Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Romance
Series: Sherlock
Rating: M
Word Count: 1,498
Length: One-Shot
Warnings: None
Note: My first fiction in quite a while – I plan on creating much more for this series!
How long had it been now?
A month? Two?
A year?
Everything was still exactly where he'd left it. The violin, the skull on the mantle, the books, even the bullet holes in the wall. All of it had been left for John to stare at. A reminder.
As much as he had often harped about the importance of friends, he had none now to show for himself. It was quite laughable.
His only friend had been Sherlock Holmes.
Anyone who could have had a chance of being close to him had long since given up hope. Sure, he saw Miss Hudson now and again, and Lestrade stopped by every once in a while to see how he was getting on – the answer never changed – but neither of them were his friends. Harriet had long since changed her number and address. He had no one left.
He would have taken the emptiness and despair he felt when he returned from Afghanistan than what he was experiencing now. At least, back then, he thought he had no chance of experiencing happiness. He'd finally had it, and it then it was so quickly stolen from him. He'd take anything over what he was feeling now.
He stared at the clock, which had long stopped working. He couldn't bare to disturb it. He could disturb nothing in the flat. He did not step in Sherlock's room. He did not move the lab equipment from the table. If Miss Hudson had not taken matters into her own hands, Sherlock's experiments would have made a permanent home in the freezer. He'd gone off on her for daring to touch something that wasn't hers – she wasn't a housekeeper, didn't she remember? The tears on her face had brought him back to his senses. She hadn't been in the flat at all since then.
Layers upon layers of dust had settled and John could not bring himself to brush it away. He'd be wiping away the memories of Sherlock Holmes, with it. And those were all he had left.
He slept in the chair every night, clutching the embroidered Union Jack pillow to himself. His back suffered and his limp returned even worse than it had previously been. He used saved money to pay Miss Hudson rent, and rarely ate unless it was to keep Lestrade from asking questions. He sat in the same place for hours, relocated to another spot on the floor and did the same thing over and over again each day.
No matter how many times he thought it over; told himself it had happened – that he needed to get through it, he ended up in the same place as he'd started. Imagining what-if's in his head while his body wasted away.
He couldn't stand to go on like this much longer.
He knew the date. He could count the seconds down if he really tried. And he knew what he wanted to do. What he needed to do.
See it from Sherlock's perspective.
He stood slowly from the spot on the floor he'd lain the night before and hissed at his trembling knees. He entered his room slowly for the first time in weeks, his bones aching from misuse. He changed with nothing but the image of Sherlock in his mind. He reached for his cane and began the long walk to Saint Bartholomew's Hospital.
By the time he had reached his destination, snow had begun to fall lightly. He shivered involuntarily and the movement burned his already screaming bones.
He stood merely feet from the edge. He let go of his cane, paying no mind to where it went or the sound of it hitting the cement.
He approached with slow steps, counting the seconds. His breath floated in the air beyond him. Snow landed in his hair.
Once he finally reached it – the one place he waited the entirety of a year to approach, he exhaled. He felt calm. His mind, for once, was not frenzied with destructive emotions. For the first time since Sherlock had stood on this very ledge himself, John Watson felt some variant of contentment, if that's what you could call it.
He took a deep breath, leaning forward to look at the street below him. Somewhere, urging itself from the back of his mind, John distinguished the nausea he felt from such a height. He concentrated on the sound of his heart; beating at the pace of a subway train. He saw no one below him.
He stood straight once more, inching forward until the tips of his toes were just over the side. He found his eyes drifting closed and he couldn't help but wonder if this was how Sherlock had felt. It was... nice, being up there.
When the thought occurred to him that maybe, just maybe he should... he didn't brush it away. He was already standing up here, wasn't he? What else did he have? A long, miserable, lonely life ahead of him, filled with sitting in a dusty flat with only his memories to keep him company? If he did it now, he'd be able to simply... let go. He'd feel as close to Sherlock as he could ever hope to get.
He constructed an image of Sherlock in his mind, analyzing it. The corners of his mouth twitched ever so slightly. He spoke aloud unknowingly.
"Sherlock, I..."
He couldn't say it.
...love you.
He felt his balance shifting and his eyes snapped open, his heart jumping. He was forced to stumble back. He covered his face with his hands, taking deep breaths. Tears burned behind his eyes and bile stung the back of his throat.
He was so afraid. He was so, so frightened. He could risk his life in Afghanistan, but this was different. Staying alive then had been a matter of chance. Enemies, sickness, or disaster could have hit him any moment. This was not the same. This was in his hands. He steeled himself.
He had to do it.
He stepped forward once more, holding his breath. All he had to do was lean forward and it'd be over in a moment, right? It was that simple. That as all he had to do. He exhaled.
"John!"
An arm snaked itself around his waist, yanking him back with surprising strength. All the air left his lungs and he could have sworn his heart stopped. No, no! Who was this? Why would they...
His train of thought trailed away as he was crushed against a lean body; squeezed tightly by gentle hands. He looked up, eyes locking.
"John, why would you...?"
John's breathing was harsh, his pulse thundering and his eyes widening.
"John–" he was cut off by the hands gripping his peacoat.
John searched the face in front of him, hands shaking wildly and legs trembling. If he'd done it... If he hadn't waited those ten more seconds, he would have... He could have never...
"What were you thinking?"
"What was I thinking? What was I thinking?!" John's voice rose with each word. He shook him with all his strength, mumbling incoherently. His fists clenched tightly, and it took all his willpower not to swing.
"I was thinking you were dead, Sherlock – you stupid, selfish son of a bitch!" John's voice trembled, and he held back a sob.
Sherlock looked considerably flabbergasted. He was thinking a mile per minute, and John could see it. There was a moment of silence before Sherlock slowly wrapped his arms around John, and he was equally as surprised when John's shoulders slumped and he grew quiet.
John could not see through his tears. He clung tightly to Sherlock, and could hear his intake of breath as he felt the hot dampness seep into his shirt. They flowed and flowed and flowed, and John was making small noises as he tried to catch his breath.
There was nothing Sherlock could do but stand there and hold him.
"You... absolute fucking bastard. All this time, I thought you... I was going to–" John whispered hoarsely, deciding not to finish his sentence. He swallowed harshly and looked up at Sherlock, staring into his eyes. He did not ask why.
Sherlock's face showed more emotion than John had ever seen, and he lowered his head again, burying it in Sherlock's shoulder. He breathed deeply, pulse beginning to slow.
"I'm sorry, John," Sherlock choked out, pressing his cheek to the top of John's head. If he felt the wetness escape from Sherlock's eyes, John did not comment on it.
"I know."