A/N: Oh, lookie who got into Sherlock~ :3 And getting into Sherlock meant getting in Johnlock for me, SO DON'T YOU DARE COMMENT ON THAT. :U
Anyway, I decided that I needed to write for something that didn't begin with H for once, and the only inspiration I had was writing for Sherlock.
…actually, when I say inspiration here, I mean that I actually wrote the beginning bit because I wanted to piss off someone on Omegle (Yes, I rp on Omegle. Problem?). However, I only succeeded in getting a cry of "DON'T MAKE ME CWYYY", then the gray text stating "Your conversational partner has disconnected." Geez, way to make an exit there ._.
So… enjoy the story, I guess |D Oh yeah, I feel like it's worth noting that this happens post Reichenbach (SP?) Fall.
-Otaku
John awoke from his rest in a cold sweat, just in the middle of muttering "Sherlock". He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and thought about the dream he just had.
"Dammit... why can't I stop dreaming about that moment?" he murmured.
The specific moment John had been referring to was the moment when he had watched Sherlock Holmes, his dearest and closest friend, jump off the building, of course. In his dreams, that moment was constantly being replayed over and over again. John always hoped that in this version of the dream, whatever it was, Sherlock wouldn't actually hit the ground. He would still be alive.
But this was reality we're talking about here. Sherlock Holmes was dead. End of statement. He had been dead for three years. What difference would it make that every night, John prayed to whatever deity had been listening that he could have his friend back?
Even after three years had passed, John had stayed in the flat he had shared with Sherlock. However, he took it upon himself to stay out of the brunette's room. There were simply too many memories to reflect upon. John just couldn't bring himself to move out of the flat. Every time he thought of it, he always got an unsettling feeling in his gut – guilt, as if he would have been abandoning what was left of his friend.
…or could John call Sherlock a friend anymore?
After Sherlock jumped off the building and much mourning, John opened his laptop for the first time in several days (Or was it weeks? John couldn't tell). First, he checked his blog, updating with 'In Memoriam of Sherlock Holmes. You will be missed.'
Swallowing a lump that had materialized in his throat, John shut the laptop, opening a nearby drawer to store it.
Although, that would have been much easier had the space not been occupied by a laptop of a certain curly haired brunette.
"…"
John was silent as he pulled out the laptop. He didn't know what he was doing right now, but he was just acting on instinct – maybe Sherlock was writing something, a letter perhaps? Well, maybe not. In this age, email was the only way to communicate.
Speaking of email, John noticed that Sherlock had forgotten to log out of his account. Although, given the fact that Sherlock never let anyone borrow his laptop, he probably had no reason to do it.
As John scrolled down the list of emails – there were few emails, so it didn't take a very long time – he noticed an email with his own name on it.
That's funny, I don't remember sending him an email, John thought. Usually when he and Sherlock communicated by electrical device, they would just text and not bother with emails. In curiosity, John opened the email.
As he read over the email, the doctor found his eyes being clouded with tears. What he was reading was a love letter he had never sent Sherlock. Maybe the detective had hacked into his account somehow and sent it to himself?
…no. Sherlock was above that.
Finally, John reached the end of the letter, tears running down his face. He cradled his head in his hands, contemplating what he just read.
Oh, if only he had typed that letter himself.
After falling into a (thankfully) dreamless sleep for several more hours, John was roused by the sound of knocking on his door. Wearily, he checked the time. It was just past 5 am.
"I'm coming," John yelled out tiredly. He climbed out of bed and walked slowly to the front door, dragging his feet and wondering who could possibly be knocking at this hour. Maybe it was Mrs. Hudson… yes, that was it.
"What is it, Mrs. Hudson…" John trailed off as he opened the door, only to reveal a certain brunette who was definitely not the kind old landlady downstairs.
"Hello, John."
There was a feeling that John couldn't place in the Glasz eyes that belonged to the man standing in front of him. Maybe it was sorrow, maybe it was guilt, maybe it was regret. Whatever it was, John did the first thing that came to his mind.
He reached back and punched Sherlock in the face, something the detective had expected but was not fully prepared for.
"…I deserved that," the brunette observed dryly, rubbing his bleeding nose in what seemed to be amusement. John nodded.
"Yes, you did. You arse." The doctor looked over his old friend, then sighed in annoyance. "Well, come in, I suppose."
"Good to see you're still here," Sherlock murmured as he passed John and walked into the flat. The latter shut the door and followed the detective. There was an awkward silence as Sherlock took a seat on the couch, patting the seat beside him so that John would sit there, which he did.
"So, do you have an explanation as to why you're here at five in the morning when you're supposed to be… well, dead?" John asked, turning to Sherlock and raising an eyebrow. Sherlock chuckled, but there was no humor in his laugh.
"Haven't you figured that out yet?" he asked.
"Well, this much I know; you faked your death and neglected to tell anyone about it."
"Shall I tell you why I faked my death?"
"Please do."
Sherlock leaned back and closed his eyes. "Moriarty."
"Moriarty?"
"Yes. If I hadn't faked my death, he would have killed you and everyone else important to me."
"…" John leaned forward and covered his mouth with his hands. "So basically you did it to save my life."
"Didn't I just say that?"
"And you didn't tell anyone about this?"
"Oh, no one. Just Molly, she spoke at my 'funeral', remember?"
"Ah, right."
There was another awkward silence as John went over the facts in his head. It was about another minute until he asked another question; "So what have you been doing these past three years?"
"Oh, travelling. Getting rid of Moriarty's division. You?"
"Not much. Just my job, and… stuff." John didn't want to tell Sherlock about those girls he had dated, but recently he had stopped because of that email.
"I see. Well, it's good to be back."
John looked over at Sherlock, who was smiling at him.
"…yeah. It's good to have you back."
Actual plot = Not my division orz