John winced as he hobbled up the stairs, ignoring the way Sherlock stared at the back of his head with narrowed, gray-green eyes. It was a look of stoic observation with a large dose of judgment, and John was not in the mood to deal with it. The only thing he was in the mood for was a hot shower to wash away the grit and blood that came from chasing after a deranged detective who was hell bent on cornering a serial killer.
He should have known that Sherlock wouldn't keep his observations to himself and let John escape into the safety of a locked bathroom. "I don't understand why you're limping; you were barely grazed in the shoulder."
"Keep your arsehole observations to yourself tonight, huh?" The harsh retort shocked the detective, so used to being called brilliant and wondering after a successful case. His eyes followed John's angry form as he limped to the bathroom and the door slammed shut.
The case had been simple for Sherlock to deduct, observing within the minutes who the killer was. Unfortunately, since the solving the crime had been too easy, Sherlock had taken it upon himself to go after the serial murderer personally, leaving Scotland Yard out of the loop. With absolutely no care towards his own safety, Sherlock chased after the impulsive killer who had a fully loaded gun in his hand and prepared to shoot the second Sherlock was close enough to take aim.
With some sense of care for his own life, but having a far greater sense of care concerning Sherlock's well-being, John followed on his heels. He tried to call after his friend, but nothing could deter the great imbecile that was Sherlock Holmes.
By the time John had caught up to Sherlock, the man had the murderer backed into an alleyway, rallying off his deductions without seeming to worry about the gun pointed at the center of his chest. A second before the shot rang out, John was bull-rushing his flat mate, knocking him onto the hard cement while the bullet grazed his shoulder.
After that, everything seemed to rush by. Sherlock had gotten a hold of his pistol, shot the murderer's hand, and Scotland Yard swarmed the area. The serial killer was arrested. Lestrade fussed over a bleeding John, but then, before he could be questioned, he was being dragged away.
John groaned at the initial hit of hot water, bowing his head to let the water cleanse him. He let in the steam with a harrowing breath.
Sherlock, as always had been correct in his observation that John was the very least, he was in better shape physically than the typical run ins they had with these type of criminals back when John made more of a habit to join his flatmate to a crime scene - more than two years ago. It really was just a graze. He wouldn't even need stitches. Heck, after cleaning the area, he could probably get away without using a bandaid. Yet, he couldn't shake the tremble that ran up his spine or keep the psychometric ache in his legs from causing his limp.
It was ridiculous, John knew, to be reacting this way. Once upon a time the chase would have been exhilarating, and seeing a gun point at Sherlock would have led him to take out his own to shoot first. That was probably the reason Sherlock hadn't been afraid of the killer, thinking that his partner would be in his right mind to shoot before the killer ever had the chance to pull the trigger. The moment he witnessed the scene, however all logical thought was gone. In less than a second, he could see Sherlock fall and bleed out on the dirty ground, and John would rather die than see that sight again.
He could hear Sherlock shuffle about in the living room, but John did his best to ignore outside distractions.
For two years, that had been the image John had had to fall asleep to, haunted by the loss and his uselessness in saving the one person he needed most. Living with nothing but that last memory, John had been as dead on the inside as Sherlock was completely.
When he had seen Sherlock again, alive and standing in front of him in that restaurant, had been like a haunting dream. That second of seeing him had made John question his sanity, thinking for awhile that he had gone too far off the deep end. It was the only explanation for Sherlock to be standing there, alive and reasonably well, because John had seen him die with his own eyes.
Yet there he was, his grayish, green eyes crinkling at the edges as if he had played a magnificent joke. If it was real, it was all too much. John's knuckles formed a tight fist to be pulled back and strung out furiously at the taller man's jaw. It was the blood on his hand that made John finally accept that his friend was alive.
Having accepted the miracle, John apologized for the punch a day later, and began to settle back into 221B Baker Street, waiting for everything to go back to normal. These last two months had been all at once wonderful...and horrible. More than anything John was happy to have his friend back after these two years of heartbreak, and he tried his best to act as if those years hadn't ever occurred. But no matter how much John was overjoyed for Sherlock's return, it was not easy to forget what he had recently gone through.
Despite Sherlock being a floor below him, John still tossed and turned at night at the images of a dead friend. He woke up in a cold sweat, forgetting momentarily that Sherlock was back in his life. He'd be making tea in a morose state, not remembering that he could make two cups without one going to waste. At the clinic, without seeing Sherlock in front of him, it was hard to accept that it was all real and he would continue to sink into depression. The crime scenes were the worst. Most times John was frozen until he followed Sherlock back to the flat.
He came out reluctantly when the water began to lose it's heat, and took his place in his seat. It didn't take long after settling into the cushions uncomfortably, John could feel Sherlock step behind him, staring intently as he was prone to do. Only this time, Sherlock was unsure, the nerves clear in the air.
John could practically hear the deductions about his state. It was a superficial wound. All other pains that John displayed were psychometric, and therefore unimportant. For all his observations, and clever connections, he had never been able to understand the emotions behind motivation. Had never cared to try and understand.
In a way, John supposed it was what made Sherlock brilliant and the best that there was in his field. Unlike the mundane people that lived out their days plainly, Sherlock didn't allow sentiment to get in the way of logic and what was real. He didn't allow himself to be swayed away from the truth. On the other hand, in time like this, it was extremely difficult to live with.
John himself was an emotional being, ruled by senses and feelings more than anything else. No to say that he wasn't a man of science - he was a doctored after all - but his motivations and willingness to do anything was founded on what was in his heart. The thought was ridiculously romantic, but it wasn't like he hadn't been accused of it before. Sherlock, certainly had accused him with a tone of disgust often enough.
"Take out?" Sherlock wondered after a time. "Or maybe tea?"
Which would have been welcomed any other day, Sherlock being mindful of such ordinary things, but John was too drained to deal with incompetencies in which his friend dealt with matters not rooted in rationality.
"Actually," John groaned, lifting himself from his chair, "I think I'll just go to bed." He felt Sherlock's cold stare at his back as he limped up to his room, his fists clenched against the wall to keep his balance as well as keep his frustration in.
He lay atop the blankets, his hands upon his chest that breathed unsteadily, staring miserably at the ceiling. It was silent for an ungodly amount of minutes, possibly close to an hour, maybe even more. John wasn't exactly in a stable enough state to keep track. But then, in the fog of heavy silence, the sweet melodies of a violin drifted upstairs.
It was a sound that John had missed sorely in the two years that Sherlock had been gone. Sometimes, in the depressing late evenings, alone to drown in his loss, John would imagine the soft notes that talented, long fingers would have played. They would haunt his nights, accompanying the images of Sherlock's dead body.
A quiet tear leaked from his eyes. His vision blurred.
The music, for all the hauntingly familiar pain that it brought about in moment of an already vulnerable state of mind, was drowsy, and John began to drift into an uneasy sleep, his eyelids too heavy to stay open. He tossed and turned with cheeks stained with tears, sweat beginning to bead out of his pores. The violin's strings were beautiful still, even to his failing conscious state, but in its beauty, it was heart wrenching.
It reminded him of how the flat used to be, peaceful amidst the chaos and strain of living with Sherlock Holmes. He could remember the way his flatmate looked standing near the window that oversaw the bustle of London, majestic with his instrument in his delicate but strong hands. Those sad, sweet notes were of a time that John could never get back. Those times had died the moment the detective's body had jumped from St. Bart's, and not even the miracle of resurrection could bring them back.
Tears continued to fall, wracking the tired and aching body of the worn out soldier.
Already lost to the fog of unconsciousness, he wished Sherlock would stop playing. The sounds were too damaging to his wrecked heart, broken the second Sherlock had decided to defeat Moriarty on his own.
So John tossed and turned, unable to get away from the painful music that mocked him mercilessly.
Then the music did stop, pausing a moment in silence, followed shortly after by light footsteps. The loss of gentle notes settled John slightly, but not enough to entirely allow for him to get a restful night's rest. Slowly, quietly, John's door creaked open. Apparently not finding it pertinent to ask for permission, Sherlock stepped towards the bed.
He looked down at John, his eyes soft as he took in his flatmate's state, brows furrowed at what he was able to deduce. Awkward, but having made his decision, Sherlock lowered himself to sit at the edge of the bed and caressed the sweaty locks of hair from John's forehead.
"No," John mumbled, the touch, however gentle it might have been, roused him awake. The intimacy made the shorter man feel queasy, and he flinched away from the touch when he became aware enough to do so. Oddly enough, Sherlock had a brief expression of hurt flit across his boyish face before putting it behind his typical mask. But John saw it and he couldn't stomach it. It was all too much. "I'm fine," he muttered, still drowsy but harsh enough, "You can go."
The dismissal caused Sherlock to frown. "You are in pain," he stated plainly as if that were enough for him to be there.
John kept himself from scoffing, but only barely. "Yes, well, just as your said; the pain is all in my head." He turned further away from his friend, facing the opposite wall.
He thought Sherlock would agree in his typical cocky manner, but he didn't. Instead, "I suppose that doesn't make it any less real." His silence pressed into the air. Sherlock refused to leave despite the tension. Or maybe it was because of the tension that he stayed. After awhile his baritone voice broke the stillness. "I'm sorry John."
John forced himself to reply, "Yea well, next time just don't go running off after murderers on your own."
There was a pause where John knew Sherlock wanted to say something along the lines of, "I wasn't alone. You were with me." He must have caught himself in time, though, to say instead, "I mean, I'm sorry about being dead these past two years."
John shook his head as best as he could against the pillow, tears gathering again in his eyes against his will. He made sure that those tears weren't evident in his voice though Sherlock probably could tell. "You don't have to apologize. I understand why you did it." And he did understand. He truly did. Just as he understood that Sherlock had been through hell while he had been gone, and therefore had no reason to complain about what he had gone through during those years.
"Yes, well," Sherlock stuttered unsurely, "I guess that doesn't erase the last two years. I...I," he struggled to find the phrase. "It has come to my understanding that my being back doesn't mean we can just go back to the way things were. That we,...that we have to rebuild what we had."
It was amazing to hear such a realization from Sherlock, expressing more emotion than he had ever allowed before. In the brightness of say, John might have been able to appreciate more fully Sherlock's admission, but in the vulnerable, depressing night, John couldn't handle it. "I'll be fine Sherlock. Please let me sleep."
There was hesitancy, but Sherlock finally moved from the bed and slowly led himself out of the room. The door, however, did not close, even as the footsteps descended.
Which left John again to his own misery, though now not only left with horrible images, saddening remembrances, and a deep ache that seeped into his psychology. Along with thinking about the painful complexity of Sherlock himself. It was something that Sherlock had been able to come to such a conclusion on his own, to understand what John was going through. In all probability it meant he was progressing. Maturing. It was one thing to come to that conclusion, though, and quite another to act upon it.
As much as John would wish it, John knew awkwardly confessed words would do little for their current situation. It would do even less for John's mental state.
John blamed himself to be so effected by an occurrence that should have been a common thing for them - chasing criminals. There was no place for Sherlock to come to a complete understanding as to why exactly John was messed up even now. He wanted to force himself to pretend once more, get rid of his psychometric limp, but he couldn't. It wasn't in his capability to do so.