Hey guys! I know I haven't posted in a while, I've been super busy. But I've had a plot bunny nagging at me for a while now, and I can't deny the call of Johnlock. So here's my very first Sherlock fic, with my take on the Reunion. I was a little intimidated to write for the Sherlock fandom, there are so many talented authors, but this plot bunny would not be ignored.
I hope it's not too ooc, and that you find it enjoyable. Please leave me a review with your thoughts!
Drip, drip, drip, goes the patter of rain. It fell into dark curls of a lone man, wandering the dark streets of London in the wee hours of the morning, sending his head of hair into even greater disarray. Only a few hours ago, shortly after sunset, were they dyed back to their original color in the sink of an expensively furnished government office. There was nothing to be done for the shorter length. Time would fix that.
If only time could fix everything.
He was trembling. He could feel it, and he hated it. It was not his transport's reaction to rain (he'd retrieved his beloved Belstaff from the same fancy government office that he'd dyed his hair in. His scarf was no where to be found, unfortunately.), it was the product of emotion, something he never really understood, and what he had spent the last three years (unsuccessfully) trying to squish to nothing.
Oh god. Three years. Three years!
While on a mad goose chase that spanned the globe, time seemed suspended. He had been working at a break-neck pace too, so what did it matter how much time was passing. He couldn't make the work go any faster, and it killed him.
But it was over now. It was safe to return home.
Home. A place of residence. Senitmental definition: Where one's family resides.
My home: 221B Baker Street, London, UK. Same building as 221A Baker Street, belonging to Mrs. Hudson (family). 221B has seventeen steps to the door. Living area, kitchen, bathroom, downstairs bedroom (used to be mine), upstairs bedroom (John's).
John.
John.
John.
I can finally come home to John (family). I am coming home to John (finally).
Sherlock blinked. While lost in the depths of his own mind, his feet had taken him home, running on autopilot and forcing him to confront the front door of 221 Baker Street.
He'd never felt intimidated by a door before.
Sherlock stood before the door, looking at the brass numbers on the front. They shone with the reflection of the orange-yellow street lamps. The clouds and light rain that enveloped London trapped the light, bouncing it around and making the dark street eerily orange.
The dark wouldn't last. The sun would not wait long before showing its face, and revealing Sherlock's existence to the world at large. He needed to go inside before then. It was safe now, true, no one would hurt his friends (not friends; family) if they knew he was alive, Moriarty and his web were entirely dismantled. But he would never forgive himself (and he suspected John wouldn't either) if John was not the first person to see him upon his return from the dead (Mycroft didn't count. His damn older brother figured out his death was faked within a week, and insisted on aiding Sherlock's cause (interfering bastard). Although his mission might have lasted three decades rather than three years without Mycroft's aid.).
So Sherlock summoned every last tattered bit of his courage, and picked the lock to 221B. He had the completely irrational urge to turn tail and run when the lock clicked open, but he was even more afraid to leave now, afraid that this was all just a dream and he was still in his own personal Hell, chasing after shadows and whispers that would destroy everything he loved if he made one little misstep. So he pushed the door open and stepped inside.
He tread lightly, crossing the hall in silence and making his way up the stairs (avoid the creaky step) to the landing for 221B. Another quick lock pick (not quite quick – his hands were shaking even worse than before), and the door swung open.
Home.
He quietly shut the door behind him, then turned to face the living room.
He froze in place, eyes wide and breathing shallow.
A small figure lay crumpled on the couch. A small, familiar figure (changed though, hard to see exactly how in the dark, but changed.), desperately clutching a worn blue silk scarf.
Sherlock's heart stuttered. John.
Although his feet seemed frozen in place, without his command, Sherlock's hand reached out for his...his...(what is John to me? More than a blogger, more than a flatmate, family forever, but is there more? Isn't there something more than that?)...his John.
And as if the movement was summoning him, John stirred, slowly rising out of what Sherlock was rapidly realizing to be a fitful sleep. Shaking his head (groggy, disoriented), and blinking bleary, lined eyes (more lines than before, deeper circles under the eyes, hasn't sleep well in a long time. My fault?), John Watson sat up on the sofa, running his hands through tousled, short hair (more gray now, especially around the temples. Stress, unhappy life. Because of me, my death?), his jumper crooked and hanging loosely off his body (lost weight. Enough to be apparent even through a warm jumper. Oh god this is my fault.) John did not appear to notice his presence.
Perhaps he never would have, were it not for the strangled, undignified noise that was dangerously close to a sob that escaped Sherlock's throat.
John's entire body jerked in surprise, whipping around to face the source of the sudden noise.
Even in the dim light. Sherlock could see those dark blue eyes widen, and John's face drain of all color. Slowly, as if in a haze, John rose to his feet. Sherlock felt as if he too were in a haze, unable to move or speak as John took a step toward him.
And then, the haze shattered as John staggered then began to crumple, eyes rolling up in his head. The spell broken, Sherlock lunged forward, grabbing the shorter man by his upper arms and lowering them both onto the sofa. John's head lolled forward, chin on chest, body heavy and limp.
No. No. Need John okay. Need him awake. Need to speak to him, hear his voice.
"John!" Sherlock's voice broke, his eyes embarrassingly wet (thank god none of the sudden moisture escaped his eyes. There was already entirely too much sentiment and emotion for his comfort.) He awkwardly cleared his throat, shaking John urgently. "John! Wake up! Are you alright? Are you alright!"
John's eyes slowly opened, fluttering a few times before his gaze stabilized.
"Sh-Shu-Shurl-Sherlock," he stuttered, speech thick and garbled.
"Yes," Sherlock responded, heart throbbing as John spoke his name. "I'm here, John. I'm back."
These words gave John enough time to recover from his shock, as his expression changed from dizzy to baffled to furious.
"You absolute dick!" John spat, fists clenching. "You didn't die? You were never dead?"
Sherlock swallowed thickly. Although John's anger was by no means unanticipated, it was difficult to deal with the horrible sense of betrayal in John's expression and tone. The doctor jerked away from Sherlock's still-trembling hands on his biceps.
"John, I swear, I – "
"No. You left me behind, you ass. Went swanning off on some adventure of your own while I was left here to grieve you! It destroyed me, Sherlock, your death damn well near killed me. I didn't speak for a month!" John swung a fist at his face, but the short man was still dizzy and groggy and shock wasn't very good for his system, because the punch was sloppy and misplaced and it was more like a slap on the chin than a punch straight to the cheekbones.
"John – "
"What? I wasn't good enough for you? I meant so little to you, our friendship meant so little, that when you got bored of me, you played dead! Well, screw you, Sherlock, because – "
"John." Sherlock cut in, voice deeper than normal and hoarse with emotion. As he spoke, he grabbed John's hands in his own (smaller than mine, but sturdy, sure. Not sure now. Shaking. Just as I am.). Combined, the two gestured shut the doctor up for a moment. "They were going to kill you. Moriarty had snipers that day, when we were on the roof of Barts. Trained assassins, with orders to kill you."
His voice cracked again, that horrible, awful, burning emotion seeping through.
"You, and Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. My only three friends in the world, my family. They would die if I didn't jump, those were the orders. So I did it. I jumped, but I survived. I had to, Moriarty found my three pressure points." He squeezed John's hands, still shaking under his own (which stubbornly refused stop quivering). "Although you alone would have been enough. I couldn't let you die."
"So you made me watch you die instead," John's voice was flat, deadened, but at least he didn't pull away from Sherlock's touch.
"I'm sorry, John. I'm so sorry. I caused you pain, I know. But you had to believe I was dead, because if you didn't, neither would the snipers, and they would kill you. You cannot die, John. You cannot. You are my conductor of light, even halfway across the world. If you were gone, I would...I...it would be very Not Good for me," the detective explained urgently, brows furrowed with regret and pain and confusion.
That made the blond man pause. He frowned, searching Sherlock's face for a trace of deception. Apparently he found none, for he looked a bit mollified as his gaze dropped to their joined hands. Sherlock was still clutching at his, and John found himself clutching back. The detective took it as a sign to continue.
"I spent the past three years hunting down Moriarty's web. I had to destroy it, get rid of it entirely, before I could come home. I didn't know how far the orders spread, John. I could not risk your life on someone getting away. So I spent the past three years hunting down every last agent. I finished not fourty-eight hours ago. The moment I was done, I booked a flight back here," he paused again, swallowing past the knot of sentiment in his throat. "I missed you, John. As horrible and sentimental as it is, I missed you. The past three years have been agony, aching for your presence."
John blinked.
"Please, may I come home, John. Please."
The doctor blinked again, and opened his mouth.
"Dammit, Sherlock. Look, I'm not forgiving you. Not yet, at least," John bit his lip, his voice shaking. "It's going to take time to heal, I thought you were lost to me forever for three years. And I'm pissed as hell at you, and I'll probably punch you properly in the morning."
Sherlock nodded solemnly, heart sinking, even though he couldn't fault John for anything. He began to rise, when John's grip on his hands suddenly tightened to become near-painful.
"But I'll be damned if I'm letting you out of my sight, Sherlock!" the shorter man protested violently, jaw clenching and muscles tensing in panic (afraid of me leaving. Afraid I won't come back if I do?). "I'm not letting go of you, not till I can see you in sunlight and be sure you're not some kind of dream. We can talk, and you can explain yourself later, but damn it all if I let you leave me now."
And with that, John released Sherlock's hands, instead lunging at the detective's middle. Sturdy arms wrapped around his thin torso (lost weight while abroad. No John to make me eat regularly.), throwing them both onto the sofa cushions. Sherlock lay on his back, adjusting his legs so one hung over the arm of the sofa while the other dangled off the side. He realized, without knowing when it happened, that his arms were wrapped around John's shoulders, returning the embrace of his (companion? Friend?) John.
John's face was nuzzled into the juncture of Sherlock's shoulder and neck, legs sprawled alongside those of the taller man.
"You better still be here when I wake up," the blond whispered. "Or so help me, I will kill you myself."
In spite of himself, Sherlock chuckled, arms tightening around his John. "I wouldn't dream of being anywhere else," he spoke softly into the doctor's hair, pressing a kiss on the top of his head.
"Good," John sighed, sleep already claiming him. Sherlock figured it was exhaustion, from weeks (months? Years?) of not sleeping properly. His doctor's breathing evened out quickly, and John's body sagged against his own, made vulnerable and younger looking with sleep. Some of the lines eased from his face, and Sherlock found hope that in time, those lines could be erased permanently. He could, would fix this. He would never be parted from John again.
His own long-denied exhaustion swept over him, and in moments Sherlock too was alseep.
When he woke up, he would find John's face, still tired and weary and uncertain but there, watching him. And they would talk. And in time, they would heal, and begin their lives again, together.
But for now, the consulting detective and his John slept on the sofa, limbs tangled together.
That's is, my dears! Please, leave me your thoughts in a review, that's my 7% ;)
Till next time!
~Rays of Color