To See You Again

by ber1719

Sherlock could feel the hysteria building within him. He was too late. John would never make it through this.

"To See You Again"

A Sherlock One-Shot

John stared long and hard at his last text message before finally clicking the send button. He couldn't even see the words clearly through the tears welling up in his eyes. Furiously, he wiped away the moisture, chuckling bitterly at himself. At the mess that his life had become. He hated that he was still able to cry over Sherlock. He hated that the pain was still as raw as ever in his chest. In every inch of his body. It had been eating him alive for so long and he sought little comfort in the idea that it would be over soon. It was so hard to imagine, after all this time, that his pain would ever truly leave him.

These four years had been the hardest of his life. For the first few months, when he knew it was safe and decent he wept every night for his lost friend. He would huddle under the covers of Sherlock's sheets and he would pour his heart out onto the pillows. Tormented by the memories and the smell of his lost love in the fibers clutched tightly in his shaking hands. Some days, he would find the strength to leave his friend's bed to do the things that he needed to to keep himself alive. Though the motivation, the proper motivation, had always been gone. Other days (most days), he would call off sick from work and he would just lay amongst the cold sheets, wishing that Sherlock was there. Wishing that Sherlock would just barge through his bedroom door as if he'd never left.

But that miracle, John's most desperate wish, had never come true. And after a while, it had become unacceptable to Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade and Molly for him to spend his days holed up in Sherlock's room. After a while, everyone else had abandoned him in the dust while they moved on with their lives. Some deep part of him wanted them to see what was happening to him. Part of him wished that everyone would leave him alone. Always there was the wish that the man who had broken him would just come back to him.

The idea to kill himself hadn't come to him on the third anniversary of Sherlock's death. Or at least, he had only taken the time to truly consider it then. Before, it had been a dark and forbidden thought in the back of his mind. It constantly tormented him. The very idea that he had fallen so far had terrified him. The worst part was that he hadn't been keeping himself alive after that for himself. He had done it because of Molly, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and even Mycroft. He couldn't bear the thought of inflicting any more loss on any of them. So he had made his decision.

Discontinuing his texts to Sherlock's old number had been devastating. But he had hoped that it would make the whispers of suicide in his mind disappear. He had hoped that letting go of his last remaining line of contact with Sherlock would allow him to finally let his friend go.

It hadn't.

It had gotten worse. Everything had gotten worse. And he was tired of pretending that everything was going to be alright. He was tired of putting up a front to everyone he knew. He was just tired. So tired of living in a world without his best friend. No, not his best friend, the man that he'd fallen in love with. He had no idea when or how, but he had fallen in love with Sherlock Holmes. And when he'd jumped off St. Bart's, something within him had cracked. Broken irreparably. He hoped that, wherever Sherlock was, he understood why he had to do this. He hoped that Sherlock could forgive him when they were reunited again.

He hoped. For the first time in years, he had hope.

Sherlock had never felt so exhilarated in his life. He was home. 221B was only a block and a half away and he was going to see the man he loved again. He squeezed his eyes shut, his entire body one trembling mass of energy. He knew this was real, and yet he had never entertained the possibility that he would ever be going home so soon. He had never allowed himself the hope that he could. Yet here he was. Drawing closer with every second that trickled past.

"Excuse me?"

The cabbie's gruff voice shook him from his thoughts. Irritated, Sherlock turned his eyes coldly on the other man. He had the decency to don a look of embarrassment, but Sherlock knew that wouldn't stop him from asking. He was surprised he had refrained this long, honestly.

"Are you Sherlock Holmes?"

"What a brilliant deduction. Yes I am," Sherlock replied simply. He should have said no, but he was home now. It wouldn't be long before the vestiges of Moriarty's organization found out his whereabouts anyway. No point in prolonging the inevitable.

His heart jolted painfully when the cabbie pulled his car up to 221B. After all this time, at least nothing had changed about his home. It was still just as perfect as it had always been. And there were only a few layers of wall paper and cement and plaster between him and John. He couldn't believe how fast his pulse was racing. This wasn't normal, but then nothing about his and John's relationship had ever been normal.

Steeling himself for the multitude of reactions that his being here would incite in his best friend, he handed the driver too much money with shaking fingers and stepped out onto the street. His bag gripped tightly in his left hand, he strode toward the door and opened it without a moment's hesitation. The blast of air that hit him caused his already-pounding heart to contract in fear. Something was not right. Something was off. A terrible feeling settled in the pit of his stomach. A terrible, awful, sinking feeling that he was too late. Suddenly, he didn't want to go upstairs. He didn't want to see what could be waiting up there for him. He didn't want to know what he had done to the only person he had found it in himself to love.

But then perhaps he wasn't too late, perhaps he was simply letting his paranoia get the better of him. Either way, he shouldn't waste his time dawdling at the bottom of the stairs. He had to see him. Every fiber of his being was buzzing with anticipation as he bounded up the staircase and opened the front door. He tossed his bag on the sofa and took stock of the room. All of his things were still here. In just the place that he'd left them. Grinning, he turned then to his bedroom. A small part of him secretly wondered if John had moved into this room. He paused outside the door and could smell him more strongly here than in the other rooms of the flat. He resisted the urge to sigh in contentment at the idea of John sleeping in his bed.

His fingers clasped the door handle and twisted. The curtains were closed in here and he let his eyes adjust as he slowly edged into the room. Fear niggled again at his mind, but he chose to ignore it. Paranoia.

Until he saw the distinct outline of John's body on his duvet. An empty bottle of pills lying next to his outsretched arm. Suddenly, there was not enough air in the room. Suddenly, his chest was collapsing in shock and terror.

"John?" Sherlock cried, his first instinct to check to see if he was still conscious. He flew across the room and pressed his fingers to John's pulse. It was there, but it was slow. Slower than it should be. His heart, however, was racing in his chest. Pushing all of the air from his lungs. His vision was blurring with tears. Tears he had believed he had used up long ago. Holding back a sob, he tried to dig his mobile out of his pocket only to realize that he didn't have it. Of course! He'd left it in his haste to get back here. Shaking his head at his stupidity, he glanced around for John's phone. He saw the outline of it on the bed in front of him. Lunging for it, he made quick work of dialing the one person he knew could help him. Impatiently, he waited for Lestrade to answer.

"John? I haven't hear-,"

"It's Sherlock, Lestrade. John's taken a bottle of pills. He needs an ambulance!" Sherlock explained, his voice higher than usual. He could feel the hysteria building within him. He was too late. John would never make it through this. The last four years had been a waste. All of it had been a waste. And he only had himself to blame for the destruction of the beautiful, perfect man lying beneath him. Not wanting to hear Lestrade's voice anymore, he let John's mobile slip from his hand to the floor. It landed with a soft thud and he could vaguely hear Lestrade barking out orders to his team. God bless the man for not wasting time asking him where the Hell he had been all this time. It didn't matter now. At least, not when John was dying.

Sherlock leaned over John, his fingers cupping his friend's cheeks. He could see now that he was much thinner than he had been four years ago. He could finally see the consequences of his actions. It hurt. It hurt so much. And for the first time in Sherlock's life, he didn't have all the answers. All he could do was hope that he hadn't been too late to save John.

Soft voices surrounding him.

He could see a red light.

He could feel a hand clasped tightly around his own. He thought that he knew that touch. It was familiar. Achingly familiar.

But where was he? Why couldn't he open his eyes? Why was his body so still and so numb?

He squeezed his eyes, willing them to cooperate. He had to open them. He had to see.

Slowly, painfully, John opened his eyes. Bright light filled his vision. Searing pain throbbed behind his eyes, but he didn't care. Was it possible? Could he really be here?

He was aware that the soft voices in his dreams had disappeared. Everything was silent now, but he could feel the energy in the room. It was dark and he knew that he had just interrupted a very heated discussion. He didn't have cared less though. If who he thought was here was here...

John turned his head. Slowly. Gently toward the person who was still gripping his hand. He gasped aloud when he took in the sight of those familiar blue-green eyes. Those sharp cheekbones. The wildly curling brown hair. It hurt to look at him. It hurt so much. All he'd dreamed of over these past four years was sitting right beside him. And everything that he'd fought to keep hidden threatened to rise within his body and drown him. Betrayal, devastation, hope, happiness, sorrow. All of it. He didn't want the others to see him like this.

"Would you all please leave?" he muttered without taking his eyes off of Sherlock. Now that he had him again, he couldn't look away. He was too afraid that he would disappear again.

"John, I don't think-," Greg began hesitantly. John shook his head, knowing exactly what his friend was about to say. He could handle this. It was a lot to take in, but he could. He had to.

"It's fine. You can all stand right outside. I just need to be alone with him. Please." He didn't turn around to see the looks of doubt that they all shot the pair, but a moment later they left and closed the door to give them a small semblance of privacy. He knew they would be in here in a flash if they heard anything suspicious.

Without the noise and presence of the others, John could properly see Sherlock. He was still so beautiful. So perfect and he didn't think that anything had ever filled him with so many conflicting emotions before. Sherlock's eyes were bared completely to him. He looked every bit as tired and depressed as he felt. And even though he was angry with him, he was willing to bet that the past four years had been just as difficult on the man before him as they had been on himself.

The fight left him and he slumped heavily in the hospital bed.

"Sherlock, I..." he began but was interrupted immediately when Sherlock's hand reached out to cup his cheek. His breath halted in his chest and he looked up at his friend in complete and utter shock. What was going on? The look in his friends eyes terrified him but he knew what was coming. Or hoped he did.

He closed his eyes and his pulse raced beneath Sherlock's burning touch. After a tense, silent moment, John felt his friend's breath on his face. And then lips were moving against his. Soft. Gentle. Teasing. He gasped softly, his hands moving of their own accord up to Sherlock's hair. His fingers tangled in his hair, holding him in place for what felt like eternity. He knew that this was probably not the place nor the time for love, but he didn't care. His relationship with Sherlock Holmes had never been ordinary or decent, so why should they have started on the brink of a new chapter in their lives?

"John, I shouldn't have left and I know this is a bit late in coming, but I love you," Sherlock whispered when they had both found the will to pull away from each other.

John knew that the months to come would be difficult for both of them. He knew that it would take a long time to forgive Sherlock for what he had done to him and to himself. But he also knew that no matter how difficult it would be, he never wanted to be apart from this man again.

"I love you, Sherlock Holmes, but don't think for a moment that you're off the hook," John said, a playful glint in his eye as he stared up at the love of his life. The smirk that Sherlock sent him was enough to steal his breath away a second time.

"Wouldn't dream of it," he quipped before he leaned down to kiss John again.

So there it is. The last installment for this mini-series of sorts. You could check out my profile if you want to read the others. The first part was "Because I Love You." The second was "Won't Forget You" and the third was "I Can't Help But Follow You."

Writing this chapter, I know it reads a lot differently from the others, but I really hope you all like it anyway. I just love these two and I'm so happy to give them their happy ending. I mean, I contemplated having John die, but I just couldn't do it in the end.

Please review. I would LOVE to know what you all thought of this. I am so inspired by this fandom and I hope to post more Sherlock stories in the future. So thank you to everyone who has been so kind and so supportive of my additions to the fandom!

Much love. xoxoxo