Everyone knew that John Watson would move. It was just natural, a normal step to take, and all his friends knew that John Watson was ordinary. Or maybe they sort of forgot that he wasn't ordinary, seeing as with Sherlock he was certainly the most ordinary thing in 221B. Well, not anymore, since he moved.
Three years later and John thought he was doing well. He held a steady job at the clinic, sure, the limp had come back, and no, he hadn't kept in touch with anyone but his therapist. He and Greg had run into each other at the market the other day, however, and were planning to catch up sometime next week. It sort of inspired John to call up Molly and get some lunch or tea with Mrs. Hudson. But not tonight: tonight was a special night John had been planning for a week now. He was going to have dinner, sip wine, and read all the old blog posts he had of Sherlock Holmes and his brilliance. It was three years to date since Sherlock's fall, and though John didn't really like thinking about that day, this day he wanted to do something, something incredibly sentimental.
321D Madison Street was a basement flat; those cursed ones that could never get a renter. But this one wasn't too bad. It was one room and a bathroom, the kitchen and the dining room as one and a small twin bed pushed up against the wall. But it was cheap, that was the beauty of this flat. And Mr. Bagley, the landlord, wasn't a bad person, and the two of them got on pretty well. John didn't see much of him anyway, John preferred to just slip out for work and slip back in without disturbance.
See, three years later and John Watson told himself that he was doing fine. In fact he wasn't, he was just doing better than many people, including John himself, thought he would be doing. They counted this as good. But John knew that any little thing had the potential to send him over the edge in emotional dismay. The miracle was that he wasn't in emotional dismay.
But tonight John really wanted to try it, just be alone and remember the good times, remember the human being Sherlock Holmes.
He ate a delicious dinner of take out pizza and sipped some wine afterward. Then he sat on his crap couch and scrolled through his blog, starting at a Study in Pink and reading all the cases, slowly and smiling, remembering what it was like to work with that sociopath.
It was about at the Yellow Face that John started yawning. He left his computer open and decided to go and take a quick shower before reading one more post and heading off for bed.
When John came out of the bathroom there was a cup of tea steaming on his counter top. John stood stiff and stared at the tea, trying to remember if he actually made some. But no, tonight was wine night. John let the army training take over, grabbing his cane until his knuckles went white and getting ready to swing it at anyone's head.
But there was nowhere to hide in this place; it was a simple one room. The only other place was the bathroom, and John was pretty sure that he would notice if someone walked in while he was taking a shower.
"Hello?" John called out to the room. No one answered. But there was a knock at the door.
John limped over to the front door and opened it hesitantly, "Yes?"
"Ah good, I thought that you were home, but you were in the shower when I arrived so I decided that I would go out for a tad bit. I made you some tea, though I was unsure if you took it the same way, so I went and bought some milk and sugar for you to add at you leisure," a tall man pushed past the army doctor. John did nothing about the intrusion though. He actually didn't move from that spot until the tall man said "John?"
John shut the door but didn't turn around. It was impossible. It was self-inflicted. John knew perfectly well that he was truly just hanging onto this sanity, and yet he decided to reminisce about the old days. Now he had done it, jumped off into the black pit of emotional damaged. And here was Sherlock Holmes, standing in his house, making him cups of tea. John probably made that before the shower and forgot about it, making up the excuse that Sherlock made it for him.
"John, I'm back," Sherlock said. John heard the milk and sugar fall onto the counter top. Finally John turned around. Sherlock was certainly there, same dark curls, same dark coat, same polished shoes. Everything the same, except for two things. One: this Sherlock looked incredibly tired, like he lived infinite lives in three years. There were bags under his eyes and more wrinkles. And two, probably the most major difference, this Sherlock was alive. Breathing, speaking, blinking, and fully alive. At least, John forcefully reminded himself, in his imagination Sherlock was alive.
"No," John said and limped over to the hallucination of Sherlock, "No, you are not back. This is my own fault, I should have known reading cases was going to be too much. Now get out, get out and give me peace."
"I'm not some delusion you can banish away," Sherlock said with the oh so familiar impatient tone and a role in his ice blue eyes.
"No you are. What else can you be? But while I have you here," John thought for a minute, and decided to use this time to get some closure, the thing he had never gotten.
So John dropped his cane and ran up to the illusion, punching him square in the nose. John heard a crack and hoped that straight nose broke really crooked, to a point where it would never be straight again. Sherlock fell back and grasped the countertop, holding his nose gingerly.
"Do you even know the hell I went through after you fell?" John started off quiet but slowly felt his voice rising, "The same dream, night after night after night. It was always the same; you said 'goodbye John' and then you jump. It goes on forever too, I just run towards you but I never get closer, but you never land. I always have the time to save you, but I can't make use of it. I just watch you fall. And you know, I thought I was alright! Because everyone always told me they thought I would be a lot worse. Well you know what? I am not okay! I am far from okay! I just wasn't insane, and that was the miracle. But I guess I lost that now, haven't I?" John started pacing around his small room, the limp completely forgotten.
The Sherlock of his imagination stood still, watching John, calculating John, as he paced with rage. And then Sherlock did something that proved, beyond doubt, that this was the real Sherlock and no mere illusion. Because when John fantasized about meeting Sherlock one more time- which he did more than he would care to admit- John always imagined punching the pompous detective. But John never once imagined that Sherlock would punch back. Which he did. Sherlock walked right up to John and gave him a right hook right on the ear.
John stumbled back with his hand to his ear; Sherlock continued to poke his nose tenderly.
"You're not allowed to punch me, this is my insane dream," John said a little half-heartedly, but mostly confused. Sherlock had to be real, John would never let his fake Sherlock punch him, because John didn't deserved to be punched.
"You deserved to be punched for punching me. Don't assume that you were the only one to have everything taken away," Sherlock said in his baritone, though it was a little weird due to the broken nose.
"You're really alive then?" John asked, recovering now from the blow.
"Yes, I really am," Sherlock said, standing tall. John felt the urge to punch him again. How dare he? How dare Sherlock Holmes make John miserable, then make John get over his best friend just enough to not be considered depressed, and then come back into his life? No, John wouldn't take it.
"Get out of my crap flat," John crossed his arms and stomped his foot down.
"What?" Sherlock asked, genuinely confused. John cherished his face.
"Right now, get out of my flat," John pointed at the door, "I have spent too long a time getting over you, Sherlock Holmes. I have told myself too many times that I had to let go because you were really gone. So get out of my flat."
Sherlock looked around, his face falling back into neutral but his eyes were clearly hurt, the blue become a little more prominent as his eyes watered up.
"Where am I supposed to go?" Sherlock asked, and he sounded like a lost puppy, turned out by his master. John didn't take it, he watched Sherlock use that voice too many times interrogating suspects.
John huffed and walked over to the sofa where his coat was hanging off the back of. He pulled it forcefully on and went for the door himself.
"I don't care. Home, go home," John said exasperated, "I'm going for a walk, and when I get back you won't be here." Sherlock was about to protest, but John already slammed the door behind him, too enraged to listen to anything his old best friend had to say.
John went to the convenient store and bought some milk. He remembered Sherlock bought some, so he wanted to buy some too just to spite the tall man. And Sherlock probably bought the wrong brand; he always bought the wrong brand. Then John walked around a bit, just enjoying the night air and letting it cool him.
When he opened the door back to his flat he wasn't all too surprised to see Sherlock still there, sitting on the bed with his knees pulled up against his chest. But it still made John angry.
"I told you to leave," John said as he put the milk into the fridge.
"I am not some mad fever dream that will go away when you tell it," Sherlock's eyes were the only things that really moved, following John around.
"Yes, I have come to terms with that," John took a deep breath in, "But still, I don't want you here. I told you to leave."
Sherlock sprung up. His nose was still fairly crooked, which made John smile. Serves that git right.
"Look John, I know it was hard for you. But it wasn't like I was taking a vacation to the Caribbean. If you would just let me explain-" Sherlock was striding over to John as he spoke, but stopped mid-step and mid-sentence as John interrupted him.
"I don't want to listen to anything you have to say right now. I want you to leave," John didn't know how to make it any plainer, but he was certain that he would be shouting soon if Sherlock didn't abide.
"You seemed to have calm down a bit," Sherlock said hesitantly.
"Yeah, night walks do that too me. And I would be lying if I said that I was angry that you are alive. I'm just angry that you faked your death and expect me to be okay with it," John leaned against his kitchen counter. The cup of tea was still there, though it was cold now.
Sherlock walked toward John again, but John didn't back down. He knew this move, it happened almost every day before the fall. Sherlock would walk right up into his personal space, it worked as intimidation against some of the less experienced. But John was no longer afraid of this tactic, nor did it make him feel awkward. He knew it so well that he wasn't even afraid to take a step forward before Sherlock actually got all the way across the floor.
Until Sherlock didn't stop. Sherlock just kept going, not even giving them a centimeter of space. Sherlock's lips locked onto John's, and though John's first instinct was to push away at the young Holmes he did nothing. He didn't reject the kiss or embrace it, half in shock and half just curious to see where Sherlock would take this. Well, maybe less than half on that part. The tiniest bit of him was happy with the situation, because it was awkward and strange and new and perfect in every way.
Sherlock pulled away, only about an inch. His eyes were closed and he breathed deeply, like that was a huge relief for him.
"I know you haven't noticed, but I've been wanting to do that for a while," Sherlock still kept his eyes shut, "And I know you haven't noticed, but you have been wanting it for some time as well." Sherlock opened his eyes and gave John a cheeky smile. John almost raised his fist. Not because the shock wore off and John was mad at the uninvited kiss, but because Sherlock was right. John realized that as he pulled away, John really enjoyed than kiss more than he should have.
"Get. Out. Of. My. Flat," John was shaking a little bit now. Not only did Sherlock come here confuse John about the last three years, but he also had to come and confuse John about his sexual identity.
"And go where?" Sherlock asked slowly, still not backing away.
"Home," John forced himself to be the one who moved. He walked over to the sofa and sat down. Sherlock followed and sat next to him, though not nearly as close.
"John, I can't leave," Sherlock was looking at John, who turned on those words.
"Why's that?" John asked, trying to make his voice sound irritated, but not having it work really well. He was curious about the wit behind that statement, and also now he was realizing that having Sherlock go would be a little sad. Really, Sherlock was alive, why would John let the detective out of his sight?
"Because, John Watson, home is where the heart is. What are you if not my heart?" John didn't go in for a kiss because it was just too confusing right now. Sherlock was right when he said John wanted it, and John didn't know if he was merely suppressing those feelings or passing them off as friendship, but they were just too new to act upon right now. John instead went in for a tight embrace, which Sherlock returned with a smile.