Hey guys! New story. I came up with this last night and decided it was pretty cool. =)
It's kinda sad I guess. Johnlock...near the end.
I own only the plot line.
No characters were hurt during the writing of this.
~Enjoy the feels~
John was depressed.
It'd been nearly a year and half since the 'incident', as he liked to call it. He still lived in 221B. Mrs Hudson would check up on him every day, Lestrade would come by once a week to see how he was doing and Mycroft would just randomly turn up occasionally. John appreciated the company, but it wasn't what he wanted.
He spent most of his time curled up on the sofa, wrapped in Sherlock's dressing gown. After the first month, he accepted the truth. This was when he'd stopped eating. He slept very little, and when he did, his dreams were painful memories or replaying the events of that day. His mind was constantly plagued by the memories of his friend, his voice, his face, his general persona. John hated it.
He'd resigned from his job at the clinic. He wasn't able to stand seeing people that looked like Sherlock, who had similar head wounds. He stopped helping out at Scotland Yard. He couldn't be there without Sherlock. He stopped going out altogether. He stayed in the flat with the curtains drawn, curled up on the sofa. He'd stopped writing his blog and eventually stopped seeing his therapist.
He was losing the will to live. He didn't know why he was still alive. He'd lost the light in his life. He was hurting. He couldn't do anything without remembering the 'high functioning sociopath' that was his best friend. He was alone again.
John was in his usual position on the sofa, breathing deeply, inhaling the very faint scent of Sherlock from his dressing gown. He heard the front door of the flat open and then close. Quiet, shuffling footsteps crept slowly up the stairs. "It's just Mrs Hudson" John thought to himself. He waited for the footsteps to continue past, but they didn't. They stopped by his door. John sighed. "Mrs Hudson. Please go. I want to be alone right now." He waited. The footsteps began again, but this time moving towards him.
They weren't the same footsteps.
They were….heavier. Not as light as the ones on the stairs. More…masculine. John tensed. His breathing became heavier. He didn't move. The footsteps came closer. Closer. Closer. He clenched his fists around the cushion in front of him. They stopped. Right. Behind. Him. He tensed even more, if that was possible. He could feel the presence behind him. He didn't know what to do. His mind went completely blank.
"I was so alone, and I owe you, so much."
John inhaled sharply. No. It couldn't be. Could it?
He felt the lightest touch on his shoulder. He shivered. He loosened his grip on the cushion. There were little holes from where he'd held onto it.
"John." That was definitely him. The smooth, baritone voice of his best friend. He felt the presence behind get lower, as if it were kneeling. John shifted slightly and then rolled himself over. He gasped. He was then looking into the eyes of a dead man.
He reached out. He brushed his fingers over the face of the man in front of him. He felt warm. He felt alive. John pulled his hand away, shaking slightly. "Oh my god" he whispered. Sherlock smiled at him. John sat up so fast he nearly passed out. He retreated to the other end of the sofa, shaking in terror. He pointed an accusing finger towards the man on the floor. "Y-y-you're…..you're d-d-dead…You're dead." Sherlock stood up. He took a step towards John. "N-no! Stay there!"
This is it. John thought. I've finally gone insane. He's come to take me away. I'm going to die.
He was pulled from his train of thought by the sound of shuffling footsteps from the hall and the voice of his landlady. "John, is everything okay in there?" He couldn't speak. Mrs Hudson appeared in the doorway. "John, I said is every…oh." Sherlock turned to the landlady. She put her hand over her mouth. Sherlock ran across the room and grabbed her as she fell. He laid her down on the floor, making sure she wouldn't hurt herself. He turned back to John and began to move slowly towards him. "NO!" John shouted. Sherlock put his hand out in a stop motion. "John, it's okay. I'm here. I'm real. You're not going insane."
It was then Sherlock properly looked at John. He could see the bones in his face and arms. His clothes were practically hanging off of him. He'd lost a lot of weight. He was shaking. Fear. Sherlock had frightened him. He was still wrapped in Sherlock's dressing gown. He'd missed him. Sherlock realised how much pain he'd caused his friend and felt a pang of guilt. "John." He took another step forward. Tears were streaming down Johns face. He was still shaking. Sherlock swept forward and pulled John into a hug. He wrapped his arms around John's shoulders. John pulled his arms around Sherlock's waist and buried his head in his chest. He was sobbing uncontrollably now. Sherlock held him until he was done.
John withdrew himself from Sherlock. He then felt a sudden rush of anger. His hands clenched into fists at his sides. He swung his right arm back and punched Sherlock in the face (avoiding his nose and teeth.) Sherlock fell backwards, clutching his face. He looked at John whose fists were unclenched. John took a step forward and looked Sherlock in the eye. "Don't you ever do that to me again." He pulled Sherlock into another hug, before reaching up and pressing his lips very lightly on the taller mans'. "I'm so sorry, John," Sherlock whispered. And they stayed in their comfortable embrace for what seemed like an eternity.