John Watson had an intense hatred for death. He'd never been in particularly fond of it, but now, he took every opportunity to defy it. It was his only survival method. He'd been beaten with it too many times. He couldn't afford to leave it alone. Perhaps that's why he thought nothing of it when he dragged the ginger man out from in front of the bus. Perhaps that's why he won in the end. John Watson was nothing if not a fighter.
John strode down the London street like he always did: head down, shoulders hunched, collar turned up against the cold. From this posture he hadn't deviated in several years, not since... anyway. However, today deemed itself different, and, on impulse, John glanced up from his feet. His time with the world's only had taught him to take in details quickly and accurately , more so than most men, so his momentary glance revealed an unobservant man and a fast closing tour bus. John leapt into action. Without a thought for his own safety, he dropped his briefcase, jumped the hood of a car, and ran out into the middle of the street. He grabbed the thin man around the waist and, using his momentum, through them both to the curb. Not quite far enough. Just as his leg met with searing pain, he heard his own name cried with anguish and looked up at the potential victim. For a moment the face registered as a familiar one before he blacked out from the pain.
It was much later that John Watson came to in a sterile room. Hospital, he recognized. What he didn't recognize was the warm pressure on his hand. Nor did he remember why he was in the hospital. John supposed he should open his eyes, but the pleasant feeling of anesthesia threatened to pull him back. John fell into a dreamless sleep.
He drifted in and out of consciousness for the next few hours. Ever present, however, was the steady, warm pressure on his hand.
Finally, John could no longer sleep, so he carefully opened his eyes. He was pleasantly surprised to find the room dark, allowing him the luxury of not having his eyes assaulted by bright lights. The warm pressure remained. He wondered how long he'd been out, as he recognized his last memory being walking in the city, and then- then- it was at the edge of his grasp, so he decided to leave the memory be for a while. He attempted to take stock of his surroundings, moving his head a bit. The pressure suddenly tightened. Finally, he realized it was a hand intertwined in his own. He tried to make out a face in the darkness, to no avail.
"You... awake?" a voice whispered. A familiar voice, but John couldn't place it.
John fought for words with his dry throat. "Yes," he croaked.
"You scared me. Shouldn't jump in front of buses." John thought he heard a small grin in the masculine voice.
The man's words prodded the memory forward a bit. John remembered vaulting a car and sprinting in front of a bus. He remembered- remembered- he lost it on the edge of his consciousness again. "Who?" He questioned the owner of the hand currently holding his.
"Oh," the man dismissed, "No one important. Just... an acquaintance."
John didn't see the man flinch at his own words. However, John did know this was the same man who'd been with him every time he woke up. At any rate, the incident had occurred in the morning so far as he could remember, and it was now late at night. How long had this man been by his side?
"What... happened?"
"I was standing, quite foolishly, in the middle of a busy street, and you, John, dragged my arse out of the way of a rather large bus."
Everything flooded back; the shove, the fall, the cry, the face... the face! John sat bolt upright, ignoring the constraints of his IV and his drowsiness. He had to know now. He peered anxiously into the other man's face.
"You- you're not- you can't."
Sherlock drew one of his hands up to John's face. "I'm here. I'm so sorry."
A thousand emotions flitted across John's face- disbelief being chief among them- before he flung himself into his friend's arms. He was surprised to feel a few drips of wetness hit his forehead.
"Sher- Sherlock?" John questioned, though the answer was already confirmed.
"I am now."
"Now?"
"I haven't been Sherlock since I left you."
"What a coincidence," John attempted to laugh, but only managed a watery chuckle, "John's been missing too."
"John." The name was said as both a question and a statement with such intensity he had to look up.
"Sherlock," he whispered, relishing the name that rolled off his tongue.
"I love you."
John smiled for the first time in three years as he brought his lips to meet those of the man he'd mourned so long.
After a moment, he spoke, "I never stopped."
Sorry about possible quality issues, I'm a bit rusty... It's been awhile, glad to be back :D I would love love love feedback, but whether you review or just read, I love you 3 And if you're in the mood, my tumblr is itsbetterwhenyoureme . tumblr . com . I've got lots of lovely Sherlock & Doctor Who and other stuff just waiting to be posted :) Thanks much
~Gates Hale