Author's Note: Wow, it has been SO long since I published anything on here, I'm so sorry guys. I hope this makes up for it, it's my longest story yet and I have been addicted to this series. There are some Reichenbach spoilers in here, so if you haven't seen series 2 episode 3, then don't read this until you have, otherwise the ending will be spoiled for you. I have no idea where this idea came from, but I have been wanting to write some Sherlock/John stuff for a month or so and I did this yesterday whilst my internet was down once I got back from the Sherlock Holmes Museum in London, situated in Baker Street. I think that's all I have to say, so enjoy ^.^
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock Holmes, all copyright material belongs to Arthur Conan Doyle, Stephen Moffat and Mark Gatiss.
Valentine's day. It used to mean so much to John. Dinner in a nice restaurant that had been booked for months, theatre shows, trips to the cinema, boxes of chocolates, flowers, baking… Of course, in his most recent relationship none of those things had been necessary. In fact, he hadn't had to do anything, though John, being the romantic type, had. He had baked his boyfriend's favourite type of cake, not knowing what else to get the detective and feeling he would prefer something understated anyway. What he hadn't expected from his self-proclaimed sociopathic lover was to be showered in gifts and whisked away on a whirlwind of romance.
He had woken up on the morning of their first Valentine's day to find his lover wasn't there. That didn't surprise John; he was usually an early riser, if he slept at all. The doctor strained his ears to hear the faint sounds of the violin playing. If he heard that, then it would mean that the brunette had waited until he thought the doctor was well and truly asleep and then crept downstairs so as to not wake him and also to not go out of his mind with boredom. The ex-army man stretched and sat up and blinked in surprise when a note fell off of his chest.
If you awaken and find this note before I come back into your room, then remain in bed. If you find this note whilst I am in the room, then disregard previous message ~SH
John blinked in confusion at the note, but knowing better than to argue with the detective and his notes, he settled back under the covers and fell back into a light slumber. When he came back to consciousness again, he was greeted with the smells of freshly brewed Earl Grey tea (his favourite), eggs, bacon, toast and the slight tang of disinfectant that seemed to have woven its way into his lovers clothing and was as much a part of him as anything else. He opened his eyes to find a tray laden with his mug, full of Earl Grey and a plate with a full English breakfast, and naturally there was strawberry jam waiting innocently next to the toast, just begging John to eat them together. He looked around and his eyes locked on the grey-green of his boyfriend's. His cheeks were tinged with pink, whether that was from embarrassment or the heat of the kitchen, John couldn't tell. He had specks of flour in his dark curls and cooking oil had splashed across the pink apron that John knew to be Mrs Hudson's.
"Happy Valentine's Day, John." The deep baritone rumbled, looking slightly awkward and if John didn't know him better, a little bit nervous. The doctor smiled.
"You did all this for me?"
"I had a little bit of help from Mrs Hudson when it came to the right method for kneading bread dough and having patience whilst waiting for it to rise. It is immensely therapeutic, baking bread, despite how infuriating it is to have to wait an hour for the dough to rise, only to have to repeat the process… I hate repetition, it is unnecessary and utterly boring" He sat on the end of the bed and folded his arms, his perfect cupid's bow lips forming a small, almost unnoticeable pout. The change of subject made John smile as he had his answer. Sherlock Holmes, the only consulting detective in the world had made John H Watson, ex-army doctor, breakfast in bed, and not only that, he had made the bread from scratch and had flour still in his hair. John couldn't help the laughter that bubbled out of him.
Sherlock bristled, looking slightly offended.
"If my efforts to please you are so funny, I shall go and ask Lestrade to give me a case when I had specifically asked he give me this day off, midnight to midnight, no matter what cases came up within that 24 hour slot."
"No, no it's not that, Sherlock. I love it, it's just the mental image I have of you baking bread is so wonderful but the effect is slightly ruined as at some point you got a little over enthusiastic with the flour. There's still some in your hair, that's what I was laughing at"
"Oh…"
That was the first of many surprises that day. After John had eaten, Sherlock had taken his plate downstairs and washed up after telling John to stay put whilst he did so. He then gave the doctor the most wonderful back massage he had ever received, leaving him feeling on cloud nine and ever so relaxed. He had then taken a nice, long, soapy soak in the bath which the detective had run especially for him, even taking care to use John's favourite bubble bath and set out all of the doctor's favourite wash products. The towels were clean and warm and extra fluffy. Another note fell out of them.
Please put on the items of clothing and accessories that I have laid out on the bed for you and join me in the living room ~SH
The doctor had done as he asked without question and found a new pair of dog tags which had been engraved, awaiting him. On one side, the engraving read:
Dr John H Watson
Captain of the Northumberland 5th Fusiliers
221B Baker Street.
When John turned it over, he couldn't help but smile at the engraving which read as follows:
Sherlock Holmes
Consulting Detective
Boyfriend of John H Watson, please return to if found.
221B Baker Street
He happily put on the dog tags and went downstairs. Sherlock sat him down in his favourite chair and played violin concerto after violin concerto, each of his own composition, each John had heard small snippets of since the New Year but had never taken much notice of.
Once the concert was over, the consulting detective whisked John off to Angelo's for lunch and they returned home to have a lazy afternoon, where John presented Sherlock with the chocolate cake he had baked whilst the brunette had been out the previous day and they ate it together, in peace, chuckling about how jealous Mycroft would be if he were there, as he wouldn't be able to have any of the cake, due to it interfering with his diet.
Once 5pm rolled around, Sherlock took John out again and they took a cab to London's West End, where the consulting detective had managed to procure front row tickets to the doctor's favourite musical, Les Miserables. After the show had finished, the tall brunette had taken John to a 5-star restaurant which was booked for the next two years, but as Sherlock had helped the owner clear himself of a criminal charge, not only was he allowed to eat there whenever he wanted with as many guests as he wished, but everything on the menu was free.
Full and happier than John could remember being on Valentine's day, the doctor found himself back in Baker Street where the consulting detective proceeded to make love to John all throughout the night until both where thoroughly exhausted and couldn't move due to their muscles protests.
John smiled sadly at the memory of it, sitting in his boyfriend's favourite chair. That Valentine's had been their first as a couple; it had also been their last. He couldn't bring himself to mentally call Sherlock his ex, because he wasn't, not really. Not in John's mind anyway. They had still been together when Sherlock had fallen from the roof of St Bart's and if that hadn't happened, John had been certain that they would grow old together. Not necessarily get married or anything, but just happily live in their flat together for the rest of their lives and solving crimes on a less and less frequent basis as Sherlock got older and couldn't run around London as efficiently as he used to. All that had been taken from John three years ago.
The world had turned on Sherlock, proclaiming the detective a fake, all because Mycroft had given Moriarty all the tools he needed to destroy Sherlock once and for all. Well, James "Jim" Moriarty had certainly succeeded. His body had been discovered an hour after the fall, a bullet through the skull, obvious suicide. What John didn't understand was why the two most intelligent men in the world had both decided to commit suicide on the same day. John shuddered as he remembered the last conversation he had ever had with his boyfriend and kicking himself for not telling Sherlock how much he loved him one more time. He had spent hours at the black marble which now marked the place where he lay in peace, holding back the sobs that threatened to choke him and hoping, praying, Sherlock could pull off one more miracle and come back to him, even if only for 30 seconds so he could say all that he had left unsaid and hear that sweet baritone voice just once more.
The day which had held so much happiness for him 3 years earlier, now just brought everything crashing back to him and made the detective's absence felt much more keenly than the rest of the year. It had become John's tradition now, to go to Sherlock's grave every year and just sit next to it and talk for hours and hours, until his voice became hoarse and his muscles were numb from the cold February air. And even then, John didn't leave for a good hour or two, just staring at the gravestone in silent contemplation, feeling his heart breaking into a thousand pieces all over again. Sometimes the feeling would take him by surprise, making him draw in an unsteady and shaky breath slowly, before releasing it just as slow to calm the throb of pain and ignore the burn of water in his eyes. Other times it would build up slowly and John would begin to feel as though he couldn't breathe, in those moments, he closed his eyes and thought back to the day he met Sherlock and smiled unconsciously at the memory of when Sherlock had figured out pretty much everything about him from one glance.
Eventually, John would gather up all his strength and use his cane to push himself up into a standing position once again, despite the protests of his muscles and his heart, and every time he left, he said the same thing.
"Please Sherlock, one more miracle, just for me… Don't… Be… Dead. Just stop this, stop it… Could you do that for me?" and with that, he would limp away and return to the empty 221B Baker Street.
This year though, something new happened. Something broke the routine. He received a text. He never got texts on this day; it was the one day of the year that everyone knew to just leave him be with his grief. When his phone buzzed in his pocket alerting him of the new text, just as he was walking away from Sherlock's grave, John was puzzled. He didn't recognise the number but he opened the text anyway, figuring if it was from some company, he would have someone to shout at to take his mind off it for a while at least.
What he saw made his heart skip a beat and his breath catch in disbelief.
John, turn around and look at the grave, please. ~SH
Slowly, John did so, and there, standing behind the gravestone with his name on it was Sherlock Holmes, very much worse for wear but so alive. He looked as though he had aged 10 years in the 3 that he had been gone, he was thinner than John remembered, the hoodie and jeans combo he was wearing were basically hanging off his thin frame. He was leaner, had built more muscle mass over the years, showing he hadn't been idle over that time, he had been very active nearly every day. He was in need of a shave as there was stubble growing over his jawline and his once short curls were now halfway down his back as though he had either forgotten or hadn't had the time to cut his hair. Despite all the differences, he still had those impossibly high cheekbones and those grey-green eyes which looked at someone as though he could see straight through them, which he could in effect. It was those striking features which hadn't changed which really cemented for John that it really was Sherlock standing there.
"Sherlock…" the doctor whispered, frightened to make too much noise in case this was a dream and it scared the apparition away.
The consulting detective took three swift strides across the graveyard and pulled John into his arms whilst perfectly fitting their lips together in a searing kiss which spoke of love and loss, grief and longing, guilt and forgiveness. Everything they could have said to express their emotions over the last three years was communicated through that one joining of lips, and when they pulled apart, gasping for air, both understood the emotional turmoil in the other without the need for words.
"I'm sorry John…" The heartfelt apology, stricken with grief so strong it was making the detective tremble, would have been enough to make any man forgive him, something John had done the second he realised Sherlock was actually real, not a hallucination.
"I forgive you"
They returned to 221B together that night, thankful that Mrs Hudson always left the flat that day so that John could privately grieve. Sherlock and John didn't say anything after their brief conversation in the graveyard. Right then, that night, they needed each other and they made love until dawn, each drowning in the other's scent, passion and need to be with the other until they passed out from sheer exhaustion. The explanations could wait until morning, when John would undoubtedly be angry and punch Sherlock in the face, which he would accept with grace, knowing he deserved so much more. But that night was theirs. Anger, hurt, betrayal, guilt were all left outside the bedroom door to be dealt with in the morning, when things had calmed between them, so the only thing left to feel was love and it was felt so acutely by the two men that they moved in unison, two halves of the same whole, reconnected at last.
Valentine's day. The day Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, had returned to him after 3 long years of being dead to the world to ensure John's safety, along with the safety of Greg Lestrade and Mrs Hudson. 3 years of hunting down every single strand of Moriarty's web and clearing his own name in the process. 3 years alone and without John. 3 years of hurt and betrayal and guilt, finally over. It used to mean so much to John. After that night, it always meant so much more.