Hi, well, this is actually the first fanfiction I've written in about... Uh... Four years.
But this may or may not be a oneshot, depends on how I feel about the rest of the story.
This basically describes how exactly I feel about their relationship, and is from Johns POV.
Yes.
When I first walked into Barts that afternoon there was no way I could predict meeting the most brilliant man of my time. How could I have possibly known that Sherlock Holmes was the name of the man that would soon be the center of my world? He took me and pulled me from the fiery pit that a normal life would burn me in. I was a soldier, life off of the battlefield felt like poison, and Sherlock Holmes was my antidote. He took me into his life, accepted me, and soon he was my everything. The feelings weren't perverse, they were pure adoration, I would watch how his mind played out, and it was wonderful.
We were friends.
Friends being the simple way to put it. We completed each other, I awed at his dominating intellect, while he simply marveled at my simplicity. It worked. We worked. I loved him, I still do, but it wasn't so simple, I loved him and everything we had. I loved coming home to a man who needed me, because, as I've stated, I needed him. There was no need for sweet words, kisses in the night, we didn't feel the need for such petty things because we already had each other so completely. I had my women, and Sherlock had his work. Anything we couldn't find in each other was found in that. Two sides of one coin, what would the night be without the day? We were in our perfect little capsule of time where we were happy.
Then came along Jim Moriarty.
The man who destroyed everything.
The night before, I knew our world was about to end. As soon as I felt the sting of sharp metal being latched around my wrist, as soon as I felt my feet running from the men women Sherlock and I had been fighting to protect. I felt a burden crushing down upon me, and the first second me and my beautiful counterparts eyes met in that ally I knew he knew it too.
I only wish I could have been with him.
Gone with him.
What would the day be without the night?
The instant I felt that pulse, felt the mans cool skin... I knew something had ended and something new had begun. A standoff between the two most brilliant men in London, it was cruel, Moriarty's corpse showing a life of emptiness and insanity. Sherlock's grave screaming out what still needed to be done. I couldn't do it, not alone. Not without him. I knew something was off, psychiatrists writing it off as paranoia and depression, but there, in my gut, I knew they were wrong. That I was above their written evaluations. Mycroft knew it too, he would never dare admit it, but when I would look across the table during his visits, I knew he knew something.
So there, in that cruel flat that screamed memories of a perfect man and his perfect mind, I looked through everything. Mycroft had left it all to me, Sherlock's small fortune, his things, and how could I dare to move thing out of place? Even in Sherlock's so called "death" this flat was still ours I had no right. I kept the microscopes in their rightful place on the table, kept his precious skull on the mantle, and tortured myself in his memory.
I became obsessed, searching the internet for any spectacular news story, a case closed, and with every step I got closer and closer to the truth. Two and a half years, I found a link, walls covered with printed off newspaper clippings and little red string. Mrs. Hudson thought I'd gone mad, and she was probably right; but I knew I wasn't wrong. And then I found him. There was some sort of strange murders on the coast of La Rochelle, France, and without thinking I jumped on the next flight out, twiddling my thumbs until I landed. I must have trailed the crime scenes for days, because by the time I heard of the most recent killing in the morning paper (learning a bit of French was always helpful) I was flat broke. I camped just outside of the crime scene until nightfall, sitting against an old crumbling wall and waiting. Hoping, praying to see that familiar outline. My fingers had long since gone numb, but this meant everything to me.
It was just a bit past midnight.
I was dozing in and out of sleep when I heard it, the sounds of steady feet walking down the rocky wall of the beach. My tired eyes snapping open to see a long coat and curls peaking out of a worn hat in the distance.
I was on my feet, creeping near the figure that was suddenly very interested in the place where a body once lay. My heart was beating so quickly I thought it would burst, because even in the two and a half years apart, how could I be wrong? How could I be wrong about the outline of a man whom had been a part of my existence of so long? How far it was, trying to sneak up on someone when I was so giddy I felt my hands tremble. Then in the next second I was placing my palm on his shoulder, I felt my hand being violently moved, the rocks scarping together as the mans feet spun his round. Familiar eyes meeting mine.
"John?"