Warning: Spoilers for Season Two's ending ahead! If you have not watched and do not want spoilers: STOP READING NOW!
Listen to: "This is War" by Ingrid Michaelson while reading.
Reunion
It was quiet for several minutes. Rain poured outside the window, rolling down the glass like a waterfall. The retired doctor-soldier sat opposite the psychiatrist. His hands were constantly moving, tapping against his leg, the arm of the chair, his chin, wiping his mouth. His eyes couldn't stop moving, either. He was pale, with large, dark colored bags under his eyes; his hair was unkempt and a little longer than Doctor Thompson remembered him keeping it.
"Why today?" she asked.
The soldier frowned and shifted in his seat nervously. "You wanna hear me say it?"
"Eighteen months since our last appointment." Her voice was calm, trying to be soothing, but the soldier wouldn't have any of it.
He frowned. "You read the papers?"
She was hesitant before answering, "Sometimes."
Not missing a beat, the soldier continued, "And you watch telly. You know why I'm here. I'm here because—" His voice cracked. He cleared his throat, but he stopped talking and looked away from the doctor across from him, to his lap, at his nervously tapping fingers.
She sat forward, a concerned frown on her face. "What happened, John?"
He was silent for a moment. He raised his gaze, met hers, but his breathing was labored—his chest rose and fell with quick, but deep breaths.
Finally, "Sherlo—" He choked again. His mouth contorted into a twisted line and he turned to frown at the window.
"You need to get it out." She was careful, gently prodding without being forceful.
John nodded. He took a deep breath, swallowed down the lump in his throat. "My best friend. Sherlock Holmes." His voice began to quiver ever so slightly, but he had to plow on. "He's dead."
...
Doctor John Watson was a soldier; but, before that, he was a doctor.
He was a humble man, with blonde hair and brown eyes. He was of average height and had been doing a fine job of keeping himself in shape. Rather, he had been, until that day six months ago. The day his entire life would change. He didn't care any more.
The limp he received on his trip in Afghanistan was back, returned full force, in fact. John couldn't put much pressure on it without falling over himself. It was probably psychosomatic, but he didn't even seem to mind it.
The more he returned to the way things were before, the better John would be. He hoped.
He couldn't even walk into 221 B Baker Street. He hadn't been back to the flat he and Sherlock Holmes had shared since the incident. There was too much emotion, too many memories, and it all hurt far too much right then. He told Ms. Hudson that he would be around sometime in the future to pick up his things, but…just not yet. He couldn't face that place, the place that was so… Sherlock.
He was staying with Harry, across town. As far from Baker Street as he could get. He met with his therapist regularly, now, but her words seemed to do little to help him get over…everything.
When had John become that dependant on Sherlock's thrill seeking? Was it that first night, when John had moved in?
...
"I think better when I talk aloud." Sherlock was nonchalant as he spoke. His movements were quick and precise as he pulled on his coat and scarf. "The skull just attracts attention."
John shook his head, as if he didn't believe what he was hearing or seeing. Sherlock raised a brow at him and added, "Problem?"
There was a deep breath before John spoke, "Yeah, Sergeant Donovan."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "What about her?"
"She said you get off on this. You enjoy it."
Sherlock's answer was coupled with a smirk. "And I said dangerous, and here you are."
With that he turned and was out the door. John sat for a whole second before he cursed to himself and struggled to his feet to follow.
...
"The stuff that you wanted to say..." Doctor Thompson's tone was gentle. John made to cut her off, opening his mouth, but he closed it after a second. Doctor Thompson continued, "But didn't say it."
John nodded and swallowed down the lump in his throat. "Yeah."
"Say it now."
John shook his head. His lips were thin and tight. He waved his hands carefully. His voice was tight as he answered, "I'm sorry, I can't."
The next twenty minutes went by in silence, as John struggled to keep his composure and Doctor Thompson scribbled notes.
...
John was staying at his sister's place for the moment. Harry was off the booze, had been since Christmas, thank god, but she had replaced it with an overbearing need to fuss over John. It made her almost intolerable to live with.
That first week had been a blur. Harry was there to console when he needed her—sometimes when he didn't need her, and even when he didn't want her. John had wandered around her flat, dazed and disoriented. It had taken every ounce of willpower he had to contact Doctor Thompson. On one hand, it was to give himself a reprieve from Harry. On the other…he needed help.
John didn't like to ask for help. He was a strong man, but he was practical. He knew he was out of his element here and he knew this was what he needed. Not a fussy babysitter, not someone to dote on him. He needed someone to pick him up and set him on the right path again.
So there he was, sitting in Doctor Thompson's office for the first time in eighteen months, admitting aloud for the first time that he was alone without Sherlock Holmes.
John left the office feeling…less than stellar. He had hoped that talking about it would help, would make him feel better, but it hadn't. Not deep down. He had to have known, being a doctor himself, that one sitting wasn't going to help all that much, but he had given himself such high hopes…
And, still, he still felt lost.
A ping in his pocket alerted John to a text. He pulled his phone out and looked at the screen:
"Baker Street, three hours. Come alone."
...
Baker Street loomed ahead of him. He stared at the numbers, the faded lettering spelling out 221 B. The door was unlocked; had Mrs. Hudson known he was coming? Was she in trouble? John grit his teeth, gripped the handle of his cane tighter.
He limped up to the door and pushed it open. What did he expect to hear? Part of his mind went down the route of the familiar. He half expected to smell some of Sherlock's experiments burning in the microwave. He half expected to see Sherlock's familiar blue coat hanging on the banister. Emotions choked the doctor, but the flat was still and eerie.
John limped into the flat and stopped at the stairs. There were scuffs on the walls; were those new? Had those been there from when Mrs. Hudson had been attacked by those American prats and were never cleaned up? A cold feeling swept over John then and he hesitated not a second longer before charging up the stairs as fast as his gimp leg would allow.
All was silent and still. Too silent, too still, but that didn't stop John's mind from falling back six months to when this used to be his home. Sherlock's things were in boxes and crates, Mrs. Hudson having packed everything up for John to take away, but he'd never done it. He hadn't been able to bring himself to come back until now, after all. The place smelled the same. It still smelt of Sherlock, if a little musty.
"It's good to see you, John. You're looking rather well, aren't you?"
The soldier started to turn toward the voice, a woman's voice, but something hard met the back of his head, and John suddenly found himself on the floor.
"It's good to see you again. Now, we have unfinished business, you and I. Here, let's make you more comfortable."
The voice was far away suddenly, but all around him. John's vision swam and the room was tilting every which way. Strong hands lifted him from the floor and deposited him in a chair. His pockets were searched, his gun was taken away and his limbs were bound—John tried to struggle, but his heart was obviously not in it.
"You know, John, we've never met. But I know you; I know who you are."
"Who…are…?"
"Shush, now, my dear." Her voice was soothing, deceptively calm and sweet. She touched his face, made him lift his chin to look at her. There were two of her swimming in his vision. Two women with curly black hair that brushed her ears and fell over her forehead in an oh-so familiar way.
The soldier slowly came back to himself as the room stopped spinning around him. The two women came together into one woman—a single woman that caused the breath to hitch in John's throat. If he didn't know any better, he'd swear he was staring at Sherlock. But Sherlock wasn't a woman.
She was smirking and her ice-blue gaze met his evenly. "We've not been officially introduced, have we?" She walked around him, her hands trailed across his shoulders. John shrugged, tugged at his bounds, but there was no getting away. "You can call me Angelina."
Was he even sure he wanted to?
"You see, John. Six months ago, we were paid to do a job, for Jim Moriarty. Remember him, do you?" John grit his teeth. Something wet was sliding down the back of his neck and his head hurt. It was hard to concentrate on this woman, especially when she moved to sit in Sherlock's chair. She was just as tall as he—maybe an inch shorter?—but she was just as gangly. She sat and crossed her legs and steepled her fingers under her chin and John was struck again by how much she looked like Sherlock.
"Of course you remember him." She was nonchalant now. "He paid us to do a job. Wanna know what that job was?" She grinned and sat forward. "It was to kill you if Sherlock Holmes didn't jump off that building."
"What…?"
"I'll be the first to admit, it was depressing when he did it. I was personally looking forward to pulling the trigger on you." She picked up John's gun and admired it.
John grit his teeth and blinked quickly. He had to focus. He had to keep her talking. "Why?" Part of him wondered, why was he trying to delay the inevitable? No one knew he was here. He didn't even care that he was still breathing. He hadn't felt alive in months, so why should he keep living?
"Why?" She checked the ammunition. "Why am I here now? Or why did I want to kill you then?"
"Both."
She smiled. "It's always depressing, you see John Watson, when a mark goes unfilled. When Moriarty told us to back off when Sherlock jumped, well, some of us took it harder than others." She shrugged.
"As for why I'm here now, isn't it obvious?" She cocked the gun and leveled it at John.
John should have struggled, should have fought to loosen his bounds and try to stop this madwoman; all his instincts were telling him to do just that. But John didn't move; he didn't react except to raise his head defiantly. It was as if he'd been waiting for something like this to happen; as if he wanted to die.
"I'm here to finish the job."
No sooner did she finish speaking than the door burst open with a bang. John looked up in time to see a familiar blue coat launch itself from the door way straight into the would-be assassin. There was a clatter as the gun fell to the floor, but John's eyes were on only one person.
Sherlock Holmes.
Sherlock Holmes was standing in front of John Watson, over the assassin and very much alive.
John couldn't believe it. He'd forgotten to breathe between the time that Angelina went down and when she lifted her fist and got a lucky slug in on Sherlock. Suddenly there was a mad scramble for the fallen gun; Sherlock tackled her legs and pinned her down. His arm raised, then dropped to her stomach and winded her for a moment. He was up and the gun was in his hand.
But not for long.
"Look out!" John shouted as the assassin rose. She tackled Sherlock into a pile of large books. The gun dropped again and John watched in horror as a book smacked Sherlock on the side of his head—he looked momentarily dazed, but his instincts were still strong as he swung a fist and connected with Angelina's nose.
She howled in rage, cursed loudly and ran from the room without another word.
For a whole minute, John was dumbstruck. He stared after the assassin, then turned his attention to the dazed detective laying among the books on the floor.
"Sherlock! Sherlock!" How long had he been calling out to him? Was this even happening? He was dreaming, that was it. This was all a horrible dream his subconscious cooked up for him and any minute now he would be waking up. In his bed at Harry's, safe and sound and warm, with his psychosomatic limp, utterly depressed, and sorely alone.
Did he really want to wake up?
"Sherlock!" He was desperate. The ropes tying John to the chair were starting to loosen. Had they been tightly knotted in the first place, or had he finally begun to care? John didn't know. He just knew he needed to get out of the chair, get over to Sherlock, because he wasn't moving and he couldn't handle the thought of losing his best friend again.
No… Not again!
"Damnit, Sherlock, open your eyes!"
"John?" Sherlock picked himself up from the floor and opened bleary eyes slowly. He looked disoriented—did he have a minor concussion? John vowed to take a look at that as soon as he could move his arms. "John, are you all right?"
He stumbled over to John's chair. His hands fumbled a bit on the ropes; John was still as he tugged and untied them. "Are you all right?" Sherlock repeated. Was that…desperation in his voice?
Was this real? Was this a dream, or was it really happening?
"I'm…fine," John answered, breathless and ignoring the throbbing pain at the back of his neck. He tried to turn his head to watch Sherlock struggle with the ropes, but the movement caused something to pull in his neck and his vision suddenly swam. "Are-are you all right?"
Sherlock didn't answer. Merely made a soft noise and continued to struggle with the ropes. John looked down; his head was aching and he couldn't see what Sherlock was doing anyway.
Finally, the ropes fell away, after what felt like far too long. John wanted to whip around and face this dream fully, but a cold feeling stopped him. The aching at the back of his head felt too real. Did he normally feel pain while dreaming? He didn't think so; this was beginning to feel less like a dream and more real, the longer it went on.
If that was true… Then who was this man in his flat? Sherlock Holmes was dead, so he couldn't be him. Just…couldn't be.
"Who are you?" he finally asked. He didn't turn around. He couldn't face this man, this stranger…this look-alike. He had already been faced with an assassin that looked just like him; what was another to add on to the list?
There was hesitation for a moment. A strange stillness interrupted only by their breathing.
"John…" The familiar voice that haunted John's dreams recently sounded different. Almost as if he were pleading. It wasn't normal, not for Sherlock. The sound caused John to flinch. "You know exactly who I am."
John's hands clenched into fists. Still, he refused to turn and face this doppelganger. "No, I don't." His voice was tight. He sounded distant to his own ears. "Sherlock Holmes is dead. You can't be him."
"Really, John, even someone ordinary could recognize me, no matter how long it's been." It was almost as if "Sherlock" was patronizing him. The thought caused him to grit his teeth angrily. "And I'm quite obviously not dead, because I am standing right here.
"You're hurt," he added, though John barely recognized the concern. Instead, the soldier turned in the chair and glared—wholeheartedly glared—at the imposter.
"Who the bloody hell are you?"
Silence stretched between them. The phony's face was blank—only, it wasn't. John's eyes roved over that familiar face and took in the high arch to his eyebrows, the subtle parting of his lips, the… There was something in his eyes. Was it…guilt?
None of it changed the expression on John's face. He wouldn't believe it, not for an instant. Not without definite proof. This man couldn't be Sherlock Holmes. He watched as they had lowered the body into the ground; he'd almost spoken at the funeral… For gods' sake, he'd watched the man jump from Bart's roof!
The imposter was about to open his mouth—John could see the muscles in his jaw clenching—when there was a commotion downstairs. "Sherlock" turned to the door with a painfully blank expression on his face. John reached toward his hip where his gun would normally be, only to remember at the last second that it was across the room under a pile of books.
His hand dropped to his side as the door burst open and admitted a surprising number of policemen into the flat. Guns were pointed while they started to call for the occupants to not move and put their hands where everyone could see them, but voices died down as eyes fell on the imposter. There were voices from behind, one John recognized almost straight away as he made his way to the front of the large group.
"Good afternoon, Detective Inspector Lestrade," Sherlock greeted.
The silence was oppressive, John thought. Thick and malleable, one could almost cut it with a butter knife. He shifted nervously in his chair and watched Lestrade's face carefully. All was still until the detective put a hand to his forehead and sighed heavily.
"Christ."
...
The room smelled of bleach and sanitizer. The sheets were scratchy and stiff beneath his body. John was laying down and he wasn't entirely sure how he'd gotten into that position. The last thing he really remembered was Lestrade walking into the flat. There was a lot of movement and he thought he remembered someone calling for an ambulance, but it was hazy.
Bloody hell, his head hurt.
John didn't open his eyes. He knew he was in a hospital and it would be blinding white and his head hurt enough already without the extra pain to his eye sockets, thank you very much.
There were voices, across the room from where he lay. Was that…Mycroft?
"…a good man who cares about you."
"And I am not a good man despite caring about him." Sherlock's voice was tight, his tone snappish. Harsh and mocking. "What happened to, 'Caring is not an advantage,' Mycroft? What happened to that?"
There was the sound of something moving around in a circle—probably Mycroft's signature umbrella. His tone was smug as he answered, "What happened indeed." Mycroft's tone shifted slightly toward boredom . "He's waking up. I would advise you pack away your temper for now, Sherlock, because he will have more than enough of one for both of you."
The sound of footsteps receding from the room was oddly comforting to the prone soldier. John took a deep breath, willed his head to stop hurting, and slowly opened his eyes.
For a moment, all was white. He expected it to be, what with being in a hospital. Bright lights, white walls, white sheets… The pounding in his head increased by a fraction for approximately a minute before the colors returned to the world and John could see again.
Sherlock sat over him. Those intense blue eyes were on him, moving across his face and memorizing every line, crease and mark. John licked his dry lips slowly, feeling more than a little unnerved by the entire scenario. Dead men didn't usually sit at the bedside of a man in a hospital. Dead men's brothers didn't usually allow them into a prone man's hospital room.
So… Sherlock was really alive?
John stared back, just as intent—okay, maybe not "just as", but he was John Watson and it was close enough to being "just as"—as Sherlock. His dark eyes moved across the man's face slowly, taking in the heavy bags under his eyes, the lines at the corner of his eyes, the pale skin—Sherlock had always been pale, though—his thinner than usual face. His hair was longer than John remembered it being. Had it only been six months? Time must have changed everything.
John reached out carefully, his hand surprisingly not shaking, and pressed his fingertips to Sherlock's cheek.
"You're real…" His voice was barely a breath, barely a whisper. "You're…really here."
John's mind began to whirl, the pounding in his skull seemed to increase tenfold in that instant. This was surreal. This was impossible. Sherlock Holmes was not dead and was, in fact, sitting at John's bedside in Bart's hospital.
For that moment, John stopped moving. Time stopped moving.
Then his hand moved and there was a resounding crack echoing through the white room.
"You bastard." John was sitting up. His hand stung from where he had slapped Sherlock across the face. "Why did you do that?!"
How could you do that to me…!?
Sherlock's mouth dropped open to form a perfect circle and nothing came out to explain the detective. John waited for an explanation, but when none came forthright, he snorted angrily.
"I trusted you, trusted in you," he growled. His eyes stung, but he couldn't look away. No matter how blurry his vision got, he was going to keep his dark gaze on Sherlock. "Why? Why did you do it? Why did you…." He struggled with the word, tears sliding down his cheeks now. John's hands were clenched into fists, the effort it took to find the right words manifesting physically. "Why did you abandon me?"
"I…" Words were failing Sherlock. It was impossible! If John had been in a right mind, he would have laughed at the spectacle. As it was, he could only glare and silently demand an explanation. "I had to die… The snipers, they…" Sherlock's eyes quivered, as if he were struggling to continue to watch John. "I couldn't watch you die, so I had to… Moriarty hired the sniper and they'd shoot you if I didn't…"
He was breathing so heavily. His words were so unsure. John suddenly felt as if he were in the Twilight Zone. Sherlock was always sure of himself, his words, his actions. He was always in command of his emotions. Yet, here he was, struggling to show John why he'd done what he had: why he had faked is death and left John alone.
John understood. He got that there were snipers; that they were paid off to kill him if Sherlock hadn't jumped. Now, knowing… That didn't mean he had to like it or forgive Sherlock for not telling him.
"You always run off and leave me behind…" John's voice was low. He was well aware of their location, and though he wanted to yell and scream, he owed it to the medical staff to not give them all heart-attacks. At least, not yet—Sherlock probably already had, to be honest. "You always push me away, make me run off, so you can go and be mysterious and clever without me." He glanced at his hand, blurrily clenched into a fist and still on his lap. He half expected to be shaking, but he was not. "You never explain anything to me. Most of the time, that's fine. Whatever." He raised his gaze again. Sherlock was just an outline and colors now. Even John couldn't deny he was crying. "Do you ever realize how infuriating you are? How… How much I've given up to be your friend?"
Those intense eyes never left John's face. They moved across his every feature, every expression. John would have squirmed from the intensity normally, but he just didn't care at that point. He was one part too furious to care, one part numb from the entire situation.
And then Sherlock opened his mouth.
"…Ohh."
Something clicked in the way the detective was speaking now, something that caused John to frown anew. He sounded just as he had before, six months ago, before this entire thing started. Vaguely, John found himself thinking, We're back to where we started. Brilliant.
"You have," Sherlock continued, not missing a single beat.. "You have given up a lot... far, far too much. When I left you behind, there was always a reason, always a purpose. Was it be clever, though? John, if it was to be clever then I'd have taken you along, because what good is my cleverness without you to see it? No, my cleverness would have been lost on Moriarty anyway; he'd never understand." I don't understand—John started to think, but Sherlock was on a roll now and there was no stopping him. "And yet you – you were the one who understood, even when you thought you didn't, even when I thought you didn't – oh, this is brilliant, there's always something, I always miss something!"
John crossed his arms over his chest now. His hand was tapping against his forearm as he waited for the tangent to end so he could speak up and tell Sherlock to shut up because he was clearly not understanding what John was going on about.
But Sherlock whirled around and exclaimed, "Now this, this is Christmas. This is what I've been looking for!"
John rolled his eyes. Nothing had changed. Would it ever? John wondered. "Do enlighten me, Sherlock," he growled. "Although you do enjoy leaving me in the dark so often."
"No, you see, but you don't observe, just as I didn't observe!" What was the nutter going on about? "I always assumed – people shouldn't make assumptions, they're very rarely correct – but I assumed that I was brilliant, and that the only thing that mattered was the work. The work, John! But the work was just a detail, and the real thing I craved was to be clever. Oh, the way my mind works is so fascinating! All these things, all that I assumed were transport, just things that happened on the way, all of them things that I could use to make my point, and yet... You, John, you were the most clever thing to ever happen to me."
John stared blankly. 'Nutter' was right. Sherlock hadn't changed an ounce. He still didn't make any bloody sense.
Sherlock paused a moment, then groaned in frustration. He waved his hand around as if making a point. "I've always been clever, you know that, oh come on, everyone knows that. But what was the point? Oh, the work, sure, people admired me for the work, but they failed to really understand the magnitude of my cleverness. On top of that, they didn't care, because it was so much easier to just let me be clever and then they could pick up the bits of their brains that were left after I shattered them with my brilliance and go on to do whatever it was that they did in their boring little lives." Sherlock paced across the room now, occasionally wildly and jerkily flailing his arms, as if to strike the point home. "But then you came, and you didn't just know I was clever. You knew I was clever, and then here's the thing, the final answer to the final problem, the piece to the puzzle that I've been looking for: You."
Suddenly he was at the side of John's bed, his hands gripping onto the guard with white-knuckles; as if that was the last thing on the planet to connect him to the world and he was about to be suck into space. Or something to that effect. "Didn't." Sherlock was grinning like the cat that stole the canary. "Care!"
John's face remained carefully blank through the entire monologue. He licked his lips subconsciously and took a slow, deep breath.
"I didn't care," he echoed. "I didn't care." He shook his head slowly. No, no, none of it made any sense to him. Sherlock was bat-shit insane. John was tempted to press the nurse call button just so he could be alone for a moment to calm down, but resisted the urge. There would be time to kick Sherlock out of his hospital room later, when they had finished sorting through this insanity—if they ever sorted through it and Sherlock stopped being a self-obsessed prat.
He took another slow breath. "Please stop beating around the bush, Sherlock. You're making my head hurt."
"You are the only one who understands me." Sherlock spoke slowly now. "You are the only one who knows I'm not just cleverness and brilliance. You know I'm human; you know I need things like food and sleep, even when I forget; you know I've got faults and gifts and…"
He took a deep breath. John watched, absently raising a hand to rub at his dry, itchy eyes—when had he stopped crying? On second thought, he didn't care. "You no longer care that I'm clever, because that's not all I am. Even I thought that was all I am, and it's not. And I need that. I need you. I thought I was clever enough, but you…"
Sherlock crouched beside John's bed, his intense gaze boring into the doctor's relentlessly. John wondered, again, why was he putting up with this abuse? This nonsense? Because none of it was making sense.
The next few words, however, caused the breath to catch in John's throat.
"You're the only thing I've ever wanted more than any data in the world, because what good is being clever when, in the end, no one cares whether you are or not?"
Sherlock sat back, his expression softer. "You can hate me if you need to, but please don't make me go away. Not when I've finally found this."
John had forgotten how to breathe. He stared at Sherlock, completely shell-shocked. He finally took in a deep, shuddering breath after a moment and laid back down against the pillows of his bed.
Was Sherlock saying what John thought he was saying…? Could it possibly be true? Nervously, he licked his lips again, feeling dry, exposed, and very disoriented.
"What are you saying?" he whispered. "That… you have feelings for me?" The thought was incredible, impossible. John remembered, nine months ago, when he tore Irene Adler about for having feelings for him.
Had things changed that much?
"Well… 'feelings is a very broad term." Sherlock was speaking so matter-of-factly, John wasn't sure if he was supposed to take him seriously or not. He forgot how to breathe again, as Sherlock continued. "I'd classify it far closer to 'love' than anything else."
He was so close to John now. The doctor couldn't look away. His head was spinning, shifting round and round, and the whole world had stopped moving. "I admit it's not my area of expertise, but I'm fairly certain that's what this is."
Love. Sherlock Holmes had just admitted to being in love with John Watson. John closed his eyes, sucking in another shaky breath. This was… No, he was dreaming again. He had to be. There was no explanation for this. Sherlock couldn't… he wouldn't…
Not Ordinary John Watson. Sherlock was too…extraordinary for him.
He was dreaming. He knew he needed to wake up and get out of bed. There was no way this was actually happening. Pain or no pain, John decided, this was a horrible dream that was getting far too out of control for his liking.
"This is a dream." He was whispering to himself. "Stop torturing me like this… Just let me wake up now." I can't handle losing him again…
"John, this isn't a dream. Are you even listening to me?" Sherlock sounded tense, frustrated. "As far as torturing goes, I'm done with that. For you and for me."
John's eyes snapped open as Sherlock rose and stalked over to the visitor's chair. Involuntarily, he sat up and started to reach for Sherlock as he walked past—but stopped himself and forced his hand to remain still at his side. "I understand now what you are to me," Sherlock continued, "and what I want you to be to me. Now it's your turn."
John shivered, and not from the cold. Sherlock was too far away now and something icy was gripping his chest now.
Sherlock insisted this wasn't a dream. It was all surreal, but the pain, the emotions…they were too real. He could try and convince himself that this wasn't happening, but John knew, in his heart…it was.
Bloody hell, Sherlock loved John. Sherlock Holmes was in love with John Watson.
He pushed himself from the bed—ignored the IV stuck in his arm, and started to shuffle over to Sherlock's chair on shaking legs. No psychosomatic injuries were troubling him; he was stiff from laying in the bed and weak at the knees from the emotions coursing through his body.
"John!" Sherlock was snapping. He was right there, pushing John back onto the bed. "I'm fairly certain that they will use anything they can as an excuse to try and take me from this room. I would rather you not give them unwarranted ammunition."
If Sherlock made any moves to pull away, John's hand would tighten into his clothing.
"Sherlock." He sounded like a frog, croaking his friend's name instead of speaking it. "Stop… Just stop." Don't…go away again, please.
"I'm not going anywhere."
Sherlock's voice was surprisingly soothing. John nodded slowly and let Sherlock lay him back against the pillows.
A/N: This was part of a much longer story; I had so many ideas that I wanted to write for this, but I lost motivation and energy when things changed for me at work. It happens sometimes.
Part of this, from where Sherlock comes flying in until after, was co-written with my beloved Lilac. She wrote all of Sherlock's lines, as well as outlined the fight with Angelina.
I think this is as good a stand-alone piece as any, as it is... Do let me know what you think; what needs to be worked on, what is weird, if the characters feel any bit OOC. I'll do my best to address these issues, but I do think this piece is done, as it is. Thank you so much for your time! I hope you enjoyed reading "Reunion".