AN: I had all these post Reichenbach feels and so I got a bug up my butt to write something wonderfully Johnlock and post Reichenbach since nothing I was reading was satisfying my needs. I planed on writing a wee little one shot. Then this beast was borne. Have fun. I own nothing. Trollface Moffat and Mark Godtiss own it all. You would know if I had any say in the show as there would be much more snogging.
1 year after the fall
John pulled himself out of the cab and onto the sidewalk. It seemed like everything he did these days was only done so by sheer force of will. Fumbling in his pocket, John finally found the keys to his flat. Six months after Sherlock died he had finally started calling it his flat. He'd taken another job at a surgery. This time it was full time so, with what he suspected was some secret help from Mycroft, he was able to afford 221B on his own. Not that he'd have taken another flat mate. Not that Mrs. Hudson would have let him. At one point in time in a moment of frustration he had gathered up all of Sherlock's old lab supplies (after cleaning them, of course) and was prepared to throw them out when Mrs. Hudson had stopped him. Even though it had been nine months since his death at that point in time she was still in tears. She had grabbed the box of supplies from him and marched them up to Sherlock's now empty room. While she was his landlady and not his housekeeper, she had still kept cleaning up the flat and always kept Sherlock's room well dusted and aired out. Neither of them said it but they both knew that it was just in case. Just in case a miracle happened.
These memories flashed through John's mind as he looked at his keys. He was using one of Sherlock's random and seemingly useless bits of lab supplies as a key ring these days. It made him smile. After a year he was now looking for reasons to smile. Shoving the keys into the lock, John began the ascent up to his flat (it took him ten months to start calling it that). Sometimes when he was walking up the stairs he let himself pretend for just one moment that it was all a dream. That he would open the door to the sitting room and Sherlock would be draped over the couch all elbows and cheekbones demanding something from John even though John and been gone for hours.
This was not one of those times. John just climbed. Leaning against the door handle he pushed the door open as though it weighed much more than it did. His hand tightened on the handle, unsure of what to do. On the couch was a figure. Their obscenely long legs were thrown here and there and their expensive, leather, dress shoes had been flung haphazardly off onto the ground below. John felt like he couldn't breathe and his body coughed on instinct, trying to clear his airway of the invisible blockage. At the sound Sherlock lifted his head and looked at John.
"Good, you're home. I need my phone and it's in the kitchen." Sherlock let his head flop back down. John, sadly, did not have a biting retort. He didn't have any response at all, save for his legs going to liquid as he fell to the floor in a faint.
John's eyes snapped open seconds after he hit the floor. It was enough time for Sherlock to reach him. Therefore, when John's eyes came into focus he was greeted by the face of his closest friend sporting an expression similar to worry. John was still unnerved and scooted away so he could stand back up, all the while sputtering vague inclinations of words.
"You—I—de—but—then—grave—and—how—Mori—Mol—Sher—" After a few moments John ran out of ideas and just stood there, his mouth opening and closing like a dying fish, his back pressed against the wall of the flat. Sherlock straightened himself up, the look of worry gone, and began to fill in the words John seemed to have so much trouble expressing at the moment.
"Yes, I was dead. There is a grave. But I'm not in it. At least not ME, me. Moriarty was up there on that roof with me. I knew he was going to try and force me to kill myself. It was all about power with him and that was the ultimate expression of power. Therefore, I did my best to control the circumstances so that I had a chance of, you could say, dodging a bullet. He told me that if I didn't kill myself that a group of assassins he had hired would kill you, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson. The three people I care for most in this world. My only friends. He didn't realize I have a fourth friend, thought. Molly helped me fake my death. Only be doing this could I work covertly to take out all the assassins. I hated to have to conceal myself from you, John. But, it was necessary. Had I made my life know. You…you would have been killed." With those words Sherlock's face took on a truly and authentically pained expression. The thought of loosing John haunted him even now.
His moment of fear and worry was interrupted by the broad fist of a man trained in combat coming into contact with his jaw. Sherlock hit the ground and took stock of his condition immediately. Jaw, bruised but not broken. Teeth, in tact. Pride, wounded but who was here to see but John. John, currently lifting him back to his feet via the lapels of his jacket. Once Sherlock was back to eye level with John the shorter man took a breath and spoke. Each word was soft and short, his anger evident in each syllable.
"I thought you were dead. My life felt like it was over. I wanted it to be over. It felt like dying. And you have the audacity to act as though it was not a big deal?" John stared into Sherlock's eyes and Sherlock stared back, saying nothing. Sherlock was willing John to understand via eye contact. On very rare occasions John seemed to take the non verbal hints Sherlock gave him. This was one such time. Suddenly John's face softened as he remembered the way Sherlock had nervously looked down when speaking of the potential for John to be assassinated. He took in the suit, very nearly tattered with overuse. The hair, overgrown and dull. The body, skinnier than usual if that was even possible. And his face. His face looked dry. As though the past year had drained the life out of it.
Suddenly John's arms were around Sherlock's shoulders, pulling him down and into a tight hug.
AN: Review, my pretties, review!