A/N: Another Johnlock fic. Because I get bored easily and Sherlock plot bunnies are running rampant through my head. This one's basically John texting Sherlock things (after the fall.) trying anything to get him to reply. This fic includes a lot of angst, and some suicidal thoughts, but there's plenty of fluff at the end. I've discovered it's impossible for me to write these two together without it ending with fluff, actually. :P I do not own Sherlock or the characters and all that jazz.
"I just can't see why you would do it. You were so brilliant. The world needs you, Sherlock Holmes."
*sent*
John Watson stared intently at his phone for a few moments after clicking the 'send' button.
He didn't expect a reply. He'd been sending texts similar to this to Sherlock's phone for about five months now, and he accepted the fact that he wouldn't get a reply. It did offer him some comfort, though. Sometimes he would send very normal and mundane texts, and just for a few moments, it would feel as though his best friend was still alive, and everything was normal.
"I'm doing the shopping, need anything?"
"This case looks quite interesting, should we take a look?"
"Have you any idea where the jam is? I can't find it anywhere."
There would be days when John would just be angry at Sherlock, because he did not believe for a single second that he was dead. Everyone tried to convince him otherwise, but he wouldn't have it. Sherlock Holmes would not have lied to him like that, and he was definitely not dead. So why didn't he reveal himself to John? Why couldn't he text him back, at the very least?
"Why the hell don't you just answer me, Sherlock?"
"If that Irene woman could fake her death, I think it's very reasonable to assume that you did as well. If anyone could, it would be Sherlock Holmes."
"Quit being a prat and answer me damn it!"
Then, there were days when John began to wonder if he wasn't just going through denial. It had been nearly six months, and he hadn't heard anything that would suggest that he was alive. What if the others were right? Should he just move on, and try to forget about the man who changed his life?
"It does seem rather impossible though… I saw your body. I checked your pulse. You were dead as can be."
"Have I gone mad, Sherlock? Is it completely stupid of me to continue to think that you're alive? It feels like it sometimes."
However, the days that were really the worst were the ones when John got emotional. The days when the weight of what had happened came crashing down on him like a ton of bricks. His life was so damned boring now. He didn't really socialize much anymore. It was pointless to try and solve cases on his own. He was completely alone in the flat that used to occupy such madness and brilliance. His longing for how things were before stung him, and made his stomach twist into knots.
"Please, Sherlock. Just ONE reply, to get me through the day. That's all I'm asking for."
"You can't be dead. I won't allow it. Get your sorry arse back home now."
"I miss you, you know. There's not really much for me to do without you here."
It had been a year now. An entire year without Sherlock Holmes. John marveled at how remarkably slow time had gone. When he looked at the calendar on the one-year anniversary of day Sherlock fell, he was astonished that it had only been a year. It felt like five years, at least. Then again, he hadn't been out much. He did try, though. He had a girlfriend or two, neither lasting longer than two or three weeks. He visited with a few friends whom he had served once, and sometimes he still talked with Lestrade. But it just wasn't enough. He knew now that Sherlock wouldn't be coming back. He was dead and gone, and it had been foolish of him to believe otherwise.
John was seated in his armchair in the small sitting room of thei- his flat, thoroughly thinking over his plan. He had written a note for Mrs. Hudson, and placed it on the staircase so she wouldn't be too shocked when she came upstairs and found him. He had also made sure to wait until she was out to carry the plan out; he didn't want to alarm the poor woman. In John Watson's hand, was a small handgun loaded with a single bullet. He couldn't stand to live like this any longer. It just wasn't fair! It wasn't fair how he had left him behind. How could Sherlock have expected John to be fine with mundane life after becoming friends with someone extraordinary like him?
John set the gun down for a moment, and brought his phone out of his pocket. He was going to compose one final message.
"I guess I've realized now, that you are not coming back. You were my best friend, and you have no idea how much you meant to me. You turned my life upside-down in the best way possible. I miss you, Sherlock. And seeing how this is the end, I might as well say that I love you. I needed to say that now. I know you aren't reading this, but it helps for me to imagine that you know. I love you, I miss you, and I'll be seeing you soon. –John."
*sent*
John heaved a heavy sigh, and picked the gun back up. The cold object felt surprisingly welcoming in his hand. He had his peace, and was prepared to die. He lifted the gun to his mouth, and held it there. He took a long breath, and then began to count.
"Three."
"Two."
John squeezed his eyes shut, but held the gun strong. He let out one final breath.
But just as soon as his mouth began to form the "One," the door to the flat burst open, causing John to jump to his feet and turn around- only to see the last person he would ever expect.
Sherlock Holmes, in the flesh. His hair was a little longer than before, and his clothes were slightly frumped, but it was definitely Sherlock. He was panting; he had obviously been running. He pointed his finger at John.
"John Watson you put that gun down now."
John just stared in disbelief for a few moments, and then he let the gun fall from his hands. Sherlock let out a huge breath of relief and rushed towards John. He wrapped his arms around the smaller man, holding his head to his chest. John simply stood there in disbelief as he felt Sherlock's heartbeat next to him. He pressed his ear closer to Sherlock's heart, relishing the sound of the 'thump.'
"I thought you were dead." Said John simply, his voice very soft. Sherlock's ears strained to hear him.
"So did I." Stated Sherlock, relief obvious in his voice. Suddenly John pulled away, leaving Sherlock looking a bit shocked.
"What the hell, Sherlock?" He exclaimed, a mixed range of emotions bubbling over all at once. "How did you do it? No! A better question would be 'Why?' wouldn't it? Why did you do it? Hm? Why on earth would you do something like this?" John cursed and tried to wipe the tears that he realized had been staining his cheeks. He didn't know how he felt right now. It was like hate, anger, relief, and hurt all wrapped up into one big tank of emotion.
A look of concern- and was that… guilt? crossed Sherlock's face. "John, please, allow me to properly explain. I had to die. It was the only way to save you."
"Save me?" John sputtered in confusion. "What are you going on about?"
Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed as he explained. "It was Moriarty- he had assassins with guns trained on you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. If I didn't die, they would have killed all of you. I did what I had to do to save my friends, John. I'm not sorry I did it either. What I am sorry for is the pain it put you through."
Sherlock's eyes penetrated deep into John's. The shorter man was at a complete loss for words.
"I also want you to know how much I wanted to come back. I've read every single one of those texts, you know. You have no idea how hard it was not to come bounding back home after the first week of being gone, but I had to wait until I knew for sure that it was safe for you if I did. The closest I could get to being here with you was standing in the alley across the way. I'm glad I was there today. John Watson, don't you dare pull anything like that again."
John just nodded, all thoughts of ending his life tossed out the window. He had one other question though.
"So, does this mean you're coming back then? Will you stay? You know… here in the flat?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"Of course I am, what kind of question is that? This is my home, and I have absolutely no intention of leaving again."
John couldn't help but smile. (his first genuine smile in a year, really.) He then recalled the text he had sent to Sherlock less than fifteen minutes before, and a flush of red took over his face.
"Um, Sherlock, about that text I sent you…" he began, looking down as he pretended to itch his nose. Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek and rocked a bit on the balls of his feet.
"Yes. Quite right. Well, I guess you ought to know that I reciprocate these feelings you have. It's not really much of a surprise. Your behavior towards me before I left suggested you had romantic feelings growing for quite a while, which gave me a lot of time to come to the conclusion that I feel the same way." Sherlock looked at John expectantly for a reply, and was met by a very intense gaze coming from the Doctor, which he couldn't help but smile at. John's brow was raised, as if he too were expectantly. Sherlock's brows furrowed. "What?" he inquired.
"Please, say it properly." John insisted, trying very hard to hide the ecstatic gleam in his eye. Sherlock sighed.
"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked, feigning confusion. John crossed his arms.
"Sherlock."
The taller man chuckled a bit, but complied. "Oh, alright. I love you, John."
John grinned, and reached for the collar of his flatmate's shirt, taking him in for a kiss. John's eyes closed as he savored the moment he'd been waiting for for a year. Sherlock's eyes widened at first, and his face grew hot. He had never been kissed before, and the shock of it sent his mind reeling. It took him a moment to ease into it, but he was soon responding eagerly towards John's advances. He cupped John's face in his hands, simply relishing the feel of his skin. One of John's hands was entangled in Sherlock's mass of curly hair, the other around his waist. The two had both dreamed about this too many times to count, but the real thing was so much better.
The two broke apart, Sherlock both shocked and pleased, and John's smile made up for all of the one's he had missed in the past year.
~221B~
John woke to the sound of his phone getting a text, and he opened his eyes rather reluctantly. Much to his pleasure, he found himself wrapped in the arms of Sherlock Holmes. His lover's long limbs were draped possessively around John's smaller form, which was curled up against the other man. It had taken a lot of time, about three months, for Sherlock Holmes: Consulting Detective to restore his good name, but they had done it, and they continued to get requests to solve cases. If anything, they were getting more now. There was never really a dull moment. John disentangled himself from Sherlock's embrace to check the phone, waking him from his slumber as well. Sherlock's voice came muffled out of his pillow.
"Joohhhnnn. Come back to bed. It is too damn early."
John laughed, the skin on his face crinkling a little around his eyes. "It's nearly ten in the morning, Sherlock. Besides, we've got a request from Lestrade to meet him at the scene of a murder-"
Sherlock leapt quickly out of bed, and began getting dressed. John sighed fondly at the excitable man he had fallen in love with. Same old Sherlock, always up to investigate a murder . John rolled out of bed as well. He put on a shirt he picked up off of the dresser. He then started to button a pair of pants, but stopped when a rather loud laugh escaped from Sherlock. John looked at him in confusion.
"What?" He asked, wondering what his boyfriend (how he loved saying that) was laughing at. Sherlock's eyes gleamed with delight and he gestured to John's neck.
"I think you may have to wear a scarf today, my dear Watson." He giggled at him once more, and John rolled his eyes and walked to the bathroom. As he expected, his neck was populated with a very large amount of hickeys.
"Shit. I don't think I have a scarf." He felt a bit flustered. While he and Sherlock had not tried to hide their relationship, they weren't very up front about it with a lot of people, (or at least, they thought they weren't.) and John's face was already turning red from the image of all of the people at the crime scene who would see the marks.
Suddenly Sherlock came up behind him and wrapped his own blue scarf around his neck, pecking John on his head.
"There." He chuckled. "You look positively endearing."
John had to laugh along with him. He shrugged. "People will talk." He stated simply. Sherlock nodded.
"That they will."
And with that, they donned their coats and left the flat, ready to take on whatever case was thrown at them.
A/N: I find it rather hilarious how that went from extremely depressing angst to humor and fluff. My mind is a strange place. Thanks for reading! Reviews are greatly appreciated!