Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock
"I had bad days." John had told Sherlock. He'd said those words and yet, he didn't even know what bad days were. He'd thought bad days were being captured by the enemy soldiers and being held hostage. He'd thought bad days were being shot. Now he scoffed at the PTSD, those were easy days. Now he knew the real meaning of bad days. Bad days are when the man you love jumps off a building to his death. Bad days are when you never got a chance to tell him how you feel about him. Bad days are when you can't get out of bed because of the guilt you feel for his death. Bad days are when you slice your arms open in the tub because it helps to relieve the pain in your soul if only for a moment. Bad days are when you see the exact shade of blue he used to wear. Bad days are when you can't be without him another day. So now that he knew what a real bad day was, John scoffed at all the things that he used to think made a day bad. He looked down at the water filling the tub, blood red as his head swam with images of the same color painting the sidewalk. He shut his eyes. It was too much. Too much pain.
"Just one more miracle Sherlock. I only asked for one more miracle." John mumbled as he sank deeper into the blood red bath. He felt cold arms surround his upper body and leaned back towards them. "Take me home Sherlock. Where I'll never have to feel this way ever again." John murmured.
"No." John's eyes snapped open. The coldness that had taken his upper body dissipated as warmth flooded his veins. "Stop feeling so bloody sorry for yourself." Sherlock growled snatching the scull up off the counter next to the sink.
"Sh-sherl-" John fumbled feeling lightheaded from blood loss.
"Dear god John get a hold of yourself. And for heaven's sake! Don't call me Sherl." Sherlock snapped.
"You're alive." John said.
"Obviously." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Now get out of that disgusting water." Sherlock commanded.
"But how? I saw you die." John said not moving.
"I'll tell you later." Sherlock sighed as he turned on the shower and began draining the water John was sitting in.
"It's been five months." John roared as rage filled his veins replacing the blood he'd drained.
"I know." Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"I went to your funeral!" John's fist impacted with Sherlock's face. Sherlock froze and stepped back looking at John wide eyed as blood seeped from his cheek.
"I know. I was there." Sherlock said quietly. John flushed with rage.
"You were there." John said quietly.
"I'm sorry." Sherlock said.
"If you throw a plate on the floor does saying sorry fix it?" John asked.
"No." Sherlock said. He handed John a towel and turned off the shower. John looked down, realizing what he was standing, naked, in the shower, in front of Sherlock. He'd gotten water all over the floor and blood on Sherlock, whose it was John didn't know.
"You know what made me the angriest?" John asked as his rage dripped out of his arms and onto the floor. Sherlock's eyes fell to the floor and he looked terribly ashamed. "That I never got to tell you..." John's fingers buried themselves in his hair as he yanked Sherlock close. John kissed Sherlock with every feeling he'd had since seeing Sherlock on the roof. He felt Sherlock's fear at being suddenly grab melt away and their fingers intertwine. When John let go Sherlock stumbled backwards. "I love you." John said.
"I love you too." Sherlock said breathlessly.