A/n: Okay first attempt at a SHERLOCK fic. After reading some fics and watching the series so far this is what i came up with. I wonder if anyone will read and like it.
Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to this amazing show. Nor would I want to. I respect the creators the writer's and the actors as well as the characters too much.
John had wanted it to be a dream, hell he would even settled for it to be a nightmare. Either one would mean he could wake up from it, and everything would go back to normal. He would find his flat-mate sprawled across the sofa not having even the energy or will to retire to his own room.
"There's another bedroom upstairs, if you'll be needing two bedrooms."
John thought back to when Mrs. Hudson had said that and a sad chuckle passed his lips. His mind had immediately gone to where it shouldn't have but after awhile her words took on a whole knew meaning. The other man's bedroom on the main floor had rarely been occupied.
The main room and the couch where the consulting detective kept most of his belongings it seemed, including his laptop, phone, various newspaper clippings, and yes his beloved skull could be better defined as his 'room' more than his actual sleeping quarters.
Which was why John was now lying on that same couch the blue dressing gown now used as a blanket. It still held the scent of the taller man a part of him still lingered and John was going to cling to it with all he held dear.
He knew he must look ridiculous to the average onlooker if anyone could actually witness his current predicament but he didn't care. His best friend was gone and nothing in this world hurt more than that.
The air and silence in the room seemed to echo with the memories they had shared. Their introductions to the other man's idea of Christmas, his thoughts on sitcoms and reality shows on the telly, how often he saw Mrs Hudson as more than a landlady yet only allowed her the pleasure of thinking he only viewed her as 'his housekeeper'.
So many memories haunted John's consciousness. He wanted to forget them and yet at the same time felt it would be unbearable if he lost any trace of information of knowledge that had held even the slight inkling the other man was involved. One such memory surfaced and he thought back to the first time he had witness his flatmate in a state of boredom.
His gaze turned to the wall opposite him where the hastily painted crooked yellow smiley face was still there, the bullet holes left as a reminder to never let a consulting detective's mind wander, the results could be considered either humorous or downright catastrophic. John defined it as both.
After the 'boredom' incident nothing that happened in that flat, in that room itself surprised John, at least nothing that he himself had witnessed. He thought of another scenario that had or possibly could have happened and he pictured that tall figure standing in the doorway the evidence of his previous experiment well, evident on his person The thought of the other man's presence still lingering made John close his eyes.
Again he felt the need to forget to forget everything to even forget the other man's name. Not since his 'visit' to the other man's grave site had he uttered that name. The pain of it passing his lips was just too much. His so-called friends had offered him condolences but no one not even Mrs. Hudson had been able make him feel that way again. The way he had made him feel. It wasn't romantic love it was admiration he felt from the other man, rare when it would surface but it had been there.
The pain of losing the only person he wanted to spend his life with, friend wise mind you had been almost too overwhelming for him to bear. He had stayed at Baker's street deciding to live out the months that Mycroft had already paid for, no point in it going to waste he had decided. But once that had been used up John had plans to give notice to Mrs. Hudson and leave.
Where he would go he didn't know. All he knew was he couldn't stay in London, not anymore. There were too many memories, too many reminders; all of them haunting him torturing him. He had to get away from it but until he saved up enough money to get by and sort things out he had no choice but to suffer from it.
John chanced a look around the room taking in every detail. Except for a few things- experiments that would no doubt produce an odor if not disposed of- he hadn't changed anything. Nothing was out of place. Even the skull, which still held the hidden cigarettes, was looking at him through a sideways glance.
John could understand why the skull was 'a friend' the best kind of friend was someone you could talk to, who wouldn't judge you by your choice of words or actions. But his best friend had been the opposite. He had often put John down calling him an idiot, or a person with only an average mind. John had hated it and he hadn't been afraid to show it either. So when his hand had reached in between the cushions of the couch only to have his finger tips brush against something that was clearly out of place he realized maybe the answers to all the lingering questions were hidden in plain sight.
Curiosity now overpowered his anguish and he reached further into the cushions, his hand grasping at the foreign object. Pulling it out he realized it was an envelope with the letters. J.W scrawled in familiar handwriting. John's heart skipped a beat as he reached for the letter opener he knew was sitting on the nearby desk and he ever so gently opened the envelope. Unfolding the crisp white piece of paper be began to read the texts.
John,
I hope you find this letter and understand the contents of it. I know I often said you like any other person only had an average span of brain power but after living with me surely you have learned more in the last several months than you had in your lifetime before meeting me.
I'm going to die John, or should I say my death is now necessary for this final battle, this game to have an ending a champion and I will be the one who comes out on top. I know you will mourn or something along those lines and it will appear genuine because I am going to die.
But John only a part of me will truly be dead. That part is the part which Jim Moriarty clings to. I need him John just like I need you. But while writing this letter I've come to the conclusion that I need you more than him.
Before I met you nothing mattered, nothing but the evidence the data the crimes the murders and how I could use my abilities to solve them to understand them. But then you walked into Barts that day and I knew you were the only person who could understand why I'm doing this. You and Molly. I meant what I said at Baskerville, I only have one friend or at least one that I can truly trust with everything, well everything but this.
John if you understand what is being said in this letter and find it in time, six months from the date at the top I want you to go to the roof of Barts Hospital at 7:00pm.
If you find this letter in time I ask you destroy it after reading it. No trace can be made. Just be at the place I mentioned at the time and date. I cannot guarantee all your questions will be answered but I hope you will understand everything in due time.
Respectfully (and I mean that in every sense of the word)
S.H
John's eyes nearly misted over as he read the contents the handwriting so familiar and yet so far away. He glanced up at the date of the letter then at the calendar on the wall. Six months to the date on the letter was…today.
Adreneline that seemed to produce itself from an unknown source pushed it's way into John's system and he reached for his nearly forgotten phone to check the time. 6:15pm. 45 minutes for him to get dressed get to Bart's and prepare himself for whatever greeted him on the roof of that place.
He was unsure if he had the strength and willpower to face what was waiting for him on that roof. He could understand a part of the letter, the instructions and that his best friend had to die in order to beat Moriarty. But had he actually beaten him?
The body of the evil genius had been found on the roof of the hospital, gunshot wound to the head clearly self-administered. So had he actually won? John didn't know. All he knew was he had to see what the message in the letter was, the hidden meaning.
Grabbing his key and wallet he hailed a taxi and requested the cabbie to take him straight to Bart's. Along the way he held the envelope in his hand. Like the letter had requested he had put the sheet of paper through the paper shredder then tore the pieces bit by bit till it would be virtually impossible for anyone to put it back together again.
The looming building of the hospital came into view and he paid the cabby before stepping out of the taxi and taking a deep breath. He hadn't been back here since….
No.
No John wouldn't allow himself to think back to that day. He wouldn't dare. Pushing those thoughts to the back of his mind he wandered into the building ignoring all the members of staff and some of the lingering students studying there for evening classes.
The roof was his destination and he looked at his watch to find he had a few minutes to spare. Perhaps he could use that time to see Molly just to check on her. But then he decided that he could be early. Surely whatever waited for him wasn't going to be strict on punctuality.
Decision made he made his way towards the staircase, grateful even then that his 'limp' was thing of the past. He still had his cane stashed in his room as a reminder and he planned to take it with him when he left Baker's street. When he left London.
But travel plans and the future were the last thing on his mind. The here, the now and the want, the need to find what was waiting for him on the roof. He reached the top step then stopped. A part of him felt nervous, fearful of what memories would cling to him if he opened this door. But then he realized the thought of never knowing, never understanding anything, he feared that even more.
With determination he didn't know he had John pushed open the door and stepped out just as all the clocks chimed the 7th hour of the evening.
The roof was deserted save the shadows cast from the light of the illuminating moon, including his own. John could feel disappointment filling his insides and he turned to leave.
Leave Bart's, Leave Baker's street.
Leave London.
"Going somewhere?"
John froze. He knew that tone. He knew it so well that it almost made him believe he wasn't caught in the middle of a dream of the nightmare he still was desperately trying to wake up from. It couldn't be. It was impossible.
He slowly turned around and there standing only a few yards from him was the one man he had thought he would never see again. The one man, who had helped him through so much, and praised him in his own way, but still chose to address him as an averaged minded idiot. The man who was the only person who made him cry…
"Sherlock..."
"Hello John."
John took several steps and with each one he debated on whether or not he should let out his anger or relief. Finally when he reached the other man he decided to do both. Reaching back he punched the taller man hard in the face subconsciously checking his knuckles for any wear and tear, like he had the last time.
Then John did something he thought he would never do especially to the man standing before him. Reaching out John pulled Sherlock into a tight embrace wrapping his arms around the taller man's figure locking his hand in a tight bolt behind him.
To his surprise and astonishment the embrace was returned and not halfheartedly either. John held back a gasp when he felt Sherlock pull him closer into a tight hug the long slender arms encircling around his shoulders. It felt amazing.
No he wasn't gay he didn't swing that way no matter what anyone said. But he did feel privileged. No one, no one in the world had been given the right to even touch Sherlock Holmes and yet here was receiving a heartfelt embrace from the same man.
He had questions he had mounds of questions but they could wait for later. For now he turned his head so he could utter the words, "Thank you."
Sherlock's embrace did not cease, "For what?"
"For granting me my miracle." John murmured as he closed his eyes. He opened them again only to realize that he had finally woken up from the horrible nightmare. But even still it seemed like this was a dream and if it was for the first time in months he felt no need nor desire to wake up from it.
A/N: we all know Sherlock is alive but this is my own take on how John finds out. Wonder if it could actually happen. If anyone liked it please lt me know in a review!