So, today I have already given you a short, kind of cute, kind of happy little experiment. After posting it, I promptly slapped myself and screamed "What the hell am I doing, giving them happy stuff?". Then I had a discussion with a friend (she knows who she is. HELLO) and she encouraged me to write a reunion between Sherlock and John after the season 2 finale. I decided to say 'yes' and jumped on the bittersweet reunion bandwagon.
So here you are, a short(ish) depressing experiment. I hope you enjoy and I've also written this while hyped up on Pepsi Max, so please forgive any mistake/downright terrible writing. It's not proofread by me or beta'd out of sheer laziness.
Also, I love you all. Just thought I'd say that :D
If you can also pick out a Max Payne reference you get extra love from me.
There's a moment where John Watson thinks he's dreaming. He thinks he's still curled up, alone and cold in the double bed once shared between lovers. His swears for a few seconds his movements are sluggish and heavy, like he's underwater, trying but failing to kick up to the surface. To reality. That's the power the human mind had over people like him. The slow minded, child like people. Reality was all to easy to confuse with dreams.
When he sees Sherlock, that's when he thinks he's dreaming.
He has good reason to think so. For the past eight months, he'd been seeing the world's only consulting detective all around the place. In the crowded noisy high street, at work in the cluttered corner of his private office, even in his, in their bedroom. For a while he's convinced he's actually there, but when the tears gather in his eyes and blur his vision, Sherlock is gone. On the plus side, he doesn't have his nightmares of war. Unfortunately, they have been replaced by realistic, so clear memories of the sight of Sherlock's silhouette against the sky, a trembling arm reaching out as if to touch his, the sound of Sherlock's broken, desperate voice, and the fall.
The fall isn't the clearest memory, though. It's second only to the river of blood trickling down the cold, wet pavement, dripping into the gutter and down the drains, mixing with the bile of the city. Becoming one with it. The blood is rose red, bright and contrasting against the grey floor and the dark colours of Sherlock's coat and hair. He only manages to remember the look of Sherlock's beautiful face, so pale and corpselike, with his once soft hair matted with blood. He wonders if he reached out to touch him, would he be cold? He reached out to do so, mirroring Sherlock's previous movements, but he is so cruelly snatched away by the civilians who have come to gather and gawk at his friend's bleeding, shattered body.
That distinct memory is what kept him up at night, and haunted and plagued his uneasy sleep.
So he did have a good reason to believe the man standing before him, right now, was simply a dream. A hallucination, perhaps. Either way, he isn't really there.
The fake Sherlock is standing there, dressed in his usual woollen trench coat, looking so incredibly nervous. This only adds to John's disbelief. Sherlock was never, ever nervous. He was confident, and he didn't give a damn about anything. He would never have stood there, shock still, not moving a muscle or even looking at his ex lover. His real Sherlock would have strolled in, a half smile on his lips, and taken his hand, pulling him out the door to a old but familiar world of adventure and mystery. Ever secretive and all knowing, he would never tell the doctor just why he told him he was a fake, and just where he went.
Not-Sherlock turns his head back to the door- his movements are fast, jolting, panicked. John wonders if he's been spooked, or is maybe changing his mind and about to flee. But he stays, and the Not-Sherlock released a long breath, as if he had been holding it ever since the fall. That's what John called it, whenever he could bear to talk about it. Whenever Mrs Hudson or Ella, his ever persistent therapist tried to coax him into sharing his pain. He never called it Sherlock's death, jump or suicide. Always the fall.
He notes that Not-Sherlock's eyes are still cold, just like they used to be. John takes comfort in this.
He looks back, and locks those iron coloured eyes onto John's now equally as cold blue. There's a long moment of silence in which they simply stare.
Then Sherlock's pale lips part, and then they close. He looks deep in thought, calculating and preplanning his words. He opens and closes his mouth repeatedly, rhythmically. He looks lost for words.
He eventually speaks, and his voice is gloriously deep and worn. John doesn't know what he expected it to be like, but he knows nothing. His life was full of 'I don't knows' and 'I'm not sure.' He speaks John's name, and it's beautiful. He relishes the sound and wants to let it soak into him and warm him. He almost closes his eyes, but he doesn't. He doesn't want to open them again and be alone.
"John." He says again.
John blinks- and he's suddenly aware that there are long arms wrapped around his waist, either embracing him, or keeping him upright. His chin is tucked into the crook of a neck, and all he can see is curls of charcoal black hair. He realises that somehow, Not-Sherlock has moved across the room in the time it took for him to blink and has drawn him into a warm, comforting embrace.
At that point, John realises he is not dreaming.
He realises when he feels the sheer heat emitting from the man, and the powerful force he is being held with. Leather clad hands are clenching down in him, gripping tight like a child would to a favoured teddy. He realises that his lover is alive, and he knows that if he placed a finger to his throat, or placed an ear to his chest, or laid his tongue against his pulse point, he would hear the dull thud of a heartbeat suffocated underneath his clothing, or feel or taste the beat and rush of hot blood.
He feels his breath quicken, and his entire body quiver. He grasps blindly with his hands, not caring what he grabbed. He probably looks a sight, shaking and panicked, with dilated and frantic eyes.
"Sherlock," He says, and the name slips surprisingly easy from his mouth. It was stupidly awkward between them, in a way. Dreams were easy. Reality was daunting. All either of the two could say was names, and for many minutes, that was all they said. Other lovers would have held each other lightly, comfortingly, whispering sweetness into each others ears. It wouldn't have mattered what they said. As long as the voices were soft and familiar, it was all okay.
Minutes after their voices are nearly worn after saying nothing but their names, John speaks again.
"I-I," His voice is broken with months old, but still fresh grief. "I told them."
Sherlock shuts his eyes at the sound of his lovers bared, genuine agony. Guilt ebbs through him, and he wonders how he will deal with revealing his lies and his survival to his other friends. But now, he holds his doctor tighter and enjoys the feel of holding him in his arms.
"I know." He whispers. He feels a shuddering breath against his shoulder, and the terrible regret and remorse builds. He dares to tilt his head and to press a brief kiss to John's hair. He feels he had no right to kiss, or even be hugging him- but he justifies it using the knowledge that John was broken, and only he could fix what damage he himself had caused.
They stand that way, for God only knows how long. And eventually, John's breath evens out slowly. Sherlock in return rocks him gently, like a anguished newborn. His hand caresses his short hair, and the touch burns a gaping hole in John's soul. The doctor ignored it, far to absorbed in his alive and not a dream lover to give a fuck.
Then there's a gasp, a sudden inhale of air and a shrill squeak. Sherlock jolts, and turns to stare, his eyes wild, and his black pupils feline slits. His body tenses, ready for anything. His grip on John tightens to the point of being painful, but he does not know if his lover makes a sound of complaint. If he did, the detective was too preoccupied, to panicked to register it. He was ready for anything- to run, to fight, to defend-
Mrs Hudson, presumably having hobbled up the stairs to inquire about the wide open door, is standing there, her eyes enormous and her mouth wide open in incomprehensible shock and alarm. She is leaning against the wall, a hand covering her mouth, a typical show of surprise. She looks older than Sherlock remembered. It looked like the eight months he had been gone had aged her more that the rest of her life. Her eyes were not warm and full of gentle humour and kindness like they once were. They were weary and tired looking. She was pale, just like John.
"I- I….!" Her voice is like a mouse's, tiny and high pitched. He winces a little. She is staggered, and he leans against the wall for dear life. "S-Sherlock….?"
The world's only consulting detective gives only a brief nod, and does not smile. She mouths something, unknown and her hand raises to grip at her necklace, large irregular chunks of purple stone. Her tight grasp makes her knuckles go white. Her eyes flicker between him and John, who is still either unaware of, or ignoring her presence. She looks fearful, all of a sudden.
"Is he…?" Once again she does not finish her sentence. Sherlock would normally be irritated, but this was not the time. He nods again.
"He's…fine." He may of lied, but doesn't admit it. He tears his gaze away from his old landlady, and friend. His arms shift, balancing his lover oh so carefully in his arms as he takes in the sight of his lover. He dimly hears Mrs Hudson shuffling around in the background, muttering something to herself. She appears beside him, at his elbow, frowning in concentration. He pays no attention to her, only having eyes for John.
Before he could stop himself, he speaks.
"John, I love you."
He hopes for a while, as he carefully carries his lover to their old bedroom (it's in a state. It is dusty and dirty, almost inhabitable for a human being. Random articles of clothing littered the floor. The curtains were drawn tightly shut and looked like they hadn't been touched in a very long time. He dimly, half humorously though that if John had given up on the place there was truly no saving it. He tried to stop comparing the room to Sherlock himself.) with their landlady's assistance, that John hadn't of heard him. But, as the younger man tucks his lover in, he sees a small smile on his face, and hears a low, hoarse but happy murmur; "I love you too."
END