This little one-shot is based in Ulura's vid Keep On Moving at YT: /watch?v=3QxGju81e4w
Just check it out and her stories (they're brilliant!) and please leave a little review at the bottom of the story :)
Because John practically lived on cream tea, he was angry when he turned out to be out of it. He sighed, put on his coat and left the flat. He closed the door behind him and deeply inhaled the cool everning air. It was good to leave the flat for some time. He smiled slightly bitter at himself. Today was the three-year anniversary of Sherlock's jump. The last two years he had honoured this day by buying everything he needed in advance so he didn't have to leave the flat on this particular day, but this week had been a very busy week. Lestrade had needed his help on a nasty murder-case, and John had been more than happy to help the DI a little with the investigation. John was some sort of second best now, and he didn't mind to help. It was how he earned his money now after all. Somehow the fact he had forgotten to buy the supplies was fine with him. It showed him that he was starting to cope, and to be honest with himself, he did rather well. He had cleaned out the flat some months ago, and he had visited Mycroft. Together they had talked about Sherlock, the cases and strangely enough, it had been fun and they had parted as friends. Last month Mycroft had assisted him in a case where John had needed some classifed information. He had solved the case successfully.
Now he just walked all the way to Tesco's and bought all the groceries he needed. When he returned home, it had started raining. He turned his collar up and snuggled deeper in his coat. He arrived at 221B faster than he had thought, probably deep ly occupied with his thoughts. He felt sad today. It was after all three years ago and he still missed his friend. The years went by so fast… Sometimes he even wondered how he made it through. No matter how hard he worked at cases, no matter how much fun he had with Molly and Lestrade, no matter how rude he was to Anderson and Donovan, he kept missing Sherlock. The bored detective, the beautiful playing on the violin.. The running around in London, the shared jokes. The experiments he had missed too. He missed it, but it was no longer the hurting empty place in his chest. The ache had made room for a longing. He wanted to feel alive and he was doing a good job at that, but to be able to share it with someone was special. He stood before 221B and relived the day Mike had introduced him to Sherlock. He relived the moment they met, the next evening, seven o'clock, and John had layed eyes on the apartment for the very first time. Suddenly he didn't want to enter it. He would be alone again, alone in the flat, staring at the wall and the skull. He had been able to cope, but well.. this day was special.
He remembered the day after the fall. He sat there, in his chair, bare-feet, staring at the empty chair before him, the nasty news-papers all around. This afternoon he would go to the grave and leave some flowers, talk to the headstone and relive all those beautiful memories.
The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street.
John grinned foolishly in his coat. The chase the evening afterwards; it had been their very first. In fact, it had been an evening of firsts. First 'date' with a guy, first time he left the stick since the war, first time he ran after a cab (oh, that was very silly!), the first time he had laughed sincerely after the war. He could easily picture Sherlock standing before him with that smug smile on his face when he admitted to pick-pocket Lestrade when he was bored, and when that Californian guy started to suspect something Sherlock had looked at John. "Got your breath back?"
Oh, how wonderful those memories were. He was so very grateful to Sherlock, for everything. He just had never been able to tell. Sherlock had probably known, but still.. John had wanted to tell him. Telling a gravestone wasn't the same.
"Ready when you are." And they had started running. There had been an awful lot of running to do, and John had loved it. He still liked the thrill of the chase, never mind the bruises and twisted ankles. He loved the thrill. That was the stupidity of the soldier, apparently, because there was nothing brave in that. The last three years, he had had to take the dark lonley highway on his on, sometime thrown back by some ditches in the road, yet he had kept moving on, and now it had proven to be fruitfull.
John sighed and opened the door. He climbed the stairs and, after arriving on the landing, turned left to head for the kitchen to drop off the groceries. He walked back to the landing and wanted to walk straight ahead to his bedroom, about to get out of his coat, when he noticed that the door towards the living room was slightly ajar. John, being sure he had closed it when he had left, carefully pushed the door completely open and his jaw dropped as he stepped inside the small living room.
With his back towards John, looking out of the window, stood a tall man. A man whose silhouette John would recognise always and everywhere. The man had his hands stuffed away in his trouser pockets, his head was slightly bent downwards to watch the street but lifted towards the ceiling when John entered.
"John." One simple word, filled with emotion to the brim. A word John had been longing for to hear. A word that kept John from bursting out in anger at his friend's deceit, because it was spoken by the one man John had missed so terribly.
John exhaled shakily and looked at his friend with a slightly blurred vision. Sherlock was not dressed in his tight-fitting suit but in his loose-fitting blue dressing-gown. The gown swirled a little when Sherlock turned his head halfway towards his friend, revealing a genuine smile. John stood frozen when Sherlock whirled around completely to face John.
He looked the same as always. Tall, stately and so beautifully alive. There was, however, a slight hint of insecurity in his eyes when John was finally defrosted and took off his coat to place it on his chair silently.
Sherlock cleared his throat, John looked expectantly at his friend who was clearly at loss for words. Sherlock saw there was some unspoken anger in John's demeanor. Obviously, John wanted answers. And Sherlock's intention was to give him all the answers he wanted.
He was surprised with this kind of reaction. He had anticipated everything. From a very angry John who hit him and knocked him out completely to a John who would break down and leave the flat in anger. Not a John who didn't say a word and just looked.
Sherlock cleared his throat again and strode towards the sofa where he crashed down in a dramatic manner and folded his hands in front of him as if in prayer whilst looking at the ceiling. This simple gesture brought back all kinds of other fond memories to the small soldier.
Finally, John broke the silence. "Well, explain, Sherlock." The mind is an amazing thing. It can imagine all bizarre things, but when it really happens the brain can be at a complete loss of what to do and even the basic things like breathing and thinking becomes difficult.
Sherlock opened his eyes and smiled at his friend. He had missed John so much. Three years without his care-taking blogger had been hell and he was so glad and content to be back.
Sherlock sat up straight again and looked at his best friend. His only friend. He told him everything. From the moment he realised that all Moriarty needed to complete his game was for Sherlock to fall, to commit suicide. That there had been snipers on Mrs Hudson and Lestrade and John. That Molly had helped him to fake his death to safe John. That he had tracked down every single apprentice and accomplice of Moriarty's in the last three years. That everything was safe now and that Moriarty's web had been broken. That now he could come back and live with his blogger and solve the simple crimes again. The game was on again. The stopsigns were broken down, they could keep moving.
John nodded during the story and kept his eyes fixed on Sherlock. A living and breathing Sherlock. And somehow… he felt the same thrill as back at the cab when Sherlock had explained all his deductions about him when they first met.
"Well, that was about it..." Sherlock concluded awkwardly. John smiled at his friend, and when their eyes locked, the same giggle as when they were at Buckingham palace arose from the two of them. Now it was all back to normal.
"Shall we make an appearance at the Yard?" John proposed, grinning like a schoolboy.
Sherlock made a jump very similar to the one he had done when he was invited in the Pink Lady case, which made John's grin even wider. Sherlock was just as happy to return to normal life as John was.
The pair leapt down the stairs and Sherlock hailed a cab. In the cab, John sat behind the driver, next to Sherlock who stared out of the window and pointed out the changes in his beloved city.
When they had given everyone aheart-attack at the Yard, Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson walked away from the building, side by side in an even stride.
London was a battle-field again with Sherlock and John as the good-guys. The bad-guys were all replacable and probably a new Moriarty would arise one day. But Sherlock and John, they were back together. And no fall could ever come between the friendship the two of them had.
"Look at that," John said, nodding towards his computer screen, smiling broadly.
"What?" Sherlock stood behind him and peered over John's shoulder at the screen.
"Hat Man and Robin are back." At the same minute Sherlock's phone beeped.
Need your help on a case. Call me. –Lestrade
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