A/N: I know I've been gone for who knows how long, but I thought I'd post this story just so you'd know I was still here, I'm still working on the Walking Dead, but it's coming, I promise.
John was not really expecting anything when he entered his flat. All that awaited him was piles of boxes and another lonely night. It had been three years since the suicide of his closest friend, Sherlock Holmes. The entire ordeal had been rough on John. With the allegations of Sherlock being a fraud, and the media constantly barraging him for a quote or a story. The only words they ever received, however, were; "I believe in Sherlock Holmes."
Eventually the press died down, the public having the attention span of a flea. Things calmed down for John as well. It took just over a year for John to work up the nerve to return to the flat. His nervous handshake had returned and when he went to open the door his hand was shaking so much that the knob clattered as he pushed the door open.
Inside John found boxes sitting in a nice, neat pile near the window. Just as had said, she packed up most of Sherlock's things, unsure of what to do with it all. John never removed the boxes. Instead he had just let them sit and collect dust, not daring to touch any of his friend's precious belongings, but not willing to throw it out either. He made his way through the half empty flat. He walked through the kitchen, taking in the musty scent of the previously vacated flat. He stopped outside of Sherlock's door. Taking a deep breath, he placed his quivering hand on the knob, but could not turn it. He stood there for a long time, how long, he was not sure. When he finally removed his hand he subconsciously made a decision to never open that door.
It took John a while to grow accustomed to life alone in the flat. He would always mindlessly prepared two cups of tea. The first time he brought the tea into the main room and placed the cup on the end table next to Sherlock's chair, he had called, "Sherlock!" His face dropped and he hung his head. There was a sudden splash in the tea as a tear dripped off of John's face. John sniffled loudly. He took a very shaky breath and and broken sob escaped from his lips as he realized that he would never again drink tea with Sherlock, he would never be woken at odd hours by the cries if a violin. John was utterly alone. In a fit of anger and confusion John threw the cup against the bullet hole stained wall. He fought to regain control over the sobs that were now wracking his body. He brought his arm up to his face and buried his eyes into his forearm. He had not cried over his loss of Sherlock in a while, and had certainly never sobbed like this.
In the first few months after Sherlock's death, John was just numb. He could not bring himself to the flat, so instead he stayed in a very shabby apartment. After a while, with encouragement from his sister, John payed a visit to his former therapist. She suggested that he had pent up sadness and anger. She was not wrong. However, John was not sure why he was so angry. He did not know if he was angry at Moriarty for causing it all, at Sherlock for leaving him, or at himself for not being fast enough, not realizing what his friend's words had meant. Maybe it was all three. What John did know was that he was devastated not only by the loss of his dear friend, but by the magnitude of things left unspoken. There were so many things John wanted to tell Sherlock now that it was too late; He was the best friend he had ever known; No matter what he said, he had valued their friendship over his own life; their brief time together had been the best time of John's life.
There were some things that J ohn still would not even tell himself. Things he would find his mind drifting off to when he was not focused on something else. Whenever his mind would wander off to these thoughts he could sit for hours If he did not stop himself. Whenever he did catch himself, he would press his palms to his eyes and curse himself before hurriedly engaging himself in whatever tedious task he could find.
However hard John may have fought to lock away these thoughts they always managed to seep through into the forefront of his mind. He could see the dark mess that was Sherlock's hair, at times he thought he could feel the tangled curls on his fingers. He could visualize Sherlock's piercingly blue eyes. The eyes that could go from bored complacency, to burning excitement, to anger, to the soft look reserved only for John. He had tried to dissect that last look. John used to assume it was just a look of friendship. Now, though, John got the feeling that it meant something more, but he had not figured out what yet. Before he had never thought anything of it, but now he could not get it out of his mind. John would think of Sherlock's faint, rarely seen smile. Not the smug smile that would spread across his face when he would solve a case. No, it was the smile that very few people ever got to see, even John. The smile that appeared when he and John were alone. The kind that came along with a laugh. The smile that made his eyes crinkle up and his cheeks glow. John's mind would wander to Sherlock's pale skin. The way his deep blue scarf always contrasted the lightness of it. Johns mind's eye would travel down Sherlock's face, over the prominent cheek bones, then on to his distinct collar. John would always shudder here and would be snapped out of his thoughts, angry with himself for letting his mind wander.
In the end, John took the advice of his therapist and payed a visit to Sherlock's grave, along with . It had taken everything in John to actually tell the black gravestone that belonged to his best friend what he felt. Even after this there were still things hanging in the air, but John could not say them. How could he say what he could not even admit to himself? As John said goodbye to his friend, he felt a weight lift off of his shoulders. He knew that even though he could never forget Sherlock Holmes, and he doubted he would ever truly get over his death, he felt that he could live now, like he knew Sherlock would have wanted him to.
It was not too long after this that John finally returned to the flat. After getting settled back in, or as settled in as he could get, John began writing again on his blog. However, now John had a different purpose for his blog; proving that Sherlock was, in fact, not a fraud. He remembered Sherlock telling him once- which felt like a lifetime ago- that he did not care what the media said about him, and neither should John. Still, it bothered John greatly, the cruel things that people would say about Sherlock. Very few people actually believed John, but he worked ardently to discredit everything the media said. One of Sherlock's last requests had been that John tell everyone who would listen that Sherlock was a fake, but that was the one thing that John could not do. If there was one thing that John was not willing to do, it was believe Sherlock had been lying to him the entire time.
For a while after Sherlock's jump John had been somewhat of a celebrity. The press had followed him relentlessly, aggravating him just for a good scoop. As tiresome as it was for John, he eventually grew accustomed to it. He had his fair share of followers, but they died out along with the rest of the press. All except for one. John had not really noticed them at first, or at least he did not realized that he had seen this person recently. But, after the rest of John's pursuers thinned out, John started to recognize the figure. Always the same. A long, brown trench coat, a matching hat, even the same pair of dirty brown shoes. John did not pay it any mind in the beginning, but after he started to notice the same person in the restaurants he would go to, not just his frequents, any restaurant, and when he started seeing the figure on Baker Street, John became suspicious. He had gotten in touch with Greg- John had hardly seen him since Sherlock's death and John had the nagging feeling that it was because he blamed himself- and asked if he would get someone to try and find out who his mysterious follower was. John could not help but to think about what Sherlock would have done. He would have conducted some crazy scheme to track the follower by some detail unseen by the average human eye. However, John was not Sherlock, and even though back then he would not have hesitated to track down the pursuer, now he just did not have it in him. Greg had agreed to assist him, but, as John had expected, nothing came up. John had a nagging fear in the back of his mind that the follower was somehow linked to Moriarty or Sherlock. He did not know if it was someone Moriarty had instructed to keep tabs on John, or if it was someone Sherlock had employed to make sure John stayed safe. It could just be someone completely unrelated to any of them. John did not know, and if he were honest with himself, he did not care to know. Everywhere that John went, he would see the stranger. This began to trouble him and he grew anxious. He started to carry his pistol around, just as a precaution, and it made him feel safer.
Aside from his apparent stalker, life became rather simple and quiet for John. So when he entered 221B one morning he was not really expecting anything. Especially to find the mysterious figure standing in the main room. John's breath caught in his throat as he thwarted a cry of surprise. John regained his composure and a look of determination set on his face. He righted himself to his full five foot six inches, straightening from the defeated slouch he had acquired recently to the strong stance he he'd grown accustomed to in his years in the army. John cleared his throat ominously and asked in a deep, steady voice, "Who the hell are you?" The figure stiffened but did not turn. "Why have you been following me?" John demanded. Tension wafted thickly in the air, neither John nor the intruder daring to move. Then the figure sprung into action, dashing through the kitchen and the rest of the flat. John bolted after them at full speed. As he followed the intruder through the flat he could see the path that the trespasser was taking; he was headed straight for Sherlock's door. "Don't you dare go in there!" John bellowed angrily, pushing himself forward, his right hand stretched out in front of him. the person disregarded his warning and busted through the door anyway. John barely hesitated at the door before crossing the threshold and entering Sherlock's room for the first time in three years. John managed to regain the lost distance in three large bounds, locking his hand into the intruder's chocolate brown coat. The intruder was yanked back and the familiar hat toppled off of their head. John reached behind his back, drawing his pistol out, aiming it at the back of the trespasser's head. John opened his mouth to speak but he faltered. He swallowed hard as he looked at the mop of dark, curly hair in front of him. "Impossible." he chided himself. He shook his head firmly and let go of the coat, taking the gun in both hands; his hands were completely steady. "I have a gun." John warned. The intruder mearley laughed silently, John could tell by his moving shoulders. "Who are you?" John implored, angrily thrusting the gun forward. The intruder did not answer, but also did not make a move to escape. John waited patiently, though the curiosity to finally learn his stalker's identity was racing through his mind. The intruder took a deep breath. "Has it really been that long, John?" John's grip on the gun slipped a bit. "Three years, correct?" John forgot how to breathe. The intruder turned, the gun clattered on the floor. John's eyes were wide with shock, his breath sped up. "S-Sherlock?" John stuttered incredulously. "No, it-it's not possible! I-I saw you jump!" John spat.
"John, you can see me now with your own two eyes, how can you say it is not possible?"
"I-I must be imagining it." John decided.
"Oh, you don't believe that."
"How the hell did you do it then?"John demanded.
"I can't say."
"Naturally."
Neither of them moved for what felt like an eternity. John just staring unbelievingly, Sherlock watching him curiously. "Why didn't you tell me?" John finally spoke up.
"I couldn't." Sherlock replied.
"Oh, but you could follow me around everywhere?" John challenged.
"I was not the only one following you, John."
"What? You couldn't say anything?"
"No."
"I thought you were dead, Sherlock. Dead!"
"I know."
"That's all you can say?" John snapped, anger rising up in his chest.
"Well, what would you have me to say?" Sherlock asked.
"I don't know, maybe; ' I'm sorry for jumping off a building and pretending I was dead, then not showing my face for three years'. I think that'd work!" John replied icily.
"I am sorry." Sherlock said simply.
"THAT'S NOT ENOUGH, SHERLOCK!" John suddenly snapped, shouting bitterly. Sherlock did not try to interject, so John just continued. "You can't just walk back in here after three years and expect it to be fine!"
"I don't, I didn't even mean for you to catch m-"
"JUST SHUT UP!" John barked, now fuming, three years of pent up anger and emotions boiling over. "YOU JUST LET ME THINK YOU WERE DEAD! DO YOU KNOW HOW HARD THAT WAS? WITH THE MEDIA CONSTANTLY ATTACKING ME? ATTACKING YOU?" John was panting now and he thought he could see pain in Sherlock's eyes, but he did not care, he had felt his fair share of pain in the last three years. "THREE YEARS, SHERLOCK, THREE YEARS! I WAS SO ALONE!" John's voice broke.
"John I-"
"Save it." John said coldly.
"No, John, listen-"
"I said save it, Sherlock." John instructed through his teeth, anger rising up again.
"John I didn't leave because I-"
John punched Sherlock hard in the face, sending him stumbling backwards. Sherlock turned to him, cupping his already reddening cheek in his hand. John tried to ignore the obvious hurt in Sherlock's eyes but his gaze softened and he almost regretted punching him.
"John," Sherlock whispered. He waited to see if John was going to shout at him again. When John just looked at him Sherlock continued. "I did not leave because I wanted to."
Then why?" John asked.
"To protect you."
John cocked his head and narrowed his eyes, utterly unprepared for that answer. "What?"
"To protect you, , Lestrade. Either I jumped, or Jim had you killed."
"Wha-I-you-" John babbled unable to process it all, the reality of it all finally sinking past his anger. "I'm sorry, John. I wish I could have told you. Do you think it was not lonely and hard for me as well? I watched you every day, John, and everyday I wanted to speak to you, but couldn't." Sherlock let his hand drop from his face, his head fell as well and he looked at the ground.
John had never seen Sherlock like this before. Sad, guilty, apologetic...defeated. John could not look away and he fought back the lump rising in his throat.
"And I-I" Sherlock paused. Sherlock Holmes was short of words. The three years must have been hard on him. "I missed you every day." He finally managed. John's lip began quivering as he tried to hold back the stinging in his eyes.
"Sherlock I-I." John could not speak.
"It was so hard, John." Sherlock's voice cracked. "I watched you everyday, and I missed you so much.
A mangled sound escaped John's tight throat and he could not hold himself back anymore. He sprung forward and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck, through he could hardly reach. "I missed you too." He sobbed into Sherlock's chest. Now that the anger was gone, the sadness of losing Sherlock, the time without him, and now the joy of having him back overwhelmed John and he cried shamelessly as he held Sherlock close. Sherlock seemed taken aback for a moment before he wrapped his arms around John's shoulders and returned the embrace.
"I didn't think I would ever get to speak to you again. It was so hard just watching you." Sherlock whispered into John's hair. John did not reply, but just tried to gain control of his sobs.
"Sh-er-lock-I-am-s-so-sorry-for-p-punching you." John choked out.
"It's alright." Sherlock told him.
In his years away, Sherlock had realized a few things. He realized being alone was not the same as it once was, not after he had experienced friendship, not after he had met John. Those three years were so empty. John was the best friend Sherlock ever had, John was the first friend Sherlock had ever had. Sherlock was not used to feeling. At first the way he felt while watching John scared him; mainly because he did not understand it. He was not used to feeling anything, especially this new feeling. Whenever he would look at John, it felt as if his stomach had dropped down but was at the same time weightless. His breath would become labored and his heartbeat would speed up. As extreme as it was, it was pleasant. At times it was painful. It would rip at Sherlock's chest until he had to look away and catch his breath, his hand clutching his chest. Sometimes it made him feel sad. His face would fall and his throat would constrict. Sherlock could feel his heart yearning almost; reaching out for John. Sometimes as he would watch John, Sherlock would feel almost ill with longing. There were times Sherlock would have to turn away or even leave because the desire to reveal himself to John had been so overwhelming. Just watching John was hard, but whenever Sherlock would return to wherever he was sleeping that night, the feeling, paired with fond memories of how happy he was towards the end of things, would keep Sherlock warm at night. Even with the pain, it was worth it to Sherlock if it meant John was safe.
Now that John was in his arms that feeling was all Sherlock could feel. He could tell by the way that John shuddered against his chest that he was feeling it too. "I am sorry, John."
John raised his head from Sherlock's chest, his eyes finding Sherlock's. John's eyes were strained and red but still soft. "No, don't apologize." John told him. Neither of them were moving again; they just stood there, their eyes locked. Sherlock swallowed under the scrutiny of John's gaze. He loosened his grip on John's shoulders, moving back again. John also loosened his grip around Sherlock's neck, but only unwrapped his arms enough to hold on by his hands. His face looked conflicted as he never took his eyes off Sherlock.
"John?" Sherlock whispered, unnerved by the determined look on John's face. Sherlock could just barely feel John's chest rising through his sweater. He could feel the sweat on John's palms that rested lightly on the back if his neck, dampening some of the hair at the nape of his neck. As he began to actually look into John's eyes he could see his pupils dilating. "Oh!" He exclaimed quietly. John took a shuddering, resolved breath and thrusted his lips on Sherlock's, bringing his hands up to Sherlock's face.
Sherlock's eyes widened as John's force caused him to stumble backwards a bit. He was not really kissing him back, but the fact that he did not pull away was enough for John. He let his mouth work softly on Sherlock's stagnant lips. Somewhere a voice in his head was all but screaming at him to stop, to pull away from Sherlock. But the louder the voice grew, the more John felt the urge to defy it. However, there was still no response from Sherlock and this frustrated John. He was so sure that Sherlock was feeling the same as he was. Maybe he was wrong? Was Sherlock really capable of feeling for him? Especially the way that John felt? He let his hands drop defeatedly onto Sherlock's shoulders, pulling his lips from Sherlock's.
Suddenly, Sherlock sprang to life, throwing one hand onto the back of John's neck and using the other to pull John close. John threw himself back into the kiss immediately, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's neck. Sherlock's lips were urgent, but also unpracticed and very sloppy. John did not care. It was Sherlock, his Sherlock. Alive, in Baker Street, kissing him. John had alway fought what he was feeling. He had always known what he felt, but he had always written it off. After Sherlock had died, or faked his own death, John had fully realized what he had been feeling. The hole left by Sherlock Holmes was gaping and painful. But, as Sherlock's desperate yet timid lips moved against his, John could feel the whole filling up.
Had he not needed air, John did not think he would have ever pulled away. He broke away from Sherlock but dug his hands into Sherlock's coat collar, unwilling to actually let go. As soon as their lips separated Sherlock tried to stretch and reach John's lips again. "Sherlock, I need to breathe." John chided, though he smiled. Sherlock sighed and pulled John close.
"I am so sorry that I left you, John." Sherlock was whispering into John's hair again.
"I know. But..but you're here now." Johns eyes clouded over a bit. "Do you have to go?" John felt Sherlock's shoulders drop and swallowed, knowing the answer.
"It isn't safe for me to be here, John. I did not expect you to return so soon or I would have never came." He paused. His voice broke when he spoke again. "But, I do not want to go."
The two men just clung to one another, both knowing that when Sherlock left it was very likely that he could not come back; at least not for a while. Very reluctantly the pair parted. John saw that Sherlock's eyes were red and strained, making his own eyes sting a bit. He let his hands slide down Sherlock's arms and he took Sherlock's hand in his own. Sherlock straightened and tried to compose himself. "I should probably go soon." He said solemnly.
"Yeah." John replied, swallowing.
Sherlock looked sadly at John for a moment before stooping to kiss John's forehead lightly. "Goodbye, John." John shivered at these words. The last words he had heard before Sherlock jumped.
Sherlock turned to leave out of an open window, dropping John's hands. He only got a few steps before John had latched onto his arm. He turned back curiously. "Can't...can't you stay the night?" John asked, seeming embarrassed.
Sherlock looked perplexed for a moment before grinning. "I think I would like that very much, John."