You Wouldn't Dare, Sherlock! – A Reichenbach Reunion.
Groaning, John buried his head in his hands. His vision was blurry and there was a throbbing sensation in his brain. Draining his glass, he gestured to the good-looking young man who was tending the bar to give him a refill. The man seemed unsure if this was a good decision, but complied without another word.
John had taken to drinking in the three months Sherlock Holmes had been…gone. He had been visiting that particular tavern for the whole time, and was conscious that sometimes he would mutter some of the more intimate things about his life out loud while drunk (for example, where he had been that day or how bad his psychiatrist thought his state of depression was), but he didn't particularly care, as it was usually the same young man there.
Sometimes, when John was having an excessively bad day and so was drinking so much even the other regular alcoholics were surprised, he would catch that young man looking at him with genuine concern and regret, as if he knew that the doctor was a man who clearly shouldn't be here. The concern sometimes reminded him of Sherlock – because John knew that Sherlock cared.
Oh, yes, Sherlock cared. Like the time near the pool when he had been strapped with explosives. Even now, John knew somewhere in his heart that Sherlock's…departure…had had something to do with keeping John safe. But John couldn't take it anymore.
Groaning again, he lifted to his lips the recently refilled glass with shaking hands. "Sir," the bartender said gently, "sir, it's really not my place to say, but don't you think you've had enough for one night, I mean…" he trailed off when John gave him a tired and fed-up look, and hurriedly carried on with his work.
John scowled. How dare the man care about him? Only Sherlock had a right to care about him! Sherlock…the man who he had let down. Before the phone call, the last conversation John had had with Sherlock had been so wrong. John had left him and walked off – walked off when Sherlock had needed him most. How could he have been so stupid? So blind? Maybe Sherlock had been right about alone protecting him – because John certainly hadn't.
Once more draining the glass, the doctor forced himself to stand. It was almost one in the morning, and the small local tavern was completely empty, save for him and the now gaze-avoiding bartender. He stumbled in what he believed to be the direction of the door. Suddenly, he felt a warm and familiarly firm hand upon his arm.
John froze. Through his glazed vision, he followed the artistic fingers all the way up a slender arm to two beautiful watery grey eyes – a shade of very rare watery grey – and he felt even the few senses he had left despite his stupor disappear. The bartender was gone, and instead the man now assisting him to stand was…"Sherlock!" with his best friend's name upon his lips, John sank to the floor, unconscious.
"Oh," moaning from the pain in his head from the inevitably severe hangover and blinking as he finally came round from passing out, John attempted in vain to sit up in his bed. "Take it easy," a reassuring voice murmured softly from the sofa in the former soldier's room. John sat up successfully this time (a little too quickly) from sheer surprise. It hadn't been a dream, then!
Wincing from the pain of his movement, John tried to speak, but could get out little more than a feeble, "Sher…Sherlock?" but in an instant, the detective – the living, breathing, returned detective – was sitting beside him, a concerned look on his features as he waited for his closest friend (for whom he had staged the whole Reichenbach drama) to continue.
John blinked disbelievingly. If he hadn't been so completely helpless right now, he would probably have punched the infuriating man in the face. But as it was, he was having enough trouble thinking, and suddenly he was overcome with a mixture of overwhelming relief, happiness, confusion and embarrassment. Despite himself, he broke down into uncontrollable tears.
"John, I am so sorry!" Sherlock Holmes didn't sound far from tears himself as he lay a hand on John's trembling shoulder. The other man gasped, "Sherlock, I'm the one who should be sorry! You did it all for me and I – " "It's fine, John," Sherlock interrupted comfortingly, "it's all fine." John's eyes brimmed with fresh tears as he pulled the detective into his arms and held him in a loving embrace. He buried his head into Sherlock's shoulder. "I missed you so much, Sherlock. Couldn't you have sent me a text or something?"
"Too dangerous." Sherlock replied tersely, but his usual 'isn't-it-obvious-how-could-you-not-have-guessed-that-what-must-it-be-like-in-your-funny-little-brain-if-you-have-one-at-all' tone was absent, and his words were almost kind. "You okay?" he continued, slowly returning the hug by holding John a little closer. Nodding into his chest, John breathed in the smell of Sherlock's expensive eau-de-cologne and snuggled closer yet against his chest with a contented sigh.
When he was with Sherlock, John always felt safe…even if they were about to be blown up or were chasing a murderer halfway through London. "You were looking out for me, weren't you? Working at the bar so you could keep tabs on me?" he said at length, smiling warmly. The detective nodded silently.
John closed his eyes. After three long, painful months, Sherlock – his Sherlock, the insufferable man he couldn't live without – had returned. Nothing had changed, and life would soon be back to normal…no, wait, that wasn't right. Life would soon be back to extraordinary. "I'm glad your back." John remarked fondly, gazing up into the stunning eyes of the man he internally begged would not leave him alone again.
Sherlock seemed to read his thoughts. "I'm not going to leave again, John…ever." with that, he leaned down and gently placed an affectionate kiss amongst John's light-coloured hair. John found himself laughing, "You wouldn't dare, Sherlock!"