John Watson had been sat at the clinic for an extra three hours past closing time trying to get his thoughts back together. Sarah had walked in, knocking gently on the door and whispering in a soft voice something about the time, but John had simply smiled and nodded, hoping that it was an acceptable answer to whatever she had just said. She had left silently and John resumed sitting and staring at the computer screen, his eyes unseeing, tears threatening to fall as his eyes filled with bitter water. He bit his lip just in time to hold back a sob and his body shook. He ran his hands through his hair and rubbed at his eyes before regaining his composure and sighing deeply. He finally stood, groaning as his knees clicked and stretched after having been so still for so long. He grabbed his coat of the back of his chair and pulled it on, hugging as much heat into his body as possible. He walked out of the room, turning lights off and security on as he went. He finished locking up the front door to the clinic and sighed once more before walking out on to the street. He contemplated for a second about getting a taxi back to Baker Street, but changed his mind as the fresh air filled his lungs and cleared his head. He started walking a slow pace, arms still wrapped around his body in comfort.
John laughed bitterly at himself. He had never before really been conscious of anniversaries and specific dates where he had met someone, but right now he couldn't get one date out of his head. It had been haunting him for three years now, always at the back of his head, niggling at his brain and freezing up his heart. He clutched his arms tighter once more and tried to think of other things. But that date wouldn't leave him alone. It was literally everywhere he went, on the top of the newspapers on the stalls he passed. 15th January 2015. He regretted not taking the cab now. He picked his pace up a bit as he walked through the town, avoiding any reminders as much as possible.
As he finally turned the corner onto Baker Street he stopped cold. His heart was flailing madly and he slumped up against a building as his knees started to give. He gasped in the cold air and shut his eyes. He shuddered at the thought of going into Baker Street and still being alone. The once so lively flat just a reminder of his past years of pain. He thought about doing something for this particular anniversary, just this once. He needed to stop this empty feeling in his heart, at least just for the night. He stood up quickly as his breathing evened out and turned back the direction he came.
John walked quickly through the busy streets of London. Rain started splashing on his face but he just walked quicker, setting out an even pace. He pushed through crowds of people silently, his agitation to go to where it all started overtaking his need to be polite. As the people thinned out around him broke into a run through the town. He wiped at his eyes as the rain fell quicker and gasped in breaths. He hadn't run like this in three years, and it felt amazing.
John stopped as quickly as he had started and froze into place, his feet planting stubbornly on the ground. People muttered and sighed as they walked around him. John looked up and the tall building he had ran to. Its dark brick walls seemed menacing, a threat. He drew in a shaky breath closed his eyes. He tried to relive that night. Maybe just thinking about it after all this time was what he needed. He pushed against the mental block he had created three years ago and struggled against it. He knew it would hurt, thinking about it. But he wanted to. He stood in the rain like that for an hour, still trying to think.
He jumped as a cool hand touched his back. As he went to turn around he heard a voice that would've sent him to the floor, had the quick hands not reached out for him. "Hello, John." Had been whispered in his ears. It sounded so thick, so deep and filled with many emotions but none of them breaking through. It brought him back three years ago. His body slumped further into the hands as he was half picked up and half dragged to a bench. He greeted the wet wooden seat and sat down on it gratefully. He shut his eyes before he could see the man that belongs to such a voice and hands.
"John" the same voice rang out. " John you are not going mad"
John shut his eyes tighter and once again brought him arms up to around his chest, the cold from the rain suddenly hitting him. He felt the man sit down on the bench and move right up next to him. His right side now touched the man's left and he could feel the heat radiating into him. The man shuffled and then John felt something warm, like a blanket, being put over his shoulders. He pulled at it gratefully before stopping. He stood up with a jolt and threw the material back at the man, his eyes still clamped shut. He had felt the same material when he had clutched at it three years ago, as he clung to the unmoving body of his best friend. He had cried so much that night.
"John, please, open your eyes. I'm not dead" The voice rumbled once more. John cried out in frustration.
"yes you are! Yes you are you bloody selfish bastard. You died. You didn't wait for me and you fell and i had held your dead body until people had had to pull me off. I was too late. I was too late and because of that you died!" John screamed the last two words before once more collapsing into the hands of the man.
Johns eyes flicked open slowly, wincing at the bright light seeping in through the curtains. He shifted in his bed before sitting up to stretch. After rubbing at his eyes he looked around the room. He was back in 221B. His mind whirled at the events of last night but he couldn't really even remember leaving the clinic.
He started climbing out of bed when he heard a crash from the kitchen. John froze in panic. He listened out for more noise, but quickly got up and out of his room as he heard no more. He crept to the kitchen door and looked in. He could see smoke billowing out of the room and he held back a cough as it got down into his lungs. He peered through the smoke until he could see a silhouette of a man in the corner of the kitchen. He got down onto the ground and sprung at the man, bringing him crashing to the floor, with john on top of him. he heard a yelp of surprise and a moan as the man's head hit the hard floor. John straddled the man, twisting one of his arms back into a painful position. The man yelped out in pain.
"What are you doing in my flat?" he snarled. He twisted at the arm as no reply was given but the man no longer made a noise. John let go of the man suddenly. He reached out and retracted his hand as he felt something warm and slick cover his fingers. He looked down at them and saw blood. " oh for gods sake.. " he sighed before bending down to pick up the man. He clutched at him and pulled him into his arms, groaning at the weight before plodding into the living room. He now coughed at the smoke and was relived as he finally walked into the clear living room. he looked down at the man in his arms before gasping with a mixture of shock, horror, amazement and pure disbelief. He could feel his legs go weak and his eyes start to fill so he quickly placed the man on the sofa before sitting in his chair, his eyes glazing over. It wasn't even possible. How could someone look so remarkably similar? he let the tears fall from his eyes freely, and he closed them.
He heard a quiet groan a few minutes later. He wiped at his tears and again turned to the man that lay on the sofa. Suddenly images of the night before flooded back to his mind and he gasped in realization. The man was now sitting up and staring intently into John's eyes. John had thought he would never see eyes so perfect ever again, not since he had cried into them three years ago. His mind shut off as the man started talking. He didn't listen to what he was saying but instead thoroughly inspected the tall man. The skin was still just as pale, the hair just as dark. He couldn't believe that he was really here.
" Sherlock? " he asked tenderly, getting up and kneeling at the sofa, his arm reaching out to brush a curl soaked in blood away from his face. The deep grey eyes flew up to his. John stared into them, he could see the pain, the sorrow. John leapt up from where he was sat and wrapped his arms around him, lifting him up from the seat, pulling him in close. He could hear a muffled groan in pain and he loosened his grip slightly, before nestling his face into a lean, pale neck, breathing in the smell of Sherlock, of London, of years of struggling. They stood like that until John could feel Sherlock's body slump in his arms, and John remembered the head wound he had inflicted.
" Oh, gosh, Sherlock, I'm sorry. Sit back down and I'll get the first aid kid" He mumbled, before releasing Sherlock from his grip completely. Sherlock muttered and slopped down onto the sofa, bringing his legs up and wrapping his arms around them. John looked down at the thinned out version of his brilliant friend and felt a tight knot deep in his stomach. He muttered a few more apologies as he went into the kitchen and grabbed the first aid kit. He walked back into the living room and blew the dust of the bag, he hadn't needed to use it for 3 whole years. He rummaged through the bag, looking for the apparatus he needed to clean the wound to Sherlock's forehead. He looked again up at the man who was now curled up even tighter, shivering and his eyes fluttering closed.
"Shit Sherlock, are you feeling okay?" He asked hurriedly, getting up from the floor to grab the blanket over the back of the sofa and wrapping it around the shivering form. "Do you feel sick, nauseous at all?" He questioned as he soaked a towel in the warm bowl of water he collected from the kitchen. He pressed the material to Sherlock's head, cleaning the wound and the blood off of his face. He looked expectantly down at Sherlock, willing him to speak. Sherlock's eyes just fluttered some more before finally closing, his body slumping down into the seat.
"Shit! Sherlock! Wake up!" John panicked, dropping the towel and grabbing Sherlock by the shoulders, which stuck out boney and sharp. He shook until he could see a flicker from Sherlock's eyes and he stopped, talking into Sherlock's ear.
"Listen to my voice, I think you have concussion, I'm so sorry. You need to stay awake, it's important that you do, okay? " John carried on whispering to Sherlock, making sure his eyes stayed open. Sherlock could only blink up at John, willing himself to stay awake. He started shivering again, but not because he was cold. He opened mouth to tell John what he needed, but only a faint groan came out, causing John to panic a bit more. Instead, he looked at John before raising up his arm and drawing back his sleeve. He looked down at his arm and saw Johns eyes follow, staring intently at the small puncture wounds in his elbow. John looked back up at Sherlock, his eyes deep with pain.
" You're having withdrawal symptoms. Shit. Do you have any drugs on you? "John begged down at Sherlock. Normally he wouldn't condone such actions, but Sherlock was far too weak to be fighting of this as well. He watched as Sherlock reached gingerly into his coat pocket and pulled out a needle, his hand shaking at the effort. John took the needle and gulped as he tore it out of its sterile casing.
"Just this once Sherlock, just because of your concussion. Then you are going to get help, okay? " He said this without looking at Sherlock's eyes, keeping his mind set on pushing the needle into the porcelain skin, wincing along with Sherlock and sighing as Sherlock shuddered and moaned softly as he felt it hit his blood stream. As glad as John was that he had been suffering along with him, he hated seeing Sherlock so vulnerable and exposed. So.. not Sherlock. He carried on with the cleaning of the wound before sitting Sherlock up, and telling him to stay awake. Sherlock wasn't shaking any more, the drugs had stopped that. John sighed again as he looked into full blown pupils, and as a silly smile stretched across Sherlock's worn face.
"I'm going to get you some food, okay? " he whispered, knowing that any louder volume would affect Sherlock's headache. He stood up again to leave into the kitchen when Sherlock suddenly wrapped his boney long fingers around his wrist. John looked down at Sherlock confused. Sherlock stood up quickly, swaying on the spot slightly after. John gripped at him more tightly, still confused. Sherlock stood closer to him, brushing his body against Johns and John froze. Sherlock swept his eyes over his face before leaning in and brushing his lips gently against Johns. John could feel his brain exploding, sending waves of emotion through his body. He could feel the three years of mourning washing away as Sherlock pushed into the kiss more, John sliding his tongue out to brush along Sherlock's bottom lip, pushing his tongue and tasting Sherlock. He felt giddy with the sudden relief, could feel himself finally feel alive. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock, pulling him in closer still, reveling in the fire that he thought has long since been burnt out. He pulled back reluctantly as Sherlock slumped again in his arms, his eyes closed but his breathing leveled out as he fell asleep. John lowered him back onto the sofa, again wrapping him in the blanket. He caressed Sherlock's face once more before curling up in his chair, watching Sherlock until he too fell asleep, exhausted from the sudden waves of emotion he had felt after years of feeling empty.