Ok so many people have done the whole Reunion Fic and there are quite a few of Nightmare fics floating around as well. I decided to tackle both of them and while they were supposed to be two separate pieces, they ended up becoming one.
Three Years Later
Three years.
Three years, six months, four hours and twenty three minutes since that dreaded day outside of the hospital. But John wasn't counting. No. Because that would mean that he was still thinking about it; that he wasn't okay. And he was. John was completely and utterly fine.
Most days.
Some days were worse than others. Some days he actually got up and went out. It wasn't ever for more than an hour at a time but... progress was progress, right?
Three years later and John still couldn't say his name aloud. He could barely even think it without being hit with a pang of dread and despair. His detective, his flatmate. His bestfriend. Three years later and John still refused to believe that he was really gone.
Three years later and he was still receiving looks of pity from anyone who knew of him and what had happened. He wasn't John Watson, Retired Army Doctor anymore or even John Watson, "Friend" of Sherlock Holmes.
No. Now he was John Watson, the Man Who Rarely Leaves the House Ever Since His Fraud of a Best Friend Jumped.
And that was okay, really.
John was okay. He was fine.
He was better than he had been, anyway. The first few months were the worst. Those were the days when every breath felt even more painful than the last. When he was at his grave more often than not. When he moved in with Harry because going back to the flat was too hard. There were too many memories there. And everything reminded John of him.
Those first months were the most painful. But in some ways, they were probably also the best, too. Because at least then he was feeling. Even if the pain was unbearable; even if his chest felt as though it were being ripped open from the inside, at least it was something.
Because now, John was feeling with nothing.
There was no pain, no regret, no dread. Nothing.
He was numb. So blissfully and lamentably numb.
More often than not his mind was just... blank. To put it simply, he just didn't care. He didn't care if he ate or not. He didn't care if he got out of bed in the mornings or if he ever even went to sleep. He didn't care if he lived or died...
He was alive, but he wasn't living. He was just... here. Just existing. Just another speck of dust being blown away by the wind. Just another puppet being controlled by the Fates of the universe.
Mrs. Hudson kept checking in on him that day, pestering him about anything she could think of to mention; work, food, sleep, family. Anything. Eventually, in an attempt to get away from her and her hawk-like eyes, he decided to take a trip to the store. They were running low on milk and jam anyway. Not that John ever really ate anything these days.
He walked slowly, in no particular rush to get there or return to the flat. He felt his phone vibrate against his leg and pulled it out, seeing the same text he got a few times a week from Mycroft, wondering how John was doing and hoping all was going well. He dropped his phone back into his pocket. He never replied and wasn't going to change that tradition now.
When he finally arrived back to Baker Street a while later, Mrs Hudson didn't waste anytime jumping on his case again. Insisting that she take the groceries for him, wondering what took him so long. John was annoyed and didn't hesitate to show it. While he knew the landlady meant well, sometimes she just needed to get the hint and leave him alone.
After managing to shake her off, he started up the stairs, stopping on the landing outside the door. He hesitated for a moment, noticing the door was cracked open a bit before shrugging it off and pushing it open the rest of the way with his shoulder, as both his hands were laden with the shopping.
As soon as he turned the corner to enter the kitchen he stopped. His legs stopped moving, his heart stopped beating, his lungs stopped breathing. His fingers stopped gripping the bags and the food fell to the floor with a thud John didn't hear because his ears stopped working. Everything stopped. Because right there standing in the doorway was Sherlock Holmes.
John tried to blink him away; it wasn't the first time he'd imagined seeing the detective standing around and it apparently would be the last one either. But this image was different. Every time John imagined him, he'd always looked so normal. Like his usual self. But this Sherlock... He was wearing the long coat and scarf, his hair was curly and his cheekbones were high but he was different. Different in the way that he looked distressed. A look John had certainly never seen before.
His hair wasn't just curly, but messy. Disheveled and uncared for. His eyes were dark, lined with dark purple shadows. And his face had aged. Not much, as it had only been three years, but enough that John noticed a difference. It was thinner, causing his features to become even more defined and noticeable. And John noticed ever difference.
He stepped forward slowly, treading through milk that had spilled when he dropped it and glass that had broken for the jam jar. Stopping a foot away from the man standing before him, John brought a shaky, calloused hand to the side of his face, trying to figure out if this was just another vivid illusion. When his hand rested against Sherlock's cheek and he felt the warm skin, he pulled his hand back as quickly as though the blood pulsing beneath it had burned him.
He shook his head, telling himself that it was just another illusion. It was just a dream. Just another dream. But those familiar eyes kept watching him, following his every move. Waiting for something. And then he spoke. His voice, exactly as John remembered it but so, so much different as well. "John," It was barely audible, said in a single relieved sort of breath.
And maybe he was going to say something after that. Maybe he was going to explain everything that was running through John's head right now. Answer all the question that needed to be addressed and there were a hell of a lot of them. Maybe he was going to apologize. Or, in a very Sherlock fashion, maybe he was going to make some witty, sarcastic remark about the jam. But John didn't know, and John would never know what would have happened next because before either one of them knew what was happening, his right fist was colliding with Sherlock's jaw once, twice, three times before he brought both fists to attack his chest.
Over and over and over again until his breathing was shallow, his strength was fading and he hadn't the faintest where his punches were actually landing. He was screaming profanities and words he couldn't register and the bloody bastard didn't once hit him back. And when his strength finally ran out, he could barely register what was happening.
Sherlock pulled him in close, holding him tight and rocking him slightly, calming him. John could tell he was speaking but had no idea what was being said. But his nose was pressed into the base of Sherlock's neck and all he could do was inhale the familiar scent that was chemicals and coffee and something just so Sherlock. It was a scent John never though he'd smell again.
He felt himself drifting away and knew he was staring to fall asleep, the seventy two hours he had spent wide awake were now getting to him. But he didn't want to sleep. He didn't want to close his eyes for fear that when he woke up, this would all have been a dream. Sherlock would still be dead and John would still be alone. He wanted to fight the sleep. Stay awake a little longer. But his body was exhausted, his strength was gone and the smell of Sherlock was so intoxicating. So soothing...
Once he realized that John had fallen asleep, Sherlock stood slowly, careful not to move to quickly. According to Mrs. Hudson, John hadn't slept in days. He didn't want to ruin that now. He carried John into his room, which still looked as it had the last time he saw it. After settling John beneath the blankets, Sherlock removed his shoes and slid in next to him. He just got John back now and wasn't about to leave him anytime soon.
He lay there and watched through the closed curtains as evening faded into night. Watched as the harsh sun was replaced with the soft, kinder light of the silver moon. And as he noticed the stars beginning to grace the sky, he himself finally started to drift away.
The images were sharp in his mind. Always the same- blood and sand and screaming and guns. And falling, always falling. Always the same person. Always the same place. Always the same feeling. John, paralyzed and helpless far away from the one thing he needed the most. Unable to do anything more than watch as the dark haired detective fell in slow motion toward the pavement.
It was over too soon and just as he hit the ground, the sound of a gunshot rang through his ears, replacing the all too familiar sound of skull cracking against concrete. He was no longer standing outside of the hospital watching his best friend meet his death, but in the middle of another kind of war. A real war. He was back with the heat and the sand. Bombs and bullets exploding all around him. And screams. The screams from the dying soldiers and his own cries of pain blended together until he forgot where he was completely.
And then everything was black for a split second before he woke with a start, gasping for breath as though he had been underwater for too long. He was covered in a cold sweat that was causing the sheets to stick to his skin. He fought against them, forgetting where he was and that he wasn't still dreaming. He kicked and thrashed, trying to rid himself of the sheets that were tangled around him, strangling him, making it impossible for him to breathe.
Through the fear, he registered long fingers ghosting over his skin which only caused him to panic more until his senses kicked in. The smell of chemicals and cologne and just something so Sherlock filled his body and forced him to calm down a bit. He was pulled into the detective's chest, his fighting arms and kicking legs going limp almost immediately.
"Shh, shh. It's okay, John. It's okay, I'm right here. You're okay." The words fought their way through his muddled brain and he found solstice in them, clinging to as tight as he was clinging to Sherlock- as though they were the only thing keeping him anchored.
It hadn't been a dream. Sherlock was here. Right here, next to him, holding him. Sherlock was alive. John had absolutely no ide how it was even possible but right now, he didn't care. He didn't want for an explanation or an apology. He just wanted to embrace it. Appreciate it. Becasse one thing he never did before was truly appreciate Sherlock's presence.
He tried desperately to calm his breathing, get his heart rate down. His head was spinning, his vision blurring but the more he tried to calm down, the more anxious he got until his gasps of breath turned into full fledged sobs. The tears started before he could even think about stopping them and he didn't have enough strength left to try and fight it. Sherlock took him even tighter into his chest, pulling John so that he was practically sitting in his lap, he wrapped his arms around him, rocking him back and forth slowly. And it hurt him, God did it hurt him, to see John like this. His John, his army doctor, his soldier, usually so strong, so unbreakable. And to see him reduced to broken sobs and gasping breaths was the worst thing Sherlock ever experienced. And to know that he was the cause of that pain only made it so, so much worse.
Eventually, John's breathing calmed. His grip on Sherlock's shirt slackened and his sobs were reduced to tiny hiccups before they stopped completely, the only sound in the dimmed room being their uneven breathing and an occasional sniffle. Johns head was resting on Sherlock's shoulder now, his breath tickling his neck slightly whenever he exhaled.
"I'm sorry," John breathed, breaking the silence with his apology. Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows, wondering what on earth John had to apologize for.
"You've nothing to be sorry for," he replied just as quietly, unwilling to pierce the calm atmosphere with loud tones. He shifted John in his arms and pulled away from him slightly, grasping either side of the doctor's face with his hands. He looked into John's face, tired and still broken, his eyes still haunted by the ghosts that plagued his dreams.
Using the pad of his thumbs, he traced the drying streaks the tears had left in their wake, still searching John's features for some kind of explanation before being forced to come to the conclusion that there wasn't any. "If anything," Sherlock whispered, his breath ghosting over John's lips, "it should be me doing the apologizing. I'm the one who is causing these dreams, John... these nightmares. You have no idea how much it pains me to see you go through this and I am so, so sorry that you ever had to in the first place."
John started shaking his head at Sherlock's words. No, he wanted to say it's not your fault; please don't blame yourself. I'm okay, really I am. They're just dreams. You're here now and that's all that matters. Stop this.
But those weren't the words that left his lips. Those weren't the words that came next, spoken in his quiet, slightly hoarse voice. "I just... God, I don't know, Sherlock. It's just... three years. Three years of hurt and thinking you were gone and now... I just can't get used to it. I can't get used to being in your arms and waking up next to you and... it's just all so surreal. Part of me expects to wake up one morning with you gone, and this all having been a dream and I know that it seems stupid but I-"
John's rant was silenced as Sherlock caught his lips in a soft, sensual kiss. Taking them both by surprise. He tried his best to put all the words he couldn't speak into the action. Their lips moved together slowly, there was no rush to finish. Neither of them were going anywhere. Not now, not any time soon. And he needed John to know that. Needed him to be sure of it so they could both stop all of this hurting and uncertainty.
He pulled away reluctantly, opening his eyes to look deeply into those of his newfound lover, searching for a reaction. They were glistening with the tears he had yet to shed with just the slight air of both worry and hope behind them. But not surprise. No, John wasn't surprised. Sherlock stayed like that for a few moments, hands cupping John's face lightly as he continued to stare into his eyes, searching and deducing but most importantly, memorizing.
Because he needed to memorize John. To remember everything about him. To etch every line, every curve, every shadow on his face into his mind and never let it get away. He never did that before; never truly looked at John. He only ever saw what was on the surface, what he deduced. But he wasn't deducing anything this time. He was just looking. Staring into the dark eyes of the man he had missed in the past three years.
And, God, had he missed him. He would never be able to explain why he had stayed away for so long. Three years was definitely the longest he would ever be away from John again because after everything they'd both been through the past few years, there was no way he was going to put them through it again.
Allowing his forehead to fall against John's, Sherlock let his hands slide up John's face, through his hair and down his neck before bringing them to a stop against John's chest. Through the thin layer of clothes beneath his fingers, he could feel the strong, rapid heartbeat of the doctor. His doctor. John mirrored his movements, his own hand resting lightly against Sherlock's heart.
"It's really you then?" John asked, uncertain and a bit hesitant. Sherlock chuckled a bit to himself before nodding slightly. John's eyes scanned his features, searching, looking, remembering. The next words left his lips before he could even think about them "But... how?" He wasn't exactly sure if he really wanted an answer. At least... Not yet.
This time Sherlock shook his head, almost sadly. "Let's not talk about that."
John couldn't help himself this time. He needed some type of answer. "Why'd you do it?" He needed to know. He could live without the 'how' for now; he could survive not knowing the details and the logistics of it all but he needed to know why. He had to have a reason. Even if it was something stupid. Even if there really wasn't any at all. He needed to know.
"It was the only way to protect you. John I am so sorry for everything I've done; all the pain I've caused you but believe me when I say if there had been any other way for me to-" It was Sherlock who was silenced with a kiss this time. He tensed at first, the contact unexpected and slightly alarming, but he recovered quickly and returned the action, smiling against John's lips as he did so.
"Has anyone ever told you you're an idiot?" John said, as he pulled away from Sherlock, laying back down beneath the blankets.
"Hmmm... I don't think so, no." the detective replied, copying John until they were both laying next to each other, legs and chests and arms touching with barely a hair of space between them.
And they just layed there- sea-green eyes staring into dark brown ones, a pile of limbs and hair clothes. Neither one moving and neither one daring to look away. They exchanged a few more small, simple kisses here and there, whispered about meaningless things and just stayed there. Together. Their eyelids became heavier and heavier, and as the dim morning sun started to peak through the curtains, they began to close.
But that was okay, because both of them would be there later when they opened again. And everyday after that. There would be endless days, weeks, months, years of waking up next to each other and that was all John could ever want. All he could ever need to be happy.
Three years later, and John Watson finally felt whole.
This gave me a lot more trouble than I care to admit considering it's so short, so reviews would be lovely and plus they make me smile (: