Hello, you lot! I've been a fanfiction writer for a good few years now, but this is my firstSherlock fanfiction - the first of many, I'm sure, as I've recently found myeslf beyond obsessed with the program and I am overflowing with ideas that I am merely trying to find the time to write. So last night, I was ridiculously restless and after lying in bed for an hour I realised that this was not going to let me sleep unless I wrote it. I ended up posting it to Tumblr via my iPod at about one am, but now that I have access to my laptop I figured I best post it up here. It's just a little drabble, a headcannon of sorts that became a loud and insistant plot bunny, but here it is.


Heartbeat

When you lose someone you care about, time simultaneously seems to fly by, and stop. John made this discovery when Sherlock died. In a way, everything seemed to stop - the world stood still and everything lost its importance. But at the same time, everything continued even though John felt that it shouldn't have. The days became weeks, the weeks became months, and, slowly, the months became years. Bit by bit, John's life began to get better. Three years felt like an eternity and like no time at all, but it was long enough for him to accept that Sherlock was gone and, although he would miss him forever, he could still live.

And then Sherlock came back.

Coming to terms with the fact that Sherlock was, impossibly, alive and home was almost like coming to terms with the fact that he was gone. For the first few months after Sherlock's supposed death, there were several little habits that John couldn't get out of. He'd still end up making two cups of tea, and he wouldn't realise what he had done until, sometimes hours later, he'd see one full cup still sitting on the coffee table, long since gone cold. Then there'd be the times where he'd read the newspaper and find mentions of an unsolved case, and his first thought would be to tell Sherlock before reality hit and he reminded himself that Sherlock was dead. Having him home again was similar to that, only instead he'd be reminding himself that Sherlock was alive.

Even in the weeks after Sherlock's return, John's subconscious still struggled to accept the fact that Sherlock wasn't dead, and every now and again he'd find himself waking from the same memory of the fall, replayed over in his dreams. For several painful moments, he'd lie there in the belief that the fall had been real and Sherlock's return had been nothing more than a beautiful dream. Sometimes, he'd push himself out of bed and creep down the stairs; softly pushing open the door to Sherlock's room and looking over at his flatmate's sleeping form, reminding himself that he really was alive.

Sometimes, Sherlock would be awake when he came down; laying so still that you wouldn't notice that he was aware of everything. He could tell when John's nightmare had been more realistic or more vivid - something about the sound of his breathing would give it away, or the way John lingered in the doorway a little longer. On these nights, he'd make his alertness known.

"Nightmare?" he'd ask, and John would start slightly as his voice broke the silence, before murmuring a sound of affirmation or nodding his head. Sherlock would reach out a hand, motioning for John to come over, and when he did he'd gently grasp his wrist, guiding his hand over to the left side of his chest, where John would be able to feel the beating of his heart.

"That's not stopping any time soon," he'd murmur, placing his hand over John's. "I'm not leaving any time soon."

And even after his hand had left his flatmate's chest and he had returned to his own bed, the memory of a steady heartbeat beneath his palm would lull John back to sleep.