Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters and I am only writing to feed my fan-girl angst and not for money.
Author's Note: This is my first time posting a story online. I tried to edit as best as possible. I do not have a Beta.
post RF
A knock on the door of 221B at the ungodly hour of half past four stirred John Hamish Watson out of a deep ... nothing.
His eyes blinked, moving from the wall he'd been staring at listlessly for several hours and fixed blearily on the clock near his bedside.
Who in the bleeding-
The knock sounded again: brisk, powerful, insistent.
Familiar. But who? Lestrade?
John worked up a bit of... something.
Concern? no too strong. Curiosity? Perhaps.
The knock sounded again, louder this time.
The feeling flashed through him, a bit stronger this time.
Ah. Annoyance with a sprinkling of frustration.
Well, nothing new about tha-
John cut that thought off as he heaved himself out of bed and rushed downstairs to the door.
It isn't. No. no, of course not, don't be stupid. I mean I saw-
He ripped the door open and gaped at the figure standing in the doorway. His breath came out in a woosh.
"You. You're dead. I mean- you're meant to be dead. You aren't dead?" he demanded, his brain refusing to accept what his eyes were telling him.
The impossibly brilliant eyes rolled a bit.
"Obviously. Don't be stupid. May I come in then? Don't fancy being seen, you know."
John shut his mouth, which he realized was stupidly agape, and stepped back to allow the phantom entrance. The achingly familiar black coat landed
half on top of his head and half in his limp arms.
"How did you get this back-? Nevermind. I don't care."
The cold eyes danced with the joy of knowing a secret.
"Oh yes you do. But that can wait. Tea? I'm frozen."
John barked out a wild, slightly mad laugh. "Oh I expect so, you were dead after all."
The illusion's dark curls shook as their voices joined in a childish fit of giggles.
John recovered himself first "shhh.. we can't... we'll wake Mrs. Hudson."
Lips grinned under positively feline cheekbones.
The two headed up to the flat. John busied himself making tea in the kitchen as he watched the pale shape drape slender limbs in His chair.
He cleared his throat as one luminous finger reached out to lovingly caress the long abandoned violin. "No. Don't-"
The finger withdrew and two glacial pools bored into him, through him. The dark brow quirked quizzically.
John struggled to ignore the look and made every effort not to-
"Limp John?"
John huffed and set the tea tray on the side table.
"So why- Why are you here then? Why aren't you off somewhere being secretly not dead? Having a good laugh, eh? I mean I must admit you
had Everyone fooled, Very Convincing, I mean even Mycroft-" a snort of derision erupted from the opposite chair.
"Please John. If Sherlock Holmes was actually everything you professed him to be on your precious blog, do you really think Big Brother proved too much to handle?"
"No. No- of course not. And I'm left out of the loop again. Naturally. I mean why tell me, I'm only the best friend-"
A hand hovered carefully above John's knee.
"John. Please. I know how you must be feeling."
"NO. No you BLOODY well don't. You have no f-, no concept of how I feel."
"I came to see you as soon as I was able, as soon as it was safe- I am so sorry. So, so sorry John."
John could almost taste his own bitterness.
"I'll bet you are. Whatever are you going to do now your 'cat and mouse game' has gone
and killed himself? You'll be bored all the time I expect. I suppose I have to let Mycroft know you're alive just so you don't tear the
country apart for a laugh- a- a distraction or whatever."
John stiffened as he felt those strong, delicate arms pull him in a tight, bone-crushing hug. Suddenly it was all too much, and John let
out a sob that he would very much rather the other had never witnessed.
"It wasn't your fault, it was a trick." the voice breathed.
John broke away from the uncomfortably soothing embrace.
"What. What was that?"
Irene blinked at him, startled.
"What?"
He grasped her shoulders roughly, commanding her attention in a way he'd never dared if-
"Trick. You said trick, it was a trick. He said that. In his no- his call- The last time we- Why, why would you say trick?"
Irene touched his face softly.
"I only meant- I know you, Doctor. There is no way on earth you would ever have left his side, unless he wanted you to, and even then it
would've taken nothing short of magic to keep you away."
John reeled at The Words, the ones He'd used when-
John Hamish Watson awoke at 1pm from his first sleep in a week. He was in his bed, his room, exactly where he'd started off the night. He'd
just about decided to write off the encounter as a rather unpleasant dream when he spied The Coat thrown across the back of His chair. It
wasn't until a couple of weeks later that he noticed his favorite jumper was missing.
Irene had made him feel again.
Had made him feel-
Annoyed.