AN: Hello readers! Welcome to our first RP story. Each Chp will be spilt in two – the first half is written by Ninotsjka1992 as Sherlock and the second half will be written by High-FunctioningGinger as John. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: We own nothing but the plot!
Sherlock
Sherlock is frightened. Up until this day, he had never been frightened. He's been nervous, when his father had one of his drinking binges again and his words had started to blend into each other, a tell-tale sign of his intoxication and a warning for him to make sure he got out of the room before his father got to the point where he'd get aggressive.
He's been anxious, when he had been standing in a dark alley for hours, his hands freezing and his brow furrowed, telling himself that he would only have to wait, five more minutes, the man would surely come and sell him what he needed, he always did.
He's even been scared, although he would never tell a soul, when he saw John step out of that cubicle, grey-faced and wearing that horribly large parka, only to open it slowly and reveal the semtex-vest he was wearing underneath it.
But never in his life has Sherlock been as frightened as he is right now. Never in his whole life has he experienced such a paralyzing, mind-numbing fear as he feels right now, staring at the copper numbers on that familiar door, which closed behind him three years ago, when he went to St. Bart's to meet Molly and ask for her help.
It's not the door; however, that is sending those icy shivers of fear down his spine. What he fears lies beyond that door, up those stairs lead towards the apartment he had to leave behind in order for Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson and John - John - to stay alive. Mycroft has been keeping tabs on the doctor for him, a favor which Sherlock will probably never be able to repay, and what he's reported over the past few years made Sherlock even more determined to reach his goal, to take out Moriarty's empire and assure that John would be safe. He knows he hurt John deeply by leaving, but at first, he hoped - expected- John to understand, if he would just listen.
But now Sherlock's standing here in front of their old apartment and finds himself unable to lift his hand and open the door, because he is frightened. Now that it's all over, now that he doesn't have to look over his shoulder again in fear of someone coming up to kill him and finish what Moriarty started, the thoughts he managed to push away for so long finally catch up with him.
What if John does not understand? What if he asks Sherlock to leave? What if he found someone and moved on? What if...
Sherlock shakes his head, willing all the questions and possible scenarios away. He has to do this. John deserves to know what Sherlock did and, most of all, why he did it. And if John does not understand, if John throws him out and never wants to see him again...
Sherlock does not know what he will do if that happens, but until he opens that door, steps in and goes up to the apartment they once shared, he will never find out. The detective takes a deep breath, steadies himself and reaches for the doorknob.
John
John lays down his pen with a sigh and rubs his tired eyes. He glances at the clock on the white-washed wall and lets out a soft groan. Thirty more minutes before he has to clock out. But his sigh isn't like those going up across the country as other tired workers prepare to leave for the day. It isn't a sigh of relief. It's a sigh of reluctance and resignation.
During the work day he can remain distracted, distant from the shadows haunting his peripheral. He can chat with his patients, fake smiles and give shallow laughs to friendly jokes. Medical data fills his mind, pushing out the darkened memories. The stethoscope hangs against his heart, pressing out the weight of mourning that rests there. But once he sheds his white coat and exits the clinic he's alone again.
He glances at the clock again, dismayed to see that another ten minutes have already passed. Why does time seem to speed by? He recalls when he was alive and there were cases to be solved and adventures to be had the hands on the clock couldn't tick fast enough for him. Minutes seemed to drag into hours, whereas now they speed by.
He does what he can to keep himself busy, reviewing patient files and going over his calendar for the seventh time. When he can't avoid it any longer he finally stands and hangs his white coat. He don's his own black tactical jacket and exits his office, locking it for the night.
He wanders down the hall at a slow pace, partially born from his reluctance to return to the flat again and partially from the limp on his leg. He barely notices it anymore; it's become part of his life once again. Resting on his came comes naturally to him, a thought which he tries to avoid as best he can.
He hails a cab when he reaches the street and as he rides he tries to cancel out the memory of Harry's phone call from the previous night.
"Look, John, I know you're still hurting but this has got to stop."
"Funny, I've been saying the same thing about your drinking for nearly a decade."
"Well my drinking doesn't cause me to hole up in my flat like a hermit and pine over my dead flatmate!"
John didn't bother responding to that and instead hung up the phone. Harry texted him through the night and the next morning apologizing and trying to explain herself.
9:30
John, please don't be mad.
HW
10:15
John? Answer me?
HW
12:18
John, I'm just worried about you.
HW
1:37
John, you need to move on. Please do something. Anything. Join a club, meet some girls. Anything.
HW
He turns her last plea over in his mind and wonders why the suggestion has no appeal to him. Well, actually he knows why. In the simplest terms it's because he's in love with Sherlock. Two and a half years later he's still in love with the bastard. He wonders if he always will be. Part of him thinks that he should take Harry's advice and move on. He may love Sherlock but that dream died with him on the pavement. Why not find someone else, or at least try to?
But he also knows that no one else would replace to Sherlock. Even if he found someone he could care for in that way he would constantly compare them to Sherlock. It wouldn't be fair to enter in a relationship when he's still in love with someone else, for either party.
He tries to push the thoughts from his mind by focusing on the mundane. What will he have for dinner? When's rent due? Oh god - It's his mum's birthday in a week. He needs to get a card.
"Baker street" the cabbie announces when they arrive and John is suddenly, painfully reminded of the first time he heard the address. "The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street."
He tries to mask his wince and hand over the required cash, and then climbs from the cab. He limps inside and quickly up the stairs, wanting to avoid Mrs. Hudson if possible. She and Harry have been talking lately and the last thing he wants is another "Move on" speech. He makes it to the door unhindered and reaches for the knob. It's unlocked.
He tries to calm his rising worry but telling himself it was probably just Mrs. Hudson dropping something off. But she always locked the door after her if John wasn't there. Drawing a deep, shaking breath he twists the handle and pushed the door open.
If convenient please review; if inconvenient review anyway.