Lost to the Pavement
In the end what mattered was a word; simple and etched into the left side of his chest.
It pulsed and ached like a living being, kept him company where there once was Sherlock.
Where clipped tones and derogative arrogance had been the regular, silence echoed and bounced against the word.
Slight touches, brief flickers as the eyes met and the rush as he moved past and surged ahead. It was all gone. Lost to the pavement.
Missing were the years that should have been, that were now encased in misery and regret. Life resumed and though sorrow lingered the beginnings of terms appeared.
The past was put away, on a shelf to be admired.
All except the word.
All except the goodbye.
"How are you?"
It was wrong. Impossible, Improbable, Implausible and most of all insane.
The words were just a memory, John concluded as he continued reading the newspaper while he sat in his armchair at 221B Baker Street.
An amused sound. A shift. A flutter of movement so familiar it couldn't possibly be real. The coat was packed securely under his bed. Wasn't it?
"I said, 'how are you', John." Light and intrigued the memory was realistic.
Slowly folding the paper closed John placed it to the side. Sighing he closed his eyes as he gave them a good rub as if trying to smooth out the crow's feet that had nested by his eyes.
This wasn't good.
Three years were two too many to be having such hallucinations. He was sober after all. This was too much.
Too real.
Too impossible.
Much too tempting…
An irritated tsk.
A slight stomp.
The sound of light footsteps moving forward to stand before him.
'Not good, not good, not good…' John thought.
"John?"
Some sympathy. Couldn't be him then.
"For God's sakes John, don't you want to know how I did it?"
Shit.
Arrogance.
Intelligence waiting to spew out.
Real.
Alive.
"Goodbye, John."
The world faded to black.
"Unconscious, yes." Sherlock's voice bounded him into alertness, causing John's eyes to fly open, locking onto the man pacing across the room.
Hissing in annoyance Sherlock spun again, a show of flamboyance that was only too familiar to the well worn carpet.
"Yes well I didn't expect that. Mycroft, I can assure you he would be less impressed with waking to a hospital room than waking to me returned from the dead."
Pausing, Sherlock turned, settling his eyes on John's, causing the man to jump.
"No matter," Sherlock said to the phone. "He's awake."
"No, no, no, no, no…." John whispered under his breath, a nervous sweat appearing on his brow. Rising to his feet far too quickly for what he could confidently say was a shocked state, John swayed.
Startled, Sherlock stepped forward, ending the call and putting the phone in his pocked before reaching out to grasp John's arms to hold him upright.
"John, are you alright?" Puzzled worry, ofcourse he wouldn't understand.
"Alright?" John hissed in anger, eyes darting to the frown that etched its way onto Sherlock's lips.
"Well yes, you seem sick. Flushed. Eyes dilated, pulse much too fast…." Sherlock trailed off, presumably at the expression on John's face.
Anger.
Pure, unbridled anger.
With the quick trained movement that Sherlock should really have expected John felt both relief and trepidation as his fist connected with the solid and very real flesh of Sherlock Holmes's face.
What happened next, John could only put down to the relief.
With the shock, denial and anger out of the way the warmth and joy came a bounding and it was Sherlock's turn to be surprised.
Grasping the man's tender face with both his hands, indulging in the wide eyes and slightly parted lips, John harshly pulled the taller man down and pressed his mouth to Sherlock's.
The sharp intake of breath was delicious. The gentle hand to his lower back was sweet.
As the lips hesitantly began to move with his, John closed his eyes and tried desperately to regain all that was lost.
The taste was breath and coffee, a slight stint of cigarette muffled by heat. As his tongue darted forward to caress the flesh and the teeth, a hint of copper greeted him from the split inside the hollow of his cheek, surely from the wallop the man had just received.
The feel was the years that should have been mixed with that soft assurance of the now. He stroked the soon to be bruise and let his other hand flicker through the familiar locks of hair. The hand at his back was joined by another that pulled him flush against Sherlock's chest allowing him to feel the bones that stuck out from his hips, the clothe against his torso and the heart beat that echoed in time with his own, trying to race the other in gaining speed.
The smell was everything he remembered. It was what had gradually faded from the coat and the sheets as he tried to find sleep. It was the essence that had both departed and remained from the apartment. Objects stayed, presence left. Everything that he had missed was wrapped up in all he could inhale.
Time slipped past and the depth became nips and licks. Assurances that accompanied a steady soothing stroking of his back. Pulling away John stared at Sherlock, noticing the flushed face and heavy panting. Enjoying the dark eyes and narrowed brow.
Best of all was the sight. To see him there before him as real as day was more than John could hope for.
The sound wasn't half bad though either.
"John…" Husky, deep and breathy.
The realisation was like being hit by a train, detrimental and efficiently heart stopping.
"Shit! What did I just do?!" John shouted, stumbling back he ended up sprawled awkwardly in his arm chair, hands clutched to his chest, face aghast.
Amusement flickered across Sherlock's face before being replaced by a stern eye.
"Welcomed me back, I assume." Sherlock replied.
Snorting derisively in reply John shook his head.
"You don't snog your male friends as a general protocol for returning from… from…" John trailed off, paling at the thought.
"Death." Sherlock finished.
"Yes." John murmured.
"Fake." Sherlock supplied.
"Obviously." Came John's terse reply.
The silence settled in and Sherlock seemed only too happy to wait it out, staying where he stood before John.
After a while and what felt like countless attempts at speaking, John finally blurted out; "Why?"
Quirking an eyebrow Sherlock pursed his lips. "Why what?"
"Why didn't you tell me!?" The scathing anger in his voice surprised him though it seemed to have little effect on the man infront of him.
"It was imperative that you believed me dead John, trust me. I promise you there was no other way."
"Trust you? Trust You?" John seethed. "I trusted you to be my friend, to be by my side not to jump of a roof! I trusted you too at the very least care… to care about…" John broke off, hearing the hint of sadness and refusing to show it.
"John…" Sherlock knelt forward, grasping John's hand in his own. "John, I'm not sorry. I will never be sorry and I will never say that I am. I can only say how I've missed you. Say how bored I was without you. How much it ached to not see you every day, hear your incessant chattering and laugh with you."
Leaning forward John pressed his forehead against Sherlock's, needing more contact.
"I can't be sorry for keeping you safe, even if it made you hate me." Sherlock finished, closing his eyes tightly.
"I don't hate you." The words came out unbidden but nonetheless honest.
They lingered, just touching, relishing the feeling and the breath that mingled between them.
After a while John felt himself smile.
"So…" He began, watching as Sherlock's eyes opened to reveal a curious glint all too familiar. "I guess this changes things."
"Indeed." Came the soft reply.
"I don't really know why… why I kissed you, you know?" John felt the flutter in his chest at the smirk that graced Sherlock's face.
"Yes you do."
Ah. John supposed he did.
"Well then, since you're not dead and with this obvious step into the direction of some kind of relationship I just have one request."
John didn't miss the hesitation in Sherlock's eyes.
"Yes?" Nervous.
Leaning forward John ghosted his lips across Sherlock's, enjoying the way the man instinctively leaned closer to allow the contact.
Pulling back, John whispered; "Promise me to never say goodbye to me again."
"John…" Genuine sorrow etched its way into Sherlock's voice as he grasped tighter the hands in his own. "I promise."
"Okay." John said quietly.
"John, really." Meeting his eyes, Sherlock nodded slowly. "I'll never say goodbye to you again. I swear."
Warmth pooled into his heart as John had to choke back the sob that threatened to break through.
"Good. Good." John murmured, breathing a sigh of relief.
A minute passed and a gentle calm settled in.
Breaking the silence John sat back, smiling at Sherlock.
"Tea?"
A genuine smile graced the face as the cheeky reply came; "That, my Dear Watson, is an excellent idea!"
In the end it didn't matter.
What was said and done was gone and in the past.
The words were not forgiven, nor forgotten.
Yet there was a calm solace in the fact that he could stop them from being said ever again.
What was lost could be regained, one paving stone at a time.
Starting with a simple cup of tea and a promise.