Title: A Year Gone
Notes: I will probably be posting about once a week at best. And a giant thank you to my editor, the lovely, SnowCrazy15. This would not make much sense without you!
Spoilers/Warnings: Post-Reichenbach! That is all.
Summary: John has been moping around 221B Baker Street like a lost puppy. He has gotten over Sherlock and is just starting to make a life for himself. Going on a date was step one.
John awoke in the middle of the night, like he usually did, in a sweat. Memories of the war still haunted him, even though three years had passed. The bullets whizzing by his head, the threat of being ambushed at every turn and the possibility of dying at any moment tormented his dreams. Being shot at was one thing but having to relive the moment over and over again was just too much. Having to re-experience the moments as his comrades were shot at, blown up and then, as they lay dying on the ground, calling out for help… it was too much. But now…
Now his nightmares revolved around Sherlock jumping off the roof of St Bart's. His long coat flowing behind him as he fell to the ground with and landed with a crash, and how John watched, unable to move. It tormented him: his inability to react, to convince Sherlock not to jump. There were so many things he had wanted to tell Sherlock and now couldn't. No matter how much he tried, he couldn't get the man's final words out of his head.
"This phone call," Sherlock had said. "It's… it's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note." And then he spoke again, but John didn't realise that it would be the last time Sherlock would ever say his name. "Goodbye, John."
John knew Sherlock had been crying even from their brief – if strange – phone call. And John was crying because Sherlock Holmes was his best friend – his only friend. He was a great man and nothing and no one would ever convince him any different. He stood by whilst his best friend jumped off the roof, coat billowing behind him. John had stood, paralysed, so unlike someone who had lived through a war. But it was Sherlock, the man who knew everything about anyone the moment he laid eyes on them, not some bloke whose job it was to shoot people. They had been through so much and said so little. The latter bothered John even now as he sat up in bed, like he had done every night before meeting Sherlock, and waited for the sun to rise.
His breathing slowed once he sat up, his nightmare still present in the forefront of his mind but not as dominating as before. He could still see Sherlock's coat, his curly hair flowing in the wind, his flailing arms and the thump as he landed on the cold, hard ground. Those images never left John, no matter how drunk he got. He was haunted by much more than the fall. There were many things that he had not been able to tell his flatmate, unspoken words just out of his reach, at the tip of his tongue, that were never said. Sherlock wasn't one for sentiment, John knew, and would have dismissed his feelings immediately. Hell, he didn't even know what he felt for the man. He thought any emotions would have changed by now. But to his surprise, whatever he felt hadn't waned.
