I actually wrote this little one-shot about a year ago, but only just now got around to finishing up the edits and making it presentable. Whoops. My third Johnlock fic, I hope that you all enjoy it! And please, drop me a review if you do and let me know how I'm doing!
As always, the Sherlock character's do not belong to me, though I do own a Sherlock trench coat. The original characters are Arthur Conan Doyle's, and the gorgeous, heart-wrenching renditions of BBC's Sherlock belong to that evil son of a gun, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.
Warning: This fic highlights a M/M pairing (John and Sherlock). If Sherlock slash is not your thing, I do not recommend you continue reading this story.
Sherlock had run off somewhere again, going on about the dead man's right pant leg and fishing hooks of all things, leaving a very confused John and Lestrade behind to ponder what in the world these two things could possibly have to do with the case at hand. But gone Sherlock was with John left on the sideline again for no less than the tenth time since Sherlock had returned. Actually, eleven times if you counted the spectacular explosion of whatever the hell Sherlock had stuck in their microwave last week. That was more Sherlock running from John to avoid getting in trouble than leaving him behind, but really, who's counting?
John sighed. Obviously, those three years that Sherlock had been gone had done nothing to increase his awareness of his partner when the game was afoot. No, that's probably not right. In fact, Sherlock had probably become more aware than ever of his partner in crime-solving—aware that John would follow him anywhere, always.
Which meant that he didn't have to pay any mind to the possibility of hurting John's feelings or perhaps pissing him off by leaving him behind for the umpteenth time. Great.
Sharp clacks suddenly sounded against the pavement, a second and a half apart each, and coming towards John a few paces from his turned back. Heels. Each clack was strong and resounding, but the sound quickly faded after each hit against the pavement, like the snap of a finger, so it was a woman of strong, but compact build. Strong and compact…and a whiff of men's cologne? Wasn't that the same type of cologne that Anderson was wear- Ah. Sally.
"Yes, Sgt. Donovan?" John asked mildly, turning to face Sally before she could announce her presence.
"Oh God, not you too. E's rubbing off on you, I knew it would 'appen," Sally moaned.
John allowed himself a small self-satisfied smile.
Unlike what most people thought, John had not been idle in the years following Sherlock's "death". The grief of losing his best friend had been nearly enough to cripple John permanently, but he had held onto the last ounce of strength within him and had carried on with his life. The coping mechanism John had used to keep getting through each day had in fact been the only thing Sherlock had left behind for him—his "science of deduction". After Sherlock was gone, John had tried to put into practice more than ever the man's technique of observing. He had practiced it with his friends, on Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade whenever they came up to the flat to check on him, on the people passing through Baker Street, on his patients at the clinic, even on Mycroft once or twice a few months after St. Bart's, when John had forgiven him enough to at least stand his presence. He would deduct their lives, the motivations behind their actions, and sometimes, if he had way too much time on his hands, what they had eaten for breakfast that morning. (The first time John had attempted this and actually gotten it right, he had had to smile, recalling the time Sherlock had elaborated on the disappointing qualities of breakfasts on trains to Henry during the Baskerville case.) Eventually, he even started reading into his own actions and thoughts, though he tried to avoid this if at all possible, because the revelations his deductions brought were never flattering. John had vastly improved over those long three years—it was his way of keeping Sherlock alive, at least in memory. At the time, he had thought Sherlock would have been proud if he could have been around to see John's progress. At times, this fact was all that kept him sane.
John pulled out of his reverie in time to see Sgt. Donovan, a none too happy looking Sgt. Donovan, stop a few feet away from him, arms crossed and not giving any signs of moving. John gave a long suffering sigh, wiping a hand down his face and groaning. Sherlock was long gone, and yet the scowl—that scowl, the one known as the "Sherlock's been a pissy git" scowl, was still stretching across Sgt. Donovan's face. John was very familiar with that scowl. Practically everybody who had ever met his flat mate, himself included, had worn that scowl many times before. Sherlock, what did you say now?
"Look, Sally, I know this is about Sherlock and I apologize for him. He's gone and said something out of line again, and I'm sorry. He still doesn't seem to grasp the idea of 'a bit not good', no matter how frequently I find myself repeating it," John sighed with some difficulty. John still had a hard time speaking cordially to Sally, both knowing that he had still not forgiven her or Anderson for their accusations towards Sherlock three years ago. They had both at least seemed to show some form of remorse when Sherlock returned, so John attempted to be polite the best he could. Someone had to make an effort to cover up for the fact that Sherlock still treated Sally cruelly with his taunts and general attitude that nobody's business wasn't his business as well. Anderson was still a git though, so his utter lack of sympathy for that man wouldn't ever change.
"If you want me to go yell at him for you, I will after this case. Just tell me what he said and I'll go thrash him over the head a few times…" Though John was pretty sure he could guess as to the subject of the jab; something to do with the fact that Sally and Anderson were still involved in a rather ill-fated love affair…
"Why did you take 'im back?" Sally suddenly interrupted.
That certainly derailed John's thought process. He scrambled to backtrack and reanalyze that last statement.
"I'm sorry, what?" he inquired, struggling with this sudden change of topic.
"I said, why did you take 'im back?"
At this, Sally stepped forward, bringing them almost nose to nose. John shuffled his feet awkwardly at the intrusion of his personal space but refusing to give any ground.
"Why continue to follow 'im around?" Sally pressed on. "After all that e's done, the danger e's put you in and will continue to as long as you stay with 'im. He won't change; both you and I know that. He gets off on this."
"Ah, yes, I seem to remember this. The 'run away as fast as you can' speech," John retorted, self restraint quickly fading away now as annoyance set in. "Thing is, the danger doesn't scare me. Never has, never will. And funny enough, I'm not dead yet, nor is anyone else by my flatmates' hand." An edge grew in John's voice with this last statement, an obvious jab at Sally's denouncement three years prior.
"So you can just pick up where you left off," Sally continued, completely ignoring everything John said. "E's a suicide for three years, then one day out of the blue, 'e just shows up alive and well, and you just let 'im in the front door, no questions asked."
At this, John's mouth set into a grim line and his eyes hardened as he stared straight forwards above Sally's head, avoiding eye contact.
"What is this about, Sally?" he said lowly.
Sally exhaled loudly and glanced down at her feet as if she was the one praying to be saved from morons, before once again brazenly meeting John's gaze.
"I've tried to figure you out, John Watson. You seem like a nice enough bloke. And yet I question your choice in flatmates," she stated without preamble. "And lovers." She added this last bit without an ounce of regret, practically a hiss coming from her lips. "When I said 'rubbing off', I meant it in both senses of the word."
"Alright Sally, now you are going too far," John replied angrily. "No matter how eccentric and insufferable Sherlock can be, whatever he said does not warrant this. Who I choose to befriend, or date, is none of your business."
"I just want a straight answer, John Watson," Sally said. "Why?"
That last word proved to be the straw that broke the camel's back.
"Why? You want to know why?" John exploded. "Fine. I'll tell you why. Because Sherlock is a genius. You lot like to scoff at him, call him psychotic, look down your noses at him as if you're better, but you aren't, you know you aren't, and you never will be."
Now, the roles were reversed, Sally hastily stepping a few feet backwards as John advanced on her, expression murderous.
"Sherlock sees things people could only imagine in their wildest dreams of seeing, and it's wonderful. Fantastic, extraordinary, brilliant." Another step. "Because underneath everything, Sherlock really cares about people, and cares about what they think of him. Because Sherlock has been looking for someone to just accept him, to listen to his deductions, to support him, to get him. Because Sherlock is a gorgeous human being, outside and in." This time Sally almost stumbled in her haste to escape John's wrath. "Because Sherlock saved me when I came home from the war, when I had no one; even though I was practically useless to him in the beginning, he still kept me around, made me feel as if I was contributing, making a difference. Without him, I wouldn't have stayed in London. I sure as hell never would have gotten over my limp. I would have suffered with that the rest of my life without him. I was unemployed, unstable, and broken, and he fixed me. Sherlock gave me my life back. So you want to know why I stick with him? Because Sherlock is a hero. And my best friend. Because I love Sherlock Holmes."
Finally, the rant wound down to its natural end, leaving only harsh breathing in its wake.
Minutes passed in agonizing silence while John attempted to compose himself, Sally too stunned to even attempt speech (a first really).
"It's never been the danger that scared you…" she said quietly, when it seemed that John was again mostly in control.
"No. Not the danger," John answered just as quietly, his voice becoming rougher with barely concealed emotion. "The only thing that has ever scared me is the thought of losing him." And if there was the slightest tremor in John's voice that he failed to hide, it only served to finally get through to Sally the true depth of what John had gone through those three years without Sherlock at his side.
Unbeknownst to John or Sally, Sherlock stood concealed nearby, having doubled back to make John hurry up a few minutes before but had paused and waited when he heard the start of John's outburst. Now that he had overheard the entirety of John's monologue, Sherlock quickly moved out of the shadows, and strode up behind John, so quick John had no warning except for the split second look he got at Sally's surprised face before Sherlock whirled John around and gave him the most intense, passionate kiss he had ever received in his life.
It was quite a few minutes and some major tongue and teeth action later before Sherlock released John's mouth back to his custody, the shorter man nothing short of dazed at the loss of contact. The sounds of Anderson gagging a few yards from them only just barely registered in their ears, as well as the sound of Lestrade shouting at both Anderson and Sally to quit slacking while they had a job to finish (Sally promptly shot him a death glare and he wisely backed the hell off), but at that moment, neither Sherlock or John could afford them any attention as they stood staring at one another, breaths coming out in uneven puffs from the mind-blowing kiss.
"Never, John," Sherlock said quietly, gazing straight into John's eyes and making him swallow loudly, flustered. "I would never leave you. Especially not after such an impressive speech."
"You heard all of that?" John asked in surprise, still somewhat dazed from being suddenly pounced upon.
"Obviously," Sherlock said dismissively, already back to his normal, apathetic self. "Now hurry up John. We don't have all night to make small talk. We've got an underground to catch."
"Wait. Hold on a second. What are you doing back here?" John demanded, mind finally caught up from the events of the past few minutes.
"A little slow on the uptake John. I've already found the underground's base of operations. Now all that's left is to round up the rest of the stragglers and clean up the mess Lestrade left for us. Good evening, Sally." Sherlock quipped, already dashing off again with the barest of acknowledgements towards Sally's presence. John could only shake his head and laugh, moving to follow after Sherlock a moment or two later after an impatient 'Come on John!' was tossed over the receding detective's shoulder. He didn't make it but a few steps before an "Oy!" was directed towards him, stopping and turning once more to face Sgt. Donovan.
"It seems I'll never understand you, John Watson," she said simply. John simply gave her a tight smile, more a grimace than anything else.
"No. I supposed you won't," he replied. "And I'll rub off on whoever I damn well please, 'kay?"
With this he turned and began to walk away. But once more he paused, turning to shoot one last look over his shoulder, this time a proper smile spread across his face.
"I did punch him first before I kissed him," he grinned.
"John!"
And as John and Sherlock ran off, Sally couldn't help but shake her head as well and let out a laugh, a smile ever so slightly turning up the corners of her lips.