Title: More than life itself
Summary: There will be time for explanations later. Time for yelling, and fighting, and accusing. Right now, they need this, they need each other. They each need the other more than life itself. Post-Reichenbach reunion. For my lovely BlooMist. J/S
Rating: T
Disclaimer: Sadly, I own no part of the BBC's Sherlock, nor Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's eternal characters Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. I just like to play with them.
For BlooMist, the Sherlock to my John. I love you Bloo!
He couldn't explain it. He couldn't find the words. His therapist kept trying to get him to talk, to explain, to feel, but how could he tell her that his heart wasn't just broken? That it was missing from his chest altogether? Because it was. His heart had shattered into a million pieces on the sidewalk in front of St. Bart's, gone forever.
Just like...
How could he tell her what he was feeling? He couldn't, because he wasn't feeling anything. His heart had died that day, never to return. Because Sherlock was his heart, he was his whole world, his life, his sun, his everything. And that was gone. He was more than numb. He was non-existing. He went through life in a daze, on autopilot, a zombie, just going through the motions. Trying so damn hard for some hint of normalcy. A strangled laugh escaped from his throat. Normal. Nothing about this was normal.
The day he walked into that lab at St. Bart's, he should have known that nothing about his life would ever be normal again.
.oOo.
He's walked this same path a million times by now. He does it in a trance, guided by memory, never really seeing. He always comes. Never at the same time, but at least once a day. This man deserved that. Loyalty, but never, never, predictability. He always visits, but he can't look. He can't see that name, the name that haunts his dreams, poised there, cold and alone, not anymore. So he goes a bit further, and leans his back against the trunk of the tree it lay under. He sits there and stares, stares at anything but his own reflection in the dark stone. He doesn't want to see it. He doesn't want to see how empty he is, how utterly broken he's been left.
Sometimes he talks, he'll tell the leaves about his day, and laugh with the breeze about how mundane it all is. Other days he screams, he'll yell and throw a fit, shouting obscenities at the cold slab of stone. But most days, he can't find the words to say anything at all.
Today it was warm, much too bright, and much too cheery. How could it go on? How could the world keep spinning when it felt like John's whole universe had come crashing down around him?
"It's not fair, you know. Nothing about this is fair! Why Sherlock? Why? Why did you have to leave me? My life is nothing without you. Nothing, you hear me? I can't- I can't even…. I can't even remember before you. There was nothing before you. I guess I just realised that a little to late." A hysterical giggle escapes his lips, has it really been that long since he's said the name? Why did two little syllables have such a hold over him? Gripping what was left of the hole in his chest and squeezing the life out of it with an ice-cold grip. But once he lets it in, he can't stop. The name repeats in his head like a mantra, keeping him here, keeping him sane. Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock.
"I know now. I finally understand. But I guess that doesn't help us, does it Sherlock? Nothing can help us now. I just wish I would have known. Oh God, I wish I would have known." A dry sob wracks his frame, but the tears don't come. He breathes in a deep sigh, they need to be said, but once they are, there's no going back. Terror joins the pain gripping his chest. It's a feeling he can't explain, he's never experienced such excruciating emotions, he's never felt fear like this. Why should he? It's irrational. He knows what is going to happen when the words come out. He knows that there will be nothing but silence. But that doesn't stop them spilling from his lips.
"I will never forget you. I love you Sherlock. I fucking love you." He sighs as his voice breaks. "I love you Sherlock... And I'm not sure, but I think I always have. All I- all I know is that I always will." He lets his head fall back, feels it thump against the trunk of the tree. That's when the tears come, gently rolling down his face. And he's angry. Angry at himself, for not knowing, for never saying, for the dumb disappointment he feels to the bottom of his stomach. Most of all, he's angry at Sherlock. He's so wrapped up in his emotions, feelings that he's blocked out for so long flooding him and he feels like crying out, his arms gripping his chest to try and hold himself together. He's so lost; he almost doesn't hear it. He almost doesn't hear the soft baritone behind him.
"I love you too, John." The words come out quiet, the familiar voice breaking in a way he never thought possible. John's eyes stretch wide. No. Not this. He would have done anything to hear that voice again, but this was torture. He was only hurting himself. He turns to the sound anyway, knowing in his heart that it's fake, just a lie he's telling to himself because it isn't possible.
When he turns he swears he's gone mad. He has to be insane. Because there is no way that he could be standing there. It's his every dream, his every nightmare, all wrapped up in that ridiculous coat and scarf, looking as perfect as imaginable, all cheekbones and wild hair. John's breathe catches despite himself. The delusion is much better than memory. He rises slowly, grasping the tree for support. He stumbles forward, longing for it to stay, if only a little while. If he was going to hurt himself, he might as well do it all the way.
Sherlock watches his progress warily, concern in his eyes, and he reaches his hand out to John, trying to stabilise him although he's still too far to reach. John's hand mimics Sherlock's, and the detective strides forward, closing the distance between them. His steps are graceful, but hesitant, and if John were in the right mind to do anything other than stare, he would have laughed at the absurdity of Sherlock ever being hesitant.
Sherlock stops within an arm's reach of the shorter man, looking into blue eyes that still look so lost. He stares with intent, willing John to understand, to know that he's really there. That this is actually happening, to know that everything is going to be okay. He's here now, and he needs John to know that he will never leave again.
Leaving John was the worst mistake of his life.
John's eyes never leave his, but after a while it doesn't seem to be enough. The Doctor uses his reaching hand to pull Sherlock closer, to feel him, solid and breathing. John knows now, he knows that this is real. He's no longer convinced that it's a hallucination, because his subconscious has never been so kind. His hand snakes cautiously around Sherlock's neck, underneath his scarf and up to tangle in his hair. His left hand reaches up, sliding across the clothed torso to cover his beating heart.
When he feels it, Sherlock's heart, beating and impossibly there. He lets out a breathe he hadn't known he'd been holding, and he pulls Sherlock down with the hand at his neck, crashing their lips together. Sherlock's hands clutch at him, pulling him closer and they move together, frantic and searching, kissing like the next breath would be their last.
There will be time for explanations later. Time for yelling, and fighting, and accusing. Right now, they need this, they need each other. They each need the other more than life itself.