AN: This one-shot was written on the spur of the moment but I hope you enjoy it. It is post-Fall, as I am sure you will guess. I will love to hear your thoughts so please leave a review:3 also leave any suggestions for more oneshots if you have any you'd like me to do:'D
DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own any of the characters nor am I afflicted in anyway with the BBC or the works of sir arthur conan doyle.
John was walking down his favourite street to meet Mrs. Hudson, which he arranged to do every second tuesday of each month after the move out of Baker Street. It had been five months since he moved out and six months, three days and 18 hours, 16 minutes since the fall. He didn't like to keep count though. He had lost his best friend that day. All he got in return was the phone call, which he still turned over and over in his head. He can still hear the pain in Sherlock's voice, how rare it was for him to show emotion, John pondered. He thought he had imagined the body on the floor, but no, it was real. He checked his pulse and stared into Sherlock's cold, dead eyes before a random stranger pulled him away. Why did they do that anyway? But he had decided to drop it.
A block later, he realised that he was thinking about the death again and his eyes were steaming up. It had been 3 weeks and 6 nights since he had cried last over the mans death, and he refused to do it again in front of Mrs. hudson. She had taken the death in her stride, and John was trying to decide if this annoyed him or not. She only cried once but then seemed to move on after she made her peace at his funeral. The black headstone was polished every other week, John made sure of that.
He arrived outside of Speedys, and saw Mrs. Hudson sitting in the far back with a tall man. A tall man with dark, curly hair. Dismissing the false hope, he strode inside the restaurant but the man quickly got up and ran out the back door. How peculiar. Mrs. Hudson had refused to move from 221A Bakers Street as it was the only home she had known for 25 longs years of her life. She had also found a new tenant for 211B which distressed John greatly. He would never want anyone breathing the air in there apart from Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson or himself. But, alas, he could not go in there without breaking down and crying intesny.
"Oh, hello John, dear," Mrs Hudson stumbled, messing around in her purse, putting something away. Her phone, maybe.
"Hello, how are you lately? Cup of tea?" John asked. She nodded in response and he ordered her a strong yorkshire tea, her favourite. "Who was that?" John asked, inquiring about the previous man that she was talking to.
"No one dear, don't worry about it," she shook it off and started fussing over his collar. "I am good thankyou, how are you, John? Holding up ok?" Oh course she was asking how he was coping with Sherlock's death at the moment. In his defense, he had been holding up very well, but he keeps getting his hopes up, hoping he would randomly bump into Sherlock and have a casual reacquaintance before everything went back to how it was. God, how he hated Moriarty for this. This was his fault. John just couldn't get the evidence to pin this on him. Plus, he had been kicked out of Scotland Yard after the death of Sherlock.
He had been shaky the last week, living at his sisters, homeless and alone. He had no one to sleep with at night and just wanted the tall, pale man back in his life, even just as a friend. He missed him so much.
"I am holding up alright." He hated lying to her, but he thought it was necessary for her health. He didn't want her to see the emotional turmoil he's spun himself into.
He hadn't seen daylight since last monday, when he was forced out the house for a few hours because Harry was having a girlfriend round. He wasn't stupid enough for object and just found himself wandering the streets of London alone. He actually bumped into Lestrade when he was out. An awkward meeting, the type you only get at Christmas' and other holidays with family members you dislike greatly. He asked Lestrade how Mycroft was, as they had moved in together immediately after the fall; friends or couple? John doesn't know. He flinched at this question and made a lame excuse to leave at once. That was the last contact he had with anyone from Scotland Yard.
"That's good dear. I had a phone call from that Molly from St Bart's. Lovely girl. Cares so much. Last one he saw, besides you and-" She coughed, indicating Moriarty. "She asked if I needed anything and it I was ok. I of course said I was fine and that I had everything I needed. She is such a lovely girl. I slipped in a word for you too, you're welcome." She giggled and continued rambling about how delightful it was when someone checked on a little old woman like herself. "Heard from Mycroft recently?" She finally asked once she had worn herself out.
"No, is he ok? Should I be worried?" John grew worried.
"Oh, I suspect not. Just thought it would be nice to get in touch with him. Oh! Would you look at the time!" She exclaimed to her watch. "I must be off, it's been lovely meeting with you, dear. Thank you." She kissed him on the cheek and left in a hurry.
John finished his cup of coffee, paid the cashier a tip and left. He was walking down the street, the same way as before when he noticed a man sitting in the corner. Dressed in an old track suit, nearly soleless shoes and a blanket draped over him, John figured he was homeless. Seeing to see if he was asking for change or money or to see if he wanted help, John approached him.
Oh my God
It's him.
Sherlock.
"What-" John tried to stumble down at the man. Sherlock jumped up in shock.
"John. Oh my- you weren't meant to know." Sherlock replied calmly to the man in front of him.
John grew dizzy quickly. The whole world was moving. The man is bloody alive. Dammit. He was so mad and frustrated and relived and angry. Without thinking, John punched Sherlock in the teeth. Possibly breaking his nose. "WHAT THE HELL. SHERLOCK!" He started to scream at the top of his voice. Sherlock's eyes grew in terror, he grabbed John by his coat collar and pushed him into the side path he had neglected to notice earlier.
"Shut up. Shut up John." He hissed through clenched teeth the the shaking man. He pinned him against the wall with such force, John struggled to breathe.
"You're alive you bastard. You have no idea!" John spat through Sherlock's hand which covered his mouth. "You're sick. Vile." He broke down into tears. "Never leave me again." He fell into Sherlock's arms and sobbed manically. Sherlock, not having to deal with these emotions before, awkwardly stroked his head in some sort of comfort.
"I apologise. Moriarty was going to kill you, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson if I had not killed myself." Sherlock explained, "I had help from the homeless community, Molly Hooper and a little from Mycroft. Although I do believe he would have preferred me dead. You had to be kept out of the loop, John. I apologise for the play of your emotion."
John looked into the mans eyes deeply and sealed crying. So many sleepless nights he had gone through, some almost suicides he pulled himself through to be with this man again, and now he was right in front of him. He tried to mumble words out but they just slurred and joined into a long word: "Sherlock."