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"Hi John, I'm Mary."
John took the proffered hand, their palms aligning and fingers grasping, in a brief handshake. He smiles at the young woman with blond hair, and she smiles back at John.
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John curls up in his beige chair at his new bedsit. 221B is too painful to go back to or take anything from. Sherlock's things are most likely scattered about the flat in the way he last left them, insisting to John that if he cleaned, Sherlock's "special order" of papers would be destroyed (and in Sherlock's head, the world with it). Even visiting Mrs. Hudson at 221A brought light strains of violin music flooding back into his brain, grief making it hard to breathe.
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A body falling off of St. Bart's rooftop.
A body hitting the pavement.
Blood weaving in and out of dark curls.
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Gasping for breath, John wakes from another of his increasingly frequent nightmares of blood on the pavement and hospital rooftops, reaching towards the other side of the bed, only finding it cold. His fingers reach out for a body that isn't there before dropping to the duvet.
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John leans against the black obsidian that marks his friend's (partner's? lover's? they hadn't been much for titles) grave, the stone cooling his back and damp sinking into his jeans. "Do you remember the first night you came to my room? You looked terrified when you woke me up from my nightmare. It thundered outside and you jumped six feet. You crawled under the duvet and kissed me. I kissed you back. I got the best sleep I had in years and, for once, woke up before you. You are- were- so innocent when you slept, looked it anyway. No sharp eyes stripping my secrets and I to the bone. It was the best night I ever had, just us holding each other. I just… I wish I had more nights with you. I love you."
John stands, brushing wet grass off of his jeans. "Goodbye, Sherlock. I'll see you next week."
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That utter, absolute arse. John thinks angrily as he spies Sherlock sitting in John's boring brown chair at John's bedsit. That chair is the epitome of dull and does not deserve to be sat on by Sherlock, whose blue-gray eyes flash in the dark. Sherlock is calmly studying his friend (lover? again, John wasn't sure), gauging his reaction while said friend is torn between hugging Sherlock and never letting go, or punching him in the face. (All the while freaking out because the friend that John thought was very, very dead is very, very much alive, hadn't told him, and is now sitting in his room looking for all the world like he hasn't been gone for two bloody years without telling John anything and letting him think he was dead.)
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John didn't leave Mary. Mary left John. There was nothing wrong with him she had explained, no, insisted, it was her that was mucking up the relationship. They promised to stay friends.
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John wakes up from dreams of hospital rooftops and blood on dark curls to reach out instinctively, again. His fingers expecting nothing, but making contact with warm flesh. John gasps and Sherlock pulls him into a hug right before the tears start creeping out from under his eyelids to dampen the T-shirt his head is pressed against.
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John is running after a criminal again, adrenaline pumping through his veins as before. The rain making the alleyway slick with the wet. He tackles the thief they have been tracking for several days to the ground, knocking him out cold, and Sherlock, who had been running alongside John, shackles the man. They grin at each other, rain streaking down their faces, and lightly kiss until they hear the thief coming awake.
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Sherlock is sprawled on 221B's couch in his pyjamas, John on top of him, also clad in pyjamas. John doesn't see Sherlock smiling as he listens to Sherlock's heart and the rain taps a rhythm on the window.
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