John Watson didn't know what to do with his life. He didn't want to wait anymore. What was going to happen? What could he do? He couldn't erase this year or so that had just happened. It ended abruptly, and he didn't want it to. The memories, the thoughts, the feelings that hadn't gone away... all of them coursed through his veins as he rode the cab back to his new flat. He couldn't have gone back after that day. had to get him his things out of their flat and bring it to him. He of course thanked her graciously and she understood. As she stood in his doorway he heard her whisper more to herself:
"I'm never going to sell that flat again anyways, no one will buy it..."
John was pulled back to reality when the cab jerked to a halt at the door to his flat. He thanked the driver and got out. As he stepped into the front door, he noticed a difference. (Living with him, Watson grown to know the little things that happened. It was his new past time afterwards; he sat at the cafe figuring out peoples' lives. In his opinion he was starting to get good at it.) He cautiously inched his way around the room and tried to figure out what had happened. He looked precariously at the floor and noticed small scuff marks towards the couch and around the table.
John jumped at the sound of a crash behind him and spun around to face a cat on his kitchen counter. It had knocked over a pot that had clattered to the floor.
"What the hell..." He muttered. "Scat!" John Watson didn't have a cat, never did. As the cat flung itself through the open main room he realized what was wrong with his flat. He did not leave that window open; he always makes sure to close every window, every door before leaving. The window he looked at now overlooked the street below, the cat now resided on the ledge under the window, barely two inches wide.
"I must've left it open, I had to." John's thought trailed off as he took off his jacket and shoes. He sat and turned on the telly, holding a beer in his hand and his head full of thoughts he couldn't get out.
"How? How could this happen? I was so sure, so secure I had him safe. He couldn't have slipped any quicker. I left angry, I didn't even get to tell him... shit I didn't even know at the time. Why in the Queen's name did he do that? Now with both him and Moriarty are done it's too quiet. Something has to happen. Anything. I've gone through every possible explanation... he's gone." John threw his empty bottle across the room, it shattering on the wall. Another thing that he did now since that day; talk to himself. That old flat was always full of talking, talking and ideas and thoughts that filled every corner and flowed out of every opening, usually his moth. John couldn't even think of saying his name, it just went unsurpassed.
He couldn't deal with it anymore, he stood up and walked over to the window, slamming it shut. He turned on some music, not wanting the silence, and paced over to his bathroom. ""A shower will make things better,"" he thought, ""isn't that what they do in movies?"" He threw his clothes in the hamper and let the steam do the work. He slowly calmed down and got back to his emotionless self, trying to figure out exactly how fucked up he had to be in order to want to be that emotionless. He stepped out and looked at himself in the mirror. At thirty-five he didn't look his age, probably younger to most. To himself though, he looked ancient.
John was still built, still strong from the army, but his muscles was losing their definition. His greying hair was cut cropped, but lost its clean, buzzed look from what it used to. At the moment, it hung limp and matted brown on a face that looked haggard and tired. His grey-blue eyes had lost its sparkle and now resembled water after a sad storm; they hung over bruised looking patches. He was tired after nights of staying up thinking. People had tried to forget how hurt he was, treating him like usual but knowing the hurt that layed just under those pond water eyes.
"Dammit," John sighed, "just another day, untouched with anything interesting." He shoved himself off the counter and dried off a bit, feeling his muscles clench in exhaust. He tightened the towel as he set on through the door to his room and stopped dead in his tracks.
"No, no, this isn't possible." John whispered.
There. He. Is. Right in front of him.
"Well hello John," Sherlock said quite calmly, "Judging by the fact your heart beat is going faster than after a marathon, you must want to know whats happened."
"Oh, no no no," John stammered as he hit the wall, "You've been here before... I just need some sleep. I know I shouldn't have drank that third beer. Jesus Mary and Joesph."
"Your blood-alcohol level isn't high enough to institute hallucinations, you idiot. Now don't be scared, I can see you're starting to, but don't, this all has an explanation. I had to."
"Fine Sherlock. I should be happy, my best friend just came back from the dead. But. Why? Moriarty is dead. You both were. You jumped from a three story building! People don't survive that!"
"Oh but I did John, I did. All with the help of Molly. We had to fake both of our deaths. Disappear. Let life return to normal for everyone."
"But not for me. Fuck, can't you get it through your head. I needed you. You don't just leave your only friend and fake your own bloody death!"
"Bloody indeed," chuckled Sherlock.
"Shut up!" John sputtered. He needed to take it all in. What? Sherlock Holmes was alive, a wanted fugitive still maybe, and in his bedroom, on his bed. Before the incident he would've told him to get out and go to his room, now he didn't even know how to act. He took a deep breath.
"John listen, you were going to get killed, , everyone I loved. You were all going to die. I couldn't let that happen. We had to die. I did at least. Judging by the fact that your pupils are dilating you're realizing I know something you think I don't. Of course I do, I know everything. I know the facts."
"Bu-but," John stammered, sitting down next to Sherlock on the bed, "God, this is so sur-" He was stopped by Sherlock's lips on his, crushing and overbearing. "real." He said as they separated. "Why did you just do that?" He realized then that he was real, he had enough fantasies about Sherlock but not like this. Also, he had to admit, this was something Sherlock would do. He decided then that this had to be the blue-eyed thin man he had come to love.
"Oh come on John, I thought you got better at deducing once I left. How did you not notice all those signals I sent you. Sharing a flat first off, I don't like as many people as you think i do, all those looks, my posture. You should have honestly seen I was answering to your own."
"My own? I did nothing of the sort."
"Then why are your eyes dilated and your pace quicker? Why are you slowly coming closer without even thinking of it?"
"Dammit Sherlock, you and your bloody deducing." With that the two kissed, forcefully. Their lips clashed, and John easily won the fight for dominance, forcing his tongue inside Sherlock's mouth.
"Well, judging by your response I was actually right thi-" Sherlock stumbled to answer as he was flung onto his back on the bed, scrambling to take off his jacket and unbutton his shirt. John's towel shifted a little between the two, creating just enough friction. All the clothes were soon ripped off and on the floor. The night passed in a loud on-slaught. Various terms were used and various things played out.
John woke up and noticed three things at once; one, he was naked, two, there was another man sleeping underneath his chin, and three, that man happened to be Sherlock Holmes. He breathed in a deep breath, not wanting to ruin the moment, smelling the deep woodsy musky smell of the other man.
"Don't worry, you won't ruin it," Sherlock sighed, "I have this remembered quite clearly now. I've been awake listening to you dream for a bit."
"Oh have you now?" John chuckled, "hey Sherlock you said something last night and it had me wondering? You said something along the lines of 'judging by my response that you were actually right,' Does that mean you didn't know?"
"Well of course I didn't know John. How was I suppose to know that that only man that I actually have feelings for might like me back. God, I sound like a child, this is embarrassing. Don't laugh, I feel your muscels shaking to hold it in. I just need to calm down, its quite logical really."
John giggled at this, then chuckled, he couldn't hold it in until both of them actually laughed. "What?" he wheezed, "the great Sherlock Holmes embarrassed? Whatever for? I love you and you love me, done, simple, deducing aside."
Sherlock started and blushed, "Deducing? I don't always just-" With that Sherlock was silenced with a simple, sweet kiss.
"I'm going for tea." And with that John Watson left the bed, put some shorts out, and flounced into the kitchen. Leaving the flustered Sherlock Holmes to figure out what the last night had happened and what was going to happen now. He had finally gotten his blogger back, and that post was going to be an interesting one.