldn't have that. A world without John Watson isn't a world I was meant to live in, but it was so difficult to stay away, so very difficult, and I can only hope that you'll find it in yourself to forgive me for all that I put you through-"
"Oh shut up, you idiot."
These words had barely escaped John's mouth before he was kissing Sherlock. The detective's lips were soft, inviting even. John moved his hands from the sleeves to hold Sherlock's head in place, an instinctual action used as an indicator that this was reality. Sherlock pulled John closer, keeping a hand on the small of his back while the other found its home on the back of John's neck. It seemed Sherlock was grounding himself as much as John was, for neither could quite believe they had found their missing halves. John's kiss started out hungry, his instinct telling him to devour everything he could of Sherlock before he disappeared. As the fear slowly became euphoria, the kiss turned into something sweeter, something more intimate. John's left hand crept to the collar of Sherlock's trademark purple shirt, and his right landed right above Sherlock's heart. Sherlock's right hand mirrored John's, placing itself over John's heart, cataloging a heightened heart rate of about 120 beats per minute, which is around the average after exercise-
Sherlock's mind was reeling, all because of the presence of one ordinary man that existed before him. He had never thought so fast and in such bursts; his stimuli were overreacting. And yet he needed more, much more of John Watson's existence, enough that he could drown himself in John. He pulled John even closer, closing the distance between their bodies completely. John's lips moved to kiss a line down Sherlock's marvelous throat, finally resting along his collarbone. Sherlock threw his head back, giving John a better angle.
Sherlock's mind finally settled on one phrase, the one that meant the most, the one they both needed the most.
"I love you, John Watson," he whispered into John's ear.
Unbeknownst to these two men, the London rain had long since stopped. The rain clouds had begun to part, and in their place shined the brightest, most colorful rainbow London had ever seen.
Swift fingers flew across a keyboard, the soft clicks one of the few things John heard as he sat in his favorite armchair. Sipping a cup of tea, if John listened close enough, he could hear the repetitive cycle of breathing coming from Sherlock. John found that it was rather relaxing.
A small "pit-pat" noise penetrated John's calm, and he turned to the window of their flat that overlooked as much of London as was possible, what with all the buildings. It was rain. To the average person, all rain was the same rain, but to John Watson, this rain was special. It was the same rain that fell the day he had reunited with Sherlock Holmes.
Looking back on it now, as John sat in the comfort of Sherlock's presence, he had come to realize something. The love these two men shared was a tragic love, much like Romeo and Juliet, yet the same cause of this tragedy had been the remedy John needed to heal. In the first few days after the reunion, John thought that he had finally went insane, and his mind had created a stand-in Sherlock Holmes as the final straw to cope with the loneliness. But Sherlock was real, and he was very much alive. There were a few fleeting moments that John still thought things were insane, how he had been so fortunate to find Sherlock again before it was too late. John's world had been a murky, hazy world, and Sherlock had been the one to help John see the world with a clarity unlike ever before. He had restored John's love of life.
He had saved John.
John set his cup down and walked over to Sherlock, who was still engrossed in his laptop screen. John tapped Sherlock's shoulder, and his head turned toward John, a questioning look plastered on his face. John spoke not a word, but simply tilted Sherlock's head upwards just a fraction. John lightly kissed Sherlock as the rain continued to fall outside the window.
They had, truly, saved each other.
Ah yes, it's finally done! The inspiration for this fic came from the song "Clarity" by Zedd. My best friend sent me the song and it got stuck in my head. The lyrics spoke to me on a Johnlock level and I just needed to get this fic out. I hope you all enjoy!