Next to Me

Sherlock knew the moment he was finally allowed to return home, that the biggest weight he had ever endured had just been taken off his chest. He had finished the game. The worst, longest, most cruel game he had ever endured of the madmen who had just stolen three years of his life.

He, once someone who thought himself devoid of emotion, never realized how physically painful it could be to be away from someone for so long. He couldn't count the number of times he had looked to his right and realized John wasn't next to him to clear his mind of the evil plagued upon him. His calming presence and caring nature was something Sherlock never required before, until he had met John. Better than any drug Sherlock had ever used, John was a respite from reality far better than any narcotic. John had become his most faithful companion, giving up drinking evenings with old friends, and tiresome dates with women whom he had already forgotten their name. He had become a permanent fixture to Sherlock's side.

Sherlock had always been a realist. He had figured John would try and gain fame with his blog, or money by selling him out to Mycroft. And had promptly been forced into another realization a mere 24 hours later when John had not only saved his life by shooting the cabbie, but refused Mycroft the information he sought as well. John's entire presence screamed loyalty, and Sherlock had never once been happier to be proven wrong. He didn't have much to offer the man other than the opportunity to have one of the greatest adventures of his life. He was a cold, misunderstood loner with no friends to his name other than the detective he worked with, the motherly landlady who cared for him, and the lovely pathologist who he never gave the time of day. But still he stood next to his side.

He didn't understand.

Logic told him this was love. He knew he could compute in his mind that he loved John Watson. To what extent he hadn't known until the night he saw him locked in a vest of bombs, his hands calm as he accepted his fate in the name of saving Sherlock. Instantly he knew he also accepted his fate of dying with him. Sherlock knew John would follow him wherever he went, but John hadn't known until that night that Sherlock would also follow John to whatever end they met. When they had gone home that night, John had swept forward, his lips crushing onto Sherlock's as he rested their foreheads together. When he pulled away, adrenaline still pumping through his veins, they both started to laugh in small bursts of giggles, stress pouring off them with each intake of breath. John leaned down and kissed Sherlock's forehead, turning and starting up the steps when he heard Sherlock start to follow. Without needing to look back, John extended his hand, feeling the long pale fingers intertwine with his own. Wrapped up in one another, they fell into a blissful sleep.

It had been when Sherlock had finally figured out Moriarty's end game that he had begun to panic. He had pulled out every piece of information in his mind to figure out how to end this. It would be his own demise, or by some miracle that he pulled this off. It had been when the bullet rocketed through James Moriarty's brain that Sherlock knew he had no time left. He found it fitting the skies were heavy, and that every breathe he took was sweeter than the last's because he knew when this ended, when it all ended, his world would still be gone if John didn't forgive him. The phone call was the hardest, trying to break the faith he knew John had in him. Even with his dying breath he knew that it wouldn't happen. John Watson believed in Sherlock Holmes. That was all he needed to know. The pain that would come would be worth it. He would be by his side even in death. John's outreached hand as Sherlock's tears fell was enough.

Four stories never seemed like it would take such a long time to endure, but the as the building slowly rushed past him, he knew he had just broken John Watson's heart. His world was ending, he heard people screaming, and John made every attempt to launch himself at Sherlock, yelling with disbelief. The endless sea of Sherlock's blue eyes stared hollowly at John, the tears still clinging to his eyes. Brown eyes started to swim with them intandem.

"He's my best friend, please! I'm a Doctor!"

He wanted to be next to him until the end.

Molly had subtly kept Sherlock informed about John. He had stopped writing on his blog. Mycroft paid the other half of John's rent so he wouldn't leave Baker Street. He didn't date anyone. He had saved Mrs. Hudson's life when she had suffered a heart attack. He worked on cases with Lestrade but on a minimal basis because he was no consulting detective. He worked tirelessly at the hospital and had volunteered to go to Africa to help attend to AIDS patients for the summer. He buried Harriett after she died in a drunk driving incident. His mum and dad had died the same way almost 20 years ago. He had almost no one left. Molly had told Sherlock that Mycroft was starting to worry not long after Harry's funeral. John had become quieter. His time outside of the apartment was spent on trips to the grocery, or trips to the cemetery and not much else. He was wrapping himself up in the prison he was making himself. It made the pain in Sherlock's heart double.

John's loss had been a mere three months ago, and now as Sherlock approached the door to his home, he didn't know what to expect. Would John be alone? Would he even be there? It had been

His coat collar was turned up, and his hair had been dyed blonde some time ago as part of his disguise. His face was tucked down to fight the bitter cold. He had taken a cab, but asked to be let out several blocks away from 221B Baker Street. Even turning to walk down the street was making his pulse quicken. He felt entirely irrational. He knew John would not see logic when he would need to explain the events of what happened. He knew he was in for a fight. He knew there was a good possibility that John would never forgive him, or worse, turn him away and tell him he never wanted to see him again.

This was worse than any overdose he had ever endured. His heart was slamming in his chest, his stomach rolled so often he knew he might puke before he ever made it up the steps to the flat. He had the beginning signs of a migraine and to top it off, he felt like he might start crying at the drop of a dime. Christ, he knew he sounded like a woman.

His key still fit the lock. Walking in the door, he closed it quietly, knowing Mrs. Hudson would be taking her afternoon nap as she did everyday at 2pm. The building was blissfully warm to alleviate the November chill that had descended upon London. Walking up the steps, he knocked sharply, waiting for a reply. When none came, he slipped his key in the door, opening it swiftly and quietly so as for it to not squeak. The flat was immaculate. Almost everything was in place, kept clean and tidy. His science things had been removed from the table, and he was sure the refrigerator was once again body part free. But otherwise everything was where it had once been. His violin, his books, his desk, everything. As if his possessions were waiting for their master's return.

It was when he had picked up one of his favorite books off the self that he heard a soft gasp come from the doorway. So immersed in his investigation of the flat, he didn't heard the quiet click of the door downstairs which also was kept quiet so as to not disturb Mrs. Hudson. Turning quickly, his eyes locked on John, a deer caught in the headlights. John has a bag of groceries in his hand, with a bottle of milk in the other. Gripping onto both items tighter, John's eyes slipped closed, squeezing them tightly together to try and get his breathing under control. Sherlock swiftly moved closer, grabbing both items from his hands and setting them on the kitchen table. Turning back to see John still locked in place, Sherlock moved closer to him, his hand coming to rest on his best friend's shoulder, the solid strength underneath making him feel more alive than he felt since he jumped.

"John."

Eyes squeezed tighter shut as John's hands formed fists at his side. The ragged breathing that was hastily entering and exiting his body was starting to worry Sherlock.

"John. Please. Look at me. Hit me. Scream at me. But please, please open your eyes."

With what seemed like monumental effort, John's eyelids dragged back and he started at blue eyes that he had dreamt of for the past 3 years. Sherlock's hand dropped from his shoulder, hoping he would allow him to grasp his hand within his own. When his fingers brushed John's, the Doctor pulled away as if he had been shocked before his head cocked and he truly stared openly at the man in front of him. Without another word, John's hand reeled back and he smacked Sherlock open handed across the face. Although he had expected to get punched, the smack across his face seemed to be full of more anger and sadness then a punch to the face was.

John still hadn't uttered a word. His expression was calm, stone faced almost. He was locking Sherlock out a breath at a time, and it was breaking his heart.

"I want to explain."

Upon hearing the word "explain" John's jaw clenched a bit tighter, his eyes snapping shut once more.

"He had three trained snipers on you, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. If I didn't jump, he was going to have the three of you killed and say it was on my order. He blew his brains out before I could find a way around him. I knew it was going to happen John. I knew I would have to leave. In true death, or a fake body bag it was going to happen. I wouldn't have been able to live knowing he hurt the three of you. Most of all you. I had never loved someone the way I loved you and if it meant my life for yours…there wasn't a question."

John sunk down to the floor, his heart in shards around him. He didn't want to hear, didn't want to know, didn't want to see the ghost in front of him that professed all these wonderfully terrible things. He was tired. Exhausted. Every day he had died a little bit more inside from losing the one who had always led the way for them. That was always next to him by his side. Sherlock sat down gracefully next to him, his legs pulling up to his chest. John truly looked at him for the first time and saw how incredibly young and old he appeared in the exact same moment. He seemed so young sitting there, a lonely little boy stuck in an adult body. But he looked so tired, so worn from everything he must have gone through to finish the terrible game they entered into with Jim Moriarty. Although his appearance was different, he was Sherlock. His Sherlock. And he had given him his miracle.

That thought alone was enough to snap John out of the daze he was in. Reaching over slowly, he slid Sherlock's long pale fingers through his own and he was home. Sherlock's eyes snapped open in surprise. Those blue eyes searched deeply into their brown counterparts and John swallowed around the lump in his throat. Nothing compared to being lost in those oceans. But he had chosen his words carefully in the moments he had been silent.

"Sherlock Holmes, I will only say this once. Do not go where I can not follow. I don't give a damn to the circumstances. There should be no reason as to why one of us should be without the other. Even if it means death. I know you were protecting us. But you are my best friend, and the love of my life. And I will always be next to you. Rain, hell or high water do not frighten me, so don't allow them to frighten you. Trust that."

Sherlock released the breath he had been holding after hearing John's voice for the first time in so many years. It seemed the good Doctor had made him speechless. All he could do was nod, blonde curls bouncing atop his head.

"And for chrissake can we please dye your hair back? Blonde? Really Sherlock?"

He laughed, for the first time in what felt like forever, he felt a wonderful bubble of a giggle burst through him. Crawling closer to John, he wrapped his arms around him, his lips descending to kiss the smaller man's temple. He felt John lock his grip around him, holding him as if he might disappear. He knew they had miles to go, a lifetime of apologies and making up for lost time. But it was alright. He knew John would be next to him.