CHAPTER ONE: Tired
(Thanks to you-make-me-beautiful)
John Watson is tired.
It has been three years since his best friend fell to his death from the roof of St. Bart's Hospital, and he is worn out from the effort it is taking to survive. He'd broken it off with Mary ages ago and now only had Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and Mycroft for regular company; that alone was enough to drive him out of his mind. SO, after a particularly trying day, John just gives up. He fills a new prescription for his anti-depressants and returns to 221B.
Mary had always asked why he didn't move away, get rid of everything and start again. John had always argued that it was "sentiment" which it was. Packing would really mean that Sherlock was gone, and as much as the doctor knew it in his head, he still wasn't ready or willing to accept it in his heart.
John fills a glass with water and sits on the sofa, pulling out his phone. Should he leave a note? Well, there is only one person he wants to tell, and he's dead. John types off a quick message and sends it, his last words to his old friend.
I can't do this anymore, Sherlock. It hurts too much. Goodbye. -JW
John opens the bottle and is about to take the first pill when his phone chimes. He freezes, his heart pounding very loudly all of a sudden. Then it chimes again. And again.
John, stop. -SH
You're not hallucinating. This is real. Now, please, just listen to me, all right? -SH
John, please. Please don't do this. -SH
John reads and rereads those three texts. This. Isn't. Possible.
What? No, this isn't possible.-JW
Yes, it is. -SH
Afghanistan or Iraq? -SH
John sighs when he sees that one. Anderson and Donovan must be having a right laugh, he thinks.
I blogged about that-JW
Vatican Cameos. -SH
John ducks instinctively at those two words, the day in Irene Adler's apartment flooding back. Only one person has ever said those words to him.
...Sherlock?-JW
Yes. I know I have a lot to explain to you. -SH
I just ducked, you son of a bitch-JW
"This is ridiculous. I'm texting a dead man," John says, then rereads "Sherlock's" text, suddenly angry.
EXPLAINING?-JW
You wanted proof, did you not? -SH
John is shaking. Can't be true, want it to be true, the two thoughts are playing tug of war with his brain and his heart.
You'd better have a really bloody good excuse for what you've done to me-JW
I was about to take my entire bottle of anti-depressants. I still might-JW
It is entirely possible that he's dreaming this and is long gone in a drug-induced stupor; it had happened before. His phone chimes.
It hasn't been a damn picnic for either of us, I assure you. -SH
"Oh, no of course not. I'm the great Sherlock Holmes, look how I've suffered," John mutters, anger rising in his chest again.
Oh, really. No picnic for you, huh?-JW
No, you're not going to do that. You're going to wait, and you may punch me in the face repeatedly if you like. -SH
I'm nearly at the flat. -SH
John stares at the phone for a moment, completely lost. Not going to do-oh, right, the pills. Hmmm, well, if it is Sherlock, maybe I'll scare him.
Really? I just might...-JW
Either punch you or take the pills-JW
Haven't decided yet-JW
There, John thinks. Let's see what he makes of that. He doesn't have to wait long.
I wouldn't appreciate it very much. If I've managed to stay away from the drugs for this long, you can wait to punch me a few minutes. -SH
John blinks repeatedly as he reads the last message. 'Sherlock' had almost gone back to the drugs? John almost really believes for a moment, retorting with:
Yeah, well, you'd want out if you've had to have dinner with Mycroft for three years straight because he doesn't trust you on your own with a knife and fork. -JW
He's terribly overbearing, isn't he? I'll make sure to speak with him at some point. He's not high up on my list of priorities at the moment, however. -SH
John rubs his eyes, tired again. Then he hears a noise.
Those aren't your feet on the stairs, are they?-JW
Yes, of course. -SH
Oh, of course.-JW
That was sarcasm, by the way.-JW
As an afterthought:
And the door's open. I don't bother shutting it anymore.-JW
"Really, I'd have expected you to lock up the place," remarks Sherlock, limping into the flat. He glances at John, feeling as if his heart were about to explode out of his chest.
The first thing John notices is the limp: right leg. His eyes travel slowly up the detective until they reach his face, not able to register the expression there. His hallucinations have never been this...well, real.
Sherlock says nothing for a few moments, because he isn't sure what there is to say. He walks over towards John, carefully snatching up the bottle of pills and slipping them into his coat pocket. "Now that that's taken care of, you don't have to worry about choosing any longer."
John stands slowly, the height difference the same as it ever was. He reaches up and touches Sherlock's face, fingers tracing over the detective's cheekbone. "Sherlock" he breathes. None of the visions were ever, ever solid. This is real. It has to be.
Sherlock can't help it: he smiles slightly, despite the circumstances. "I've missed you," he says in a quiet voice.
"Good." John draws his hand back and punches Sherlock right where his fingers had just rested. "THREE. SODDING. YEARS. YOU. ABSOLUTE. MORON!"
Sherlock staggers, nearly falling over. He glances up, looking John in the eye.
John pounces, not caring how hard they fell; he is on top of Sherlock, shaking the detective by his lapels. "DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOU DID TO ME? DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA? I'VE BEEN ON SUICIDE WATCH FOR PART OF THE LAST 3 YEARS BECAUSE I WANTED TO FOLLOW YOU. FOLLOW YOU, AND NOW YOU AREN'T EVEN DEAD?"
Sherlock remains silent which only infuriates John more.
"SAY SOMETHING!" John shouted, eyes burning with unshed tears. "DO SOMETHING or I swear I'll turn your face into a mask of bruises"
"I didn't have a choice, John," Sherlock finally says through gritted teeth. "I had to do it."
"No choice? You could have TOLD ME!"
"They would've killed you the same had you known any sooner than now. Even now, it's not completely safe but, again, I didn't exactly have a choice," Sherlock snaps acidly.
John freezes, still holding Sherlock by his lapels. "Killed me?"
"Yes. Had I not jumped, you would have been killed instantly, along with Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. The other two were forgotten about in the past three years, but not you. You would've been long dead."
John shakes his head, still pinning Sherlock to the floor. "Why me? I'm-I'm nobody. I'm not worth anything..."
Sherlock scoffs quietly. "You are to me, obviously."
"What am I worth to you?"
Sherlock looks evenly at John. "More than the cases, more than London, more than everything, actually. My heart, you know. He said he'd burn it out of me; he figured out how to do it quite nicely."
John stares into those blue eyes that haunted his dreams for three years. "I'm.../I'm/ your heart?"
"Yes," replies Sherlock simply, "you are."
John's heart is in his throat. He can feel his pulse everywhere and is sure Sherlock can feel it too.
"Now, unless you see it fit to punch me again, I think we could probably get off of the floor, and I could better explain things to you, if you'd like. Unless you want me to leave, in which case I will."
John shakes his head. "No to both," he whispers, leaning forward and kissing the detective
Sherlock tenses at first; the amount of physical contact he had had in the past three years had been next to none. Eventually, he relaxes, however, and finds himself quite shocked. "You...care?" questions Sherlock in surprise, seeming almost dazed.
"You ninny, of course I do. I wouldn't have wanted to kill myself if I didn't."
"Yes, don't try that ever again, all right?"
"If you promise to never leave."
"I won't," he assures him. "And if I do, you're coming with me."
The tears John has been holding back begin to fall as he kisses Sherlock again, pressing them both into the floor.
"John?" Sherlock asks, his voice quiet.
"Yes?"
"I...I love you."
John blinks slowly and then smiles. "I-I love you too. I've missed you so much. I want you so much. Sherlock..."
"I practiced saying that, you know," the detective remarks, a slight smile on his face. "I sounded like an idiot. Still think I do. I don't mind, though."
John chuckles at that. "Only you would practice those 3 words." He kisses the man again, smiling. "You don't sound like an idiot. I promise."
"I am sorry, you know," Sherlock says, the slightest hint of desperation in his voice. "I know...I know it was bad."
"I-I forgive you, Sherlock"
"You do? Honestly?" he asksd, eyebrows furrowed in concern.
John nods. "Explain later, and while I'm still angry, I trust you. I always have."
"Good. I'm glad you trusted me. I've always trusted you as well, although I hope that goes without saying," says Sherlock, carefully lifting himself off of the floor, wincing as he does so.
John helps Sherlock up, brow furrowing as he sees the pain on Sherlock's face. "Are you all right?"
"Fine, just got into a bit of trouble a few weeks ago. May need your doctorly help, if you would."
"Sure" John helps Sherlock over to the couch. "What happened?"
"Shot," says Sherlock dismissively.
"WHAT? Why didn't you get help?" John helps Sherlock to lie down on the couch before running to grab his travel medicine kit.
"If I did that, I'd risk being seen, which would have been as good as suicide for me, and murder for you. Too dangerous," calls Sherlock.
John rushes back in with his kit and clean towels. "Um, you'll need to take your trousers off."
Sherlock does so without a word. "Sebastian Moran, have you heard of him?" he questions as John takes out his supplies.
John shakes his head, placing one of the towels under Sherlock's leg where he can see the ugly, scabbing wound.
"He's the one Moriarty left in charge after he killed himself. Caught him around Baker Street a few weeks ago, which was when this happened," he says, cringing. "Only had one bullet in his gun, luckily."
"Yeah, luckily." John pulls on a pair of rubber gloves and picks up his scalpel. "Um, this is probably going to hurt."
"He's the only one left, though, so things are considerably safer than they've been for the past three years." Sherlock clenches his fists in anticipation.
"He's still out there? You mean he's probably watching us right now, don't you?" John rummages through the kit, finding his pack of alcohol swabs.
"Well, he could be dead for all I know. I shot at him as well, but he was gone when I woke up. Someone could've removed the body, but it's unlikely. Still, I was sure I'd gotten him at least once."
John nods, carefully cleaning the area. "Well, it isn't deep, so you're lucky there." He positions himself and slowly cuts open the scab to explore the wound. "Sorry, sorry," he mutters as Sherlock twitches, fingernails digging into the couch, clearly biting back a moan of pain.
"Fine," the detective mutters back in reply, his eyes stinging.
John works swiftly, easily finding the bullet. "It's fairly close to the surface," he says as he pulls it out with his tongs. "There." He drops it into one of Sherlock's old Petri dishes.
"Thank you," breathes Sherlock, watching John work. "I'd considered trying myself, but it was probably a good idea to wait."
"You're lucky you decided to return today. A few more days and you might have been limping the rest of your life." John cleans the wound as best he can and sutures it. "There." He bandages it tightly. "You'll need to change that every 12 hours for the next three days."
"Yes, all right, thank you," says Sherlock, grabbing his trousers and carefully putting them back on. John cleans up his materials, moving them to the kitchen and washing his hands while Sherlock resumes his place on the couch, questioning, "Now what?"
"Well..." John returns from the kitchen, sitting next to the detective. "I was actually quite enjoying kissing you before, but I think I just want to be close to you right now"
Sherlock smiles, but it fades quickly. "You're sure you're all right? You don't hate me?"
"I told you before, I forgive you and I trust you."
"I know. I was just expecting it to be more...difficult than that, I suppose."
"I punched you, tackled you to the floor, screamed at you, kissed you, cried on you, and then dug a bullet out of your leg. My emotions are exhausted to the point where I only want to focus on how I've always felt about you but took me until the day you jumped to realize." John pauses a moment to breathe. "I really do love you, Sherlock."
Sherlock chuckles quietly, his eyelids beginning to feel heavy. "I'm glad things worked out," he says sleepily, blinking rapidly, trying to keep himself awake.
John sighs, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's chest. 'When was the last time you slept?"
"Three days? Four?" He shrugs slightly. "I don't remember."
"Sleep. I'll stay with you. Promise."
"Okay," says Sherlock, and it's only a matter of seconds before he's asleep.
John Watson holds his friend, finally nodding off himself, his head resting over Sherlock's heart.