A/N: This is my first story in English, so if you spot any mistakes, I'll be more than happy to fix it :)
This story contains JohnLock (love between two men), don't like - don't read.
The story also contains spoilers for those who haven't seen the episode "His Last Vow", the third episode of the third Sherlock season.
Hope you enjoy :)
Protective
John Watson stared at his best friend. After all the dangers they've been through, the years of solving tricky mysteries together, and this was the end of it. At a windy runway, their magnificent adventure would come to an abrupt end. This was their goodbye.
A moment ago, they had already tried to say their goodbyes to each other, but they both didn't find the right words. How do you bid farewell to the man who've saved you loads of times, both physically and mentally? Suddenly, Sherlock cleared his throat, preparing to speak.
"John, there's something I should say, I've meant to say always, and I never have. Since it's unlikely we'll ever meet again, I might as well say it now." There was a pause. John looked into Sherlock's eyes, trying to figure out what he was thinking but, as always, it was impossible. He was as hard to understand as he'd always been.
"John..., I love you"
John didn't feel the cold wind finding its way though his clothes anymore. He didn't feel the gazes of his wife and Mycroft, standing by the airplane. He looked into Sherlock's eyes, and finally, he saw. He could see it all; the pain, the possessiveness, the panic, the helplessness. But above all that, a warm hint of something new to his eyes. Care.
"Sherlock, you were supposed to be on that plane five minutes ago, hurry up, will you?", Mycroft suddenly shouted, overpowering the howling of the wind. Sherlock, who had turned his head to face Mycroft, turned his head back again. Without any further explanations or confessions, he held out his hand to suggest a handshake.
"To the very best of times, John", he said in a composed and formal manner. John, whose mind had become completely numb, absently shook Sherlock's hand, unable to say anything, and watched as he scurried over to the plane and disappeared through the doorway. The plane lifted, and he was gone, just like that.
Mary walked over to John, taking his hand in her own, resting her head on his shoulder. John didn't feel the need to tell her what Sherlock had said, not that he could talk about it anyways. He was simply too stunned to even notice his surroundings. They didn't know how long they'd been standing like that, watching the plane disappearing further away, until Mycroft suddenly got a phone call. He listened to the caller in silence, and frowned.
"But that's not possible. That is simply not possible". He turned to look at John, who finally snapped out of his numbed state. He took a step towards Mycroft.
"What's happened?"
Mycroft sighed heavily and looked at the plane, which had turned into a dot in the sky. He turned his head back to John and said a sentence which sends shivers of both fear and, though very little, anticipation down John's back;
"Moriarty seems to be alive". Then he dialed a number on his phone, and walked further away to talk in private.
"But you told me that Moriaty was dead", Mary said, turning to John.
"Absolutely. Sherlock faced him on the roof of Barts, and he shot himself in the head. They found him later, when they had...when they had taken Sherlock's body away", John cleared his throat to try to conceal his voice cracking at the end of the sentence, but he suspected that Mary had noticed it anyways. Suddenly, he became aware of an engine noise that was growing stronger and stronger behind him. He turned around and saw that Sherlock's plane had come back, preparing to land on the runway again.
"With Moriarty on the loose, I couldn't risk sending away the only consulting detective there is", Mycroft said, suddenly standing beside John, with a hint of a smirk on his face.
The plane landed and the door opened.
Two months later
"Have you heard from Sherlock lately? You haven't been visiting him since the day at the runway", Mary suddenly said, giving John a cup of tea.
"No, I think it's best to let him deal with Moriarty alone", John replied. "I don't want to put either you or myself in any unnecessary danger, and Moriarty is definitely one of the most dangerous men I have met"
"...I suppose so, but you should really talk to him. I don't know what he said to you at the runway, but he left you looking very perplexed"
"Fine, I'll go there today", John sighed. He knew that he would have to talk to Sherlock sooner or later, but he still didn't fully understand the whole situation.
"Hello dear, good to see you! You haven't been here in such a long time. I'll prepare a good cuppa for you", Mrs Hudson exclaimed when she opened the door at 221B Baker Street. She let him in and he went up the stairs to the flat with so many memories. Downstairs, he heard Mrs Hudson prepare the tea, just like always. He opened the door, and was hit with a foul smell.
"Sherlock? 'You here?", he asked, taking a step into the flat. Nothing in particular had changed. It was a bit messier than he remembered, a little dustier, and then there was the smell. Mrs Hudson appeared behind him in the stairway.
"He hasn't let me in to clean, and you know he won't clean himself". She frowned and walked into the apartment, careful to not step on the books lying about. To put the tray with teacups down, she had to move a big pile of paper scraps from the coffee table to the floor.
"Isn't he here at the moment?", John asked, looking into the kitchen.
"He hasn't gone out. Check in his bedroom, he's probably still asleep. He's developed a bad habit of sleeping until noon", Mrs Hudson sighed and shook her head.
"Isn't he working on the Moriarty-case?"
"No, he's not. Detective Inspector Lestrade visited him many times, begging him for help, but he refused"
"Refusing an intriguing case involving Moriarty? That doesn't sound like him". John walked over to Sherlock's shut bedroom door and knocked on it. When he got no reply, he knocked again.
"Go away, Mrs Hudson, I told you to not enter the flat!"
"It's me", John shouted back. He could hear the sound of bed sheets falling to the floor and the shuffling of tired feet. Suddenly, the door was yanked open.
"What do you want?". Sherlock's face were mere inches from John's, intimidating and strangely unfamiliar. John took a step back to look at Sherlock. He was hunched, not his usual proud self. He also had stubble and pajamas that looked like he had been wearing them a long time.
"I came to talk to you", John replied, after being confused by Sherlock's lack of personal hygiene.
"Boring", Sherlock said and shut the door again.
"What do you mean 'boring'? And how is sleeping not 'boring'?", John shouted, infuriated.
"I'm not sleeping, I'm thinking"
John gave up and walked out in the kitchen. The closer he came to the sink, the stronger the foul smell became. He looked down in the sink to find a moldy mess of something unrecognizable.
"Mrs Hudson, do you know what this is?", he asked the landlady, who were throwing out old magazines. She came over to the sink, looking down.
"Oh dear! I have no idea what that could be, but we should probably not stand here and inhale it. Could be one of Sherlock's experiments."
"But he hasn't been himself lately, has he?", John asked, worried about Sherlock's condition.
"No he hasn't. It's not just the Moriarty-case he refused, he doesn't take on any cases anymore. He's just lying about in his bedroom, not doing anything"
"He said that he was 'thinking'"
"That's just a bunch of nonsense! Both you and I know that he can think just as well when he's doing mundane chores, he doesn't need to confine himself in his bedroom for that"
"So what is he doing then? Could he be planning something?", John asked, glancing towards Sherlock's closed bedroom door.
"He's probably just sulking, dear. But do come and visit more often, you haven't been here for months! Sherlock would appreciate having someone to talk to"
"Hmm... I doubt that", John said, glancing at the closed door again.
"Oh, I almost forgot, here's your tea", Mrs Hudson said, giving John a cup of, now lukewarm, tea.
"Thank's, but I don't think I'll be staying any longer. Need to get home to Mary", John said and put the cup down on the kitchen table. Then he left, despite Mrs Hudson's disappointed look.
"How's he doing?" was the first thing Mary asked when John stepped into his flat. He sighed heavily. The last thing he wanted to think about was that bloody stubborn Sherlock Holmes!
"He's doing all right, just being his usual grumpy self", he said in a bitter voice.
"Oh, I thought you two were on good terms. Especially if you compare with how his is towards other people", Mary took John's coat and hung it on the coat hanger.
"Yes, I thought so too, but that has apparently changed"
"Maybe he is just a little cross with you for not talking to him for so long"
"He faked his own death and disappeared for two years without telling me that he was alive! I don't think I'm being unfair for leaving him to take care of himself for two months, especially after he told me...", John stopped in the middle of the sentence, suddenly being very occupied by a loose thread on his shirt.
"After he told you what?", Mary asked, trying to catch John's attention.
"Hm, it's nothing", John mumbled, picking at his shirt.
"You're a very bad liar, John. What did Sherlock tell you?"
"He didn't tell me anything, Mary. It's not important!", John looked up to meet Mary's concerned and doubtful eyes.
"If it's not important, why don't you tell me? Maybe what he told you is not important to you, but it is to him, and that's why he's cross at you"
"He probably doesn't care anymore. And he hates me now for sure", John pushed Mary away and sat himself down in an armchair, thinking about his favorite armchair at Baker Street. He didn't see it when he visited. Maybe Sherlock had gotten rid of it, just like he seemed to be wanting to get rid of John.
"Do you want some tea?", Mary called from the kitchen.
"No thanks, I'm fine", John replied, thinking about how much he was not fine.
"There's been a break in at Downing Street!", Mary exclaimed the next morning, while reading the paper.
"What happened? Did they steal something?", John leaned over the table in an attempt to see the article.
"No, nothing appears to have been stolen. Weird, why break in and just leave?", Mary put the newspaper on the table and took a bite of her toast. Suddenly, John's phone started ringing. He looked at the screen. It said "DI Lestrade".
To be continued...