just a super short little scene - probably done before, but I couldn't help it...
He sat in the room, enjoying its dark quietness. He closed his eyes, wallowing in his tired weariness.
Until he saw those disturbing images again, images his mind created, tormenting him. They were worse than anything he had ever seen; worse even than his war dreams.
The jump.
The fall.
Torn limbs.
Blood everywhere.
Blood on that beautiful chiseled face...
John Watson tensed, balling his shaking left hand into a reluctant fist. He willed it to stop, but it wasn't working. Somehow, the shaking had gotten even worse, ever since...
Ever since Sherlock was dead. As if with him, John's purpose in life had died too. The excitement, the danger: gone. Everything felt dull these days; he couldn't care less.
Holding onto fonder memories, John Watson eventually managed to fall asleep, still sitting in the darkness, on the couch. He didn't notice it when his head fell back onto the cushions. He didn't feel his hand continue to lightly shake, even in the unconscious state of sleep. He didn't hear the harsh sound of hail beating against the window panes over the sound a falling man made in his dreams. He didn't feel the light breeze on his face, only a whoosh of air as the body fell to the ground.
"John."
He did hear that. His name... Uttered by a voice that he had been certain he'd never hear again.
"Why are you sleeping on my couch, John, when you should be investigating my death?" A mixture of slight contempt and indignation. Aloofness, even. Spiraling out of his sleep, back into wakefulness, John's subconsciousness already knew who had spoken to him, although his brain had difficulties catching up.
It couldn't be. It simply couldn't be. He was dead. Sherlock Holmes was dead! He couldn't be here; he couldn't be talking to him. Was he going crazy now? After he had survived the bloody war, he was going crazy over losing his best friend?
"John!"
Louder this time. He blinked, his eyes not quite focussing yet. Everything was a dark blur. Then, suddenly, the light was switched on, and with a rush and rustle of cloth, Sherlock materialized right in front of him, dragging him upward into a standing position. John blinked again, extended his hands, touching the fabric of Sherlock's coat, letting his fingers wander. Up until his fingertips reached the curve of the other man's lips, his nose, his cheeks, the gentle indentation of his temples...
Sherlock grasped John's wrists and stared down at the smaller man's hands.
The shaking, it had stopped.
Their gazes locked. Beautiful eyes, beautiful life-filled eyes, John noticed, before he freed himself of his friend's tight grasp.
"Sherlock," he whispered.
'But you should be dead,' he wanted to say. 'I thought you died. Why... why... why,' he wanted to ask. He wanted to throw a tantrum, he wanted to be upset and let his friend know it. What he did, though, was stare up at him, grab the lapels of his black coat, and with sudden ferocious purpose, he leaned forward and kissed the taller man, hard.
And determinedly, steadily, he began helping Sherlock out of his coat; he let it fall to the ground, all the while keeping his gaze locked on Sherlock's.
He was alive.
The jump, the fall, the blood... everything seemed like a bad dream that was over...
Suddenly, Sherlock's arms came around him, and an instant later, he found himself lying on the floor, on the coat, Sherlock's heavy body on top of him giving him a comfortable feeling as the other one returned the favor of a kiss, deep and probing.
John's hands traveled up again, busying themselves with the buttons on Sherlock's shirt. Two steady hands, knowing exactly what they were doing... Undressing the most beautiful man. Undressing the purpose of John's life.
Thanks for reading...