Author's Note: Because people requested more: here you have it. It looks like this might be a short multi-chapter after all.
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The key barely made it into the lock at 221b, not only because the light needed changed above the door but because I, John Watson, was too drunk to even remember my shoe size, let alone how to properly fit the key into the correct slot. I leaned heavily against the door as I attempted to allow myself into the apartments, hoping that some passerby did not think me a poor go at robbery. It was just when the lock gave way and the door swung open that I thought about the note I had once seen under the knocker that read: Robbery in progress, please interrupt and I wanted to laugh, but could only choke back a pitiful sort of sob at the recollection that those were the times when I could always come home to Sherlock. And now that Sherlock was not there, and had not been there for over three years, and would not ever be there for the rest of my life, I could barely keep my knees from giving way.
From my shaky, half-upright position, I closed the door softly so not to wake Ms. Hudson. Then I gripped the baluster railing and dragged myself up the seventeen and a half stairs to my flat. Singular my now that I had said my goodbyes and things were no longer ours because there was no one else with which I could share the things inside. Those were the things that comprised my life with Sherlock and that life was over. So the things from that life simply became mine instead of ours and just thinking about it took so much out of me that I hadn't realized I was standing in the kitchen like a ghost, staring at the kettle, until at least ten minutes had passed. I contemplated it and really, it was just an ordinary kettle, but it inspired the question loaded with doubt and three years of anguished waiting: to whom did it belong? Was it mine or Sherlock's? Because it had always been our kettle and had continued to be our kettle until now, in that moment, when I had to start making the executive decision to begin dividing things into neat little boxes with clear tags that read mine and his in bold letters, even though to do so crushed my heart.
I wanted to break the damned kettle to solve the entire problem.
But I didn't because more cutlery and flatware would follow and then everything else that I did not want to part from the collective ours category. Instead, I kept my fists at my sides until I could stop shaking and strangle the sound in my throat that was too soft and too broken to acknowledge with a name. Then I straightened my back and blinked my aching eyes, trying to ward off the impending headache I felt coming on from too much angst and alcohol. Autopilot commenced: fill the kettle with water, put on the stove, let boil. Pull down one cup, and only one, and then the tea and strainer. With one hand pressed against the counter for balance, I pinched the bridge of my nose and counted to ten in an attempt to ease off some of the pressure in my head, only made worse by the want to cry until there was nothing but hollowness in my entire body.
Because only when I was entirely empty of everything would I be able to move on completely.
However, I pushed back that desire-just a few minutes, hours more-and slid my arms out of my coat, turning towards the living room go hang it on the rack by the door. What I saw there standing in the kitchen doorway stopped me in my tracks immediately, my breath hitching, freezing somewhere in my chest where it solidified like ice and stone and memory.
"John."
The sound of that voice saying my name nearly made me come undone right there, but some stronger part of me held all the bits and pieces of myself together so that I could look, really look, at what stood before me.
Who stood before me.
"Sherlock..." I whispered the name so softly that I barely heard it over the pounding of my own heartbeat in my ears. It was Sherlock just as I remembered him: with all his extraordinary height and dark hair and the eyes that could see right through me, to my very core and deeper still. And then there were those damned cheekbones of his and the lips I wanted to know more about... combined with the sight of the mere tips of those alabaster fingers touching the edge of the kitchen island with the same amount of delicacy Sherlock put into his violin bow. There were all those things and so many more tiny details that I took in during that moment, but could barely comprehend. I was overwhelmed and drunk and had been in near-hysterics for the past few hours and had just been about ready to give up all hope of ever getting over this man. But suddenly there he was, standing in my kitchen because Sherlock was alive.
"You're-"
"Alive? Of course," Sherlock replied, scoffing softly in the manner he reserved for me and no one else. It was how he expressed his disapproval at my low level of intelligence with only a half-sort of meanness in it to make me not feel too badly in the face of his brilliance. I was not sure if I should have been angry or overjoyed, so I settled somewhere between shocked and confused instead. "Don't give me that look, John. You knew I wasn't really dead."
I always believed it and continued to believe Sherlock not to be dead, but I had my doubts about everything I had seen today: the Sherlock in the back of the cab, the Sherlock standing in my living room with his voice so achingly familiar that it hurt. Good things didn't happen like that and one-thousand little paper birds could not make magical wishes come true. It left me wondering if I was hallucinating or had passed out drunk at the bottom of the stairs like some kind of degenerate. Because even if I believed Sherlock to be alive, I believed him to have moved on by now. Sherlock became bored easily and did not return to things that no longer held interest for him. So there was no way that Sherlock Holmes himself was standing before me and talking like this: like three years and a few odd months had not happened at all.
"You're not hallucinating," Sherlock said, and gave me a look that meant he was entertained, but not laughing, not yet. It was the expression that made his mouth a little softer and the tightness around his eyes a little more relaxed and I had missed it so much that I wanted to cry. "A little inebriated, but nothing more."
"A little is the understatement of the century..." I muttered under my breath, passing a trembling hand over my face. My arm began shaking from the exertion of keeping myself upright against the table. When I could manage it, I looked up again to see Sherlock still standing there, considering me with that stare reserved for experiments and crime-scene investigating. Behind the gaze, there was something; it was some kind of emotion that I had never seen before and therefore could not read.
Putting both hands onto the table before me, I steadied myself by gripping the sides of the wood until it bit into my palms. Breathing out harshly, I began slowly:
"And you're-"
"Real? John, do you have to ask such questions?" Sherlock asked, and my chest constricted a bit at the familiarity of that phrase. At least Sherlock was not rolling his eyes at me, which gave me hope that he had at least some sense of a decent manner in which to act in this kind of situation. But with all his familiar lines and angles and those eyes, I was not convinced, and it took all my bravery and strength to walk towards Sherlock, to put my hand out with the goal of touching the other man's shoulder. I did not even realize I was holding my breath, as if releasing it would break the spell of this wonderful hallucination and leave me desperate and alone again.
My hand shook in midair, fingers pulling back just short of touching, hesitant and unsure because I didn't know if it was truly real or a sick joke my own mind decided to pull. Just a few centimetres from him, I stopped, caught up in my own fears-what if my hand went right through him and Sherlock disappeared forever? I could feel those eyes upon me, watching, studying my internal struggle with an intensity I seriously doubted my own mind could have produced.
So with something hot and burning in my throat, I closed the gap.
My fingertips met a solid shoulder, shrouded in familiar tweed. They did not pass through the body like I had feared, remaining pressed there and quivering with all kinds of questions. Where had Sherlock been? Why had he not called? Why had he come back after all this time? But I could not ask, not yet, and could only focus on my hand touching his shoulder. Sherlock was real and warm and breathing and alive and all I could think was by God if this is all a dream, don't wake me up.
"You...you really are..." I couldn't form the words as I placed my palm against Sherlock's shoulder, partially over his chest. Was that his heartbeat or was it mine, pulsing in my own hand? Shuddering with fear and desire and hope?
"Of course, John," Sherlock answered, as if discussing the weather or football and perhaps his expression would have been that usual one of perpetual boredom, but I couldn't lift my head to look even if I had wanted. The tone suddenly snapped me back into the shoes of John Watson from three and a half years ago, who had enough life in him to get angry and riled up over a few poorly chosen words. It was the old John that made my hand clench into a fist...
...and punch Sherlock Holmes in the face as hard as I possibly could.
It was before I could stop or try to convince myself that this was not a good reunion to be having with the man you loved, but then I realized that this was not a normal situation; normal people did not pretend to be dead for three years and then come back like no time had passed at all. So I didn't feel as guilty as I should have when my knuckles cracked against Sherlock's cheek and sent him reeling, staggering backwards from the force of the blow. I had no idea if he was shocked or pained or pleased or all of those things because my eyes were blurred by all the frustrated, angry tears I had been keeping inside: all the pain from three and a half years alone with desperate dwindling hopes for this man who didn't have the decency to tell me he was alive.
"Sherlock Holmes, you are...the most incorrigible...indecent...deplorable human being I have ever met," I said, enunciating each insult with a punch to Sherlock's chest, shoulder, arm or whatever else I could reach. My insults continued, though they weakened in impact and intensity as my physical strength began deserting me. The motions had burned out quickly on anger and were now weak attempts at the self-defense of my crumbling resolve to not take Sherlock back so easily. I wanted him to know that I was angry and that what he did to me was inexcusable and that I could never truly forgive him for it, but at the same time conveying how much I had missed him and was so glad he was finallyhome.
When there was nothing left in me, I stopped and panted, saying nothing as I tried to rid myself of the shaking and the sweet taste of an adrenaline rush I hadn't felt since the last case we worked together. Sherlock, for once in his life, had the decency to not say anything, or perhaps I had dislocated his jaw and he couldn't say anything. I realized then that I had cornered him in the kitchen against the cabinets, where he stood, leaning slightly to the side while cradling his cheek, as if he didn't know what to make of the injuries I had inflicted upon him. Something about seeing that bemused, not-so-secretly relieved expression made it impossible for me to stop my tears. It also compelled me to close the distance between us without further thought. My arms went around Sherlock's neck, holding him softly at first, like I might break him if I held on too tightly, before I found myself clutching selfishly at him with the desire to feel his heat and breath and body against mine: so real and alive that I could have died from happiness.
"Does one...always regard persons of disdain in such a fashion?" Sherlock asked, and I wanted to hit him again for being a smart arse, but I could not do such a thing while I was left weakly clinging to this man who had come back from beyond the grave.
"Shut up, Sherlock," I said, against his shoulder, holding onto him and to that sweet-smelling coat like it was the only thing keeping me upright. Sherlock stayed quiet and eventually put his arms around me, holding me in a way that I knew proved he had never done such a thing before with anyone else. I should have felt badly about breaching his comfort zone, but I was fuck-all for caring about that. All those years alone had left me apathetic, or at least apathetic until I had cried all my sorrow and relief away. Then there was just the awkwardness between us that settled on my shoulders like a stone.
I had never been more embarrassed for my weaknesses and wanted to hide in shame.
"The tea is ready," Sherlock said, as if sensing my distress to remove myself from the situation.
"Yes, right," I replied, and moved away from him. Suddenly feeling more sober and more alive than I had felt for the last three years, I fixed the tea as Sherlock escaped into the living room. When I followed a few moments later, I found him standing, not sitting, and still wearing his coat. Immediately, my entire body was on edge.
"Sherlock-"
"You changed the room," he interrupted. I did not have to look around to know that he was correct. Sherlock seemed out of place in the living room that had become more like me and less like him. I suddenly wanted to throw all of my things out the window so that Sherlock could make it his again. Ashamed, I tried to explain.
"I did it because-"
"Irrelevant.," he replied, and I stopped. He did not take the tea and neither did I, because I was too afraid to make the motion and take my eyes off him now, where I was still convinced he could disappear at any moment. Instead, I watched him as he moved to the hearth. In the mirror above the mantle, I could see his eyes roaming over the various paper cranes I had left on display there.
"Art project or therapy?" Sherlock asked, picking up one of the birds with a bit of disinterest coloring his tone.
I didn't answer.
"Ms. Hudson is well," Sherlock said, not asked.
"Yes," I replied despite the fact it had been a statement.
Sherlock regarded my reflection.
"You lost weight," he said, and met my eyes in the mirror. I looked away, uncomfortable at the prying gaze.
"Where have you been?" I asked, finally asked like I wanted to since the moment I laid eyes on him. He kept his back to me for a long time and did not speak, his dexterous fingers toying with one of the larger cranes on the mantle.
"Many places," Sherlock answered after some time and before I could fight him and ask him to not be so vague, he turned to me and said simply: "I can't tell you, John." Something in his eyes said that he wanted to, but couldn't, and that he was just as much a prisoner as I had been for three years. The look in his eyes was familiar, sending my heart into a seizured fit of fear.
Moriarty.
So, Sherlock was not the only one who had lived that fateful day: Moriarty had as well. I felt suddenly dizzy and wanted to throw up and maybe even shoot something, just for the hell of it. But all I could do was grip the back of the nearest chair and swallow my feelings as best as I could.
"Still?"
"Still."
Silence between us, untouched by the one a.m. stream of quiet traffic outside.
"So you're not dead..." I said, hanging my head as I finished softly: "But you're not coming back...are you?"
"No."
The answer was so straight forward that I felt as if Sherlock had punched me this time. Again and again and again as he continued: "I came to tell you that. No need to keep clinging to these emotional vestiges from three years ago. I am dead and buried, so it is time to move on, John."
It was harsh and cold and so Sherlock that it hurt, but it was Sherlock as he had been to other people: never to me, because even when Sherlock was being cruel to me, there was always an undercurrent of softness in it. Now, there was none to be found. Maybe that's why it hurt even more than it should have. Hurt almost as much as Sherlock moving towards the door. He was leaving again: walking out of my life and leaving me alone to mourn and cry and die loving him once more. I could not just stand there and so I followed him, catching Sherlock by the sleeve before he could get down the stairs.
"Wait, Sherlock..." I said, hating the sound of begging in my voice. Sherlock stopped and turned to look up at me from the stair below. His face was a hard mask of stoicism and lines and beautiful, beautiful angles that it took my breath away.
"Don't," Sherlock said and maybe it was the light of the stairway window, bleeding in a sad sort of indigo that made his eyes look like they were begging too. It was the same sort of look that Sherlock had given me at Baskerville, when he said so open and honestly to me I don't have friends. I've just got one but with that pleading don't I? clinging to the end of it by a delicate thread. He was begging me now not to ask him to wait or to stay because as much as he wanted to, he could not.
And I understood.
I let go of his sleeve, but he did not leave. We stood there for the longest time, where I just stared into his eyes and tried to commit the colour to memory, for something so beautiful and lonely but trying so hard to be strong could not be forgotten. It was only after I felt I could breathe again that I asked:
"Then...don't I get a proper goodbye?"
I wasn't ready to say goodbye, but if I had to, I wanted no regrets this time. His eyes moved over my face, my body, and I wished he could see the me inside of me screaming don't leave me again, please, please don't leave me...But event though it was Sherlock, he could not see everything even if he wanted to. Besides, he had already made his decision.
He put out his hand, as if to give me a handshake.
"Goodbye, Dr. John Watson," he said, and I wanted to hit him for treating me like a stranger. A handshake was not how you said goodbye to a friend. For someone so smart, he could so dim witted.
I did not take his hand, but put my arms around him and after a moment, he put his arms around my waist like he was supposed to, without the same kind of awkwardness as before. With Sherlock on the step below, I was almost his height, so I didn't have to stand on tiptoe or pull on his neck and I fit just right against him like I was made to be there. It was my definition of perfect. But perfect was only temporary because we were standing on the stairwell and he had his coat on and was ready to leave and I would never see him again.
"Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes," I said against the collar of his jacket, and pulled back when I knew I had to let him go. I did not do so immediately, however, and with our close proximity and Sherlock's continuously sad eyes, I did what I knew I needed to do. I moved my hands to Sherlock's face and held him still as I kissed him for the first time. Unlike what some people said about that kind of thing, there were no fireworks or heated passion or feral intensity when our lips met. It was something else entirely: something quiet and beautiful and eternal, like seasons stretching through time and space with nothing but sunsets and music and fresh fallen snow. It was a first and last kiss: a greeting to love and a farewell to it all at once in the dark stairwell of 221b Baker Street. I've missed you, I'll miss you, don't go, please, because I love you, and I'm sorry and goodbye all merged into that kiss. Because of it, I could feel hot tears under my eyelids, escaping down my cheeks, making my throat burn with the unfairness of it all.
Unfair because Sherlock Holmes was finally-finally-kissing me back.
He held me as he kissed me, mouth a bit unsure from lack of experience, but hands steady and warm against my back. I guided him through it, speaking to him without words so that he knew everything about what had happened to me while we were apart: my feelings, my regrets, and my impending sorrow at losing him.
I wanted him to know all of these things, because Sherlock Holmes did not deserve to die believing that no one loved him.
I didn't want to let go or have it stop, but it had to end or else tomorrow would be unbearable. We parted and I hastily wiped my eyes, sniffed once, and squared my shoulders to stand a little taller. I needed to be strong, just for another moment; just for Sherlock's sake.
"You should go," I said, as much as it pained me to do so. I had to make it easier on the both of us.
"John..." Sherlock replied, and I wished that he wouldn't say my name that way, as it only made it harder to keep my emotions from breaking down those barely-fortified walls again. And with Sherlock hesitating, I saw it as my opportunity to keep him there, even if it was for just a few seconds longer. Now, each unit of time was precious, and greedy as I was, I wanted more.
"But...before you...go...I want you to have something," I said, swallowing when my throat became dry and tight. I paused, put my hand into my jeans pocket, and removed my one-thousandth crane. I had shoved it into my pocket at the bar after paying my tab, unable to leave it behind like I had wanted to, which I was grateful for now. I held it out to him: an unimportant folded piece of paper with bleeding blue ink on the wings and a crushed head, but something that I had made thinking about him, and that made it special. Sherlock looked at it, as if not knowing what to do, so I explained: "Every time I thought of you, I made one of these, because someone once told me that if you make one-thousand paper cranes, you get one wish."
Sherlock took the crane into his hands, stared at the structure of it, most likely deducing the mechanics, the folds, and processes...but did he see the meaning in it as well? I could only hope he understood.
"How many did you make?" he asked after a moment of study, and his voice as as quiet as I ever heard it before.
I smiled, pain pinching at the corners of my lips.
"Guess."
Sherlock moved his thumbs over the wings of the crane, thoughts speeding so rapidly behind his eyes that I could not keep up with them.
"Did you get your wish?" Sherlock eventually asked me, eyes locking onto mine with such intensity that I thought I could not draw a single breath. The words did not come immediately, just another pained smile and the prickle of heated tears at the corners of my eyes as I managed to reply:
"Yes. Even if just for a moment, I did...and I'm so happy..."
The tears fell, glided down my cheeks unchecked, and I did not try to stop them, unable to keep up the strength of my facade. Sherlock's body made a slight motion, as if he were going to come close to me, perhaps embrace me again, but he stopped himself before that could happen.
"John," he began softly, and his eyes were downcast, looking at the stairs and our shoes and the crane in his hand because those were everywhere but my face. It wasn't because of any sort of dishonesty or embarrassment, but out of pure guilt for what he had done to me. "I'm...sorry."
"Don't," I said, and he finally looked up at me again. I nodded at him. Forgave him. "It's alright." I gestured to the crane with one shaking finger. "Take it with you...so you can...remember...sometimes..."
Sherlock's phone interrupted, buzzing in his pocket, but he did not make to answer it. I took that as my cue to hold him there no longer.
"Go on," I said, making a slight motion with my head for him to leave. Sherlock pocketed the paper bird, took two stairs, then three more before he stopped and looked up at me from the landing. It was as if he wanted to say something, but couldn't, so I did instead.
"Sherlock. You know, that if this...ends well somehow..." I paused and somehow smiled, really smiled, for the first time in a long time even though I was still crying. "Listen to me, I should be saying when this ends well-"
"John, I-"
"When this ends well," I interrupted him, and he let me. "Please come back home." Sherlock's eyes widened a fraction, as if that was the last thing he had expected to hear come from my mouth when it was the first and only thing I wanted to shout at him. Judging from his surprise, he truly did not know his worth or importance in the scope of his own world. He did not understand how he was necessary, not just for me, but for everyone...And perhaps he was so shocked that he could not form words, because his silence stretched out for the longest time. I could almost hear him thinking of the consequences and the possibilities and then shooting all of those small hopes and impossible dreams down entirely with whatever new reality had guided his life since his untimely death. Could I be enough to bring him back, or had I truly lost him forever?
It was my last chance-my last plea-but I couldn't tell Sherlock I loved him. I couldn't get the words to come out because it would feel too wrong and selfish and so all I could do was hang my head a bit and whisper: "...just know that someone is waiting for you to come home."
Sherlock's expression tightened and he turned away from me. Then he took another stair or two before stopping, almost to the door, and so far out of my reach that I could not pull him back now. I could not even see his face: just the black silhouette of his body hidden in shadow.
"You...might have to wait a long time..." Sherlock said, and those words alone spread warmth into my chest. Hope. He had renewed my hope that the future would not be dark and dismal and without color or light as I had thought, even if the prospect of that was far, far away.
"I know," I replied, because I did know. Even before his disappearance, I felt like I could never keep up with Sherlock in his fast-paced world, so I was always left waiting. I hated it, but I had grown accustomed to it; perhaps even become good at it. Yes, I had become good at waiting for him to return, always waiting with what he needed without having to be asked; knowing that Sherlock would always come home to me no matter what. It was all about waiting, which was what I hated the most, but did the very best.
Sherlock said nothing, but I saw his head nod curtly a single time, before he went to the door. His hand was on the knob, and it paused for only a fraction of a second before Sherlock turned his wrist and opened the door. I watched from the landing as he stepped out into the dying amber lamplight outside, sparing one last glance at me over his shoulder before the door closed softly behind him.
I hoped it would not be the last time.
Instead of going back to the living room, I sat down on the stair closest to the flat: the stair where I had kissed Sherlock Holmes and he had kissed me back and yet I could not tell him I loved him just as I could not tell him goodbye. There would be time for that later, I decided-I prayed- as I held onto my knees. There would be plenty of time for that later.
Now, there was nothing left to do but wait.
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Shameless advertisement: Looking for someone to RP Sherlock/John goodness with me. I'll play either character, I don't care. I just need some love in my life. Note me if you have the passion and energy for a new project.
Next chapter coming soon. Thanks for your support.
D
