Authors Note - Hey y'all! I'm sorry for not updating frequently. Like I said in my Snamione update - I've been a little sick and had a few previous commitments that was pretty much all I could uphold. I'm feeling better now and ready to get my Johnlock on. And yes, this is a very angst filled chapter and you've got a few more before I get to the smutty, lemon goodness. It is coming though. As always, feel free to leave a follow or review! Enjoy!
In the morning, Sherlock was almost swimming in happiness.
He was back, in his old stomping grounds, and London air felt good in his lungs. Sure, his jaw hurt from John's punches, but all things being considered, Sherlock wrote it off as a hero's welcome.
He stretched himself out across his old bed, still bare chested, old familiar blue pyjama trousers. He sprung up from his bed with a start, joyful spritely and energetic.
If he was lucky, he'd have a nice few murders to solve by the end of the day. He left his room, and frowned as John's bedroom door was open, and his room was empty. Sherlock shrugged, and walked through to the kitchen, flicking the kettle on.
He stretched again, and went through the motions of making a cup of tea. The room seemed cooler than it should. Sherlock turned around.
The door into the hallway was unlatched, lock set open, but the door closed.
John wanted to leave and return. Sherlock went through the threshold, and he followed the cool air to the front door. It was like the other, shut but unlocked.
Available for John to return whenever he pleased.
Sherlock detected the old, familiar, comforting smell of nicotine.
John was smoking?
He pulled the door open, and John Watson stood, smoking a cigarette, leaning on his walking stick, with his back to Sherlock Holmes. He hadn't turned to Sherlock, so clearly he didn't know he was there.
Sneaking, silently like a panther, Sherlock closed in on John, still towering over his little doctor, stood tall behind him, within touching distance.
"Those things will kill you, you know."
Before Sherlock had time to say anything else, John threw his stick into the air, caught it, and whacked it behind him, striking Sherlock square in the stomach.
Sherlock groaned, and John chuckled. Perhaps it had been a bad choice of words on his part. Sherlock was still doubled over, whining.
"Reflexes are getting faster, Dr Watson." Sherlock said, but John didn't reply. He flicked his cigarette out onto the pavement, and seemingly ignored Sherlock, and returned inside.
He didn't speak to the curious detective for another three hours, until midday when Lestrade arrived for the briefing of the newest case he'd gotten stumped upon. They sat in their armchairs, Sherlock had resigned himself to being ignored by the good Doctor until John felt his penance had been paid.
Lestrade mumbled on, poorly feigning surprise at Sherlock, but John deduced Lestrade had known for a while.
After Lestrade mumbled on, leaving out all the important parts of the case, focusing only on the overdone theatrics, silence fell across the room.
"What do you say then Sherlock, interesting enough for your massive intellect and amazingly superior powers of deduction?" A hint of vitriol hid behind Johns sarcasm.
Sherlock looked up from inspecting his tea leaves.
"Oh, um, yeah. Totally. Consider it solved."
Later, alone together at the crime scene, stood over a body, Sherlock thought it time to broach the subject of John's apparent underwhelming response to his return.
"So what is it?" John was hunched over the body, examining the tips of his fingers.
"If the cousin has a stuffed giraffe in their bedroom, it was her brother. We should notify Lestrade to have the specialist team work with this one."
Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. John was right, he must have gotten faster in his absence.
"No, not that. Though well done, you're learning to keep up. You really don't seem awfully happy to see me John, I must admit. I'm hurt." John looked up from the body and stood, gripping onto his stick for support.
Sherlocks voice took the tone of mock hurt, but John knew real emotion was behind this guise.
"Because I don't believe you, Sherlock." John shook his head as he said this and frowned slightly. He looked away from Sherlock, embarrassed at the emotion betrayed in his voice.
He cleared his throat. Like that would make it leave. John swallowed and elaborated.
"I don't believe you. I haven't quite figured everything out yet, and I will admit, I'm a slow learner, but I learn. And Sherlock, going by all the empirical evidence, as you have always taught me to do, you broke me, you let me bleed and cry and break myself into pieces for two years, two exceptionally long years, just because you could. Your actions have shown that you think of me as nothing more than a pawn, a puppet with all those messy human emotions attached. You told me once that sentiment was a chemical defect. Thankyou for finally proving it."
John blinked away tears that were threatening to prick at the corner of his eyes. His nostrils flared, and he refused to let emotion take hold of him in this moment, refusing to show weakness to Sherlock, not now. Not ever again, as far as he cared.
"Perhaps you'll find a better friendship with the dead, Sherlock, since you seem to both have the same emotional range."
Before he could stop himself, the words spilled out of Johns mouth, and without pausing to take in the magnitude of what he'd just said, he turned on his heels and left the crime scene.
When Sherlock followed after him, five minutes or so later, he'd left the area, or so Anderson said, hailing a cab away without speaking to anyone.
Sherlock got a cab home, and forehead pressed to the window as rain started spitting from the sky, considered, truly for the first time, what he'd done to John.
He'd always expected his absence to have hurt the good Doctor, but perhaps Sherlock underestimated just how deeply Johns capacity for emotion was.
He was continuously bound by a sense of moral duty and guiding courage, even though Sherlock said it was nothing more than conditioned response to life and trauma.
Sherlocks thoughts flickered to the first time he knew he cared about John, that night by the pool.
He recalled seeing John strapped with all of those explosives, and suddenly it was like Moriarty had strapped a piece of Sherlock up, a part of his heart, and was threatening to tear him into jagged little pieces.
Back at 221b, John was stood by his bedside table, staring at the scarf in his hand.
Sherlock's scarf. From that day. It still had his blood on it. If that was Sherlocks blood, of course, John couldn't really tell anymore.
It felt like he couldn't understand anything. John had slept with this scarf tied to his bedpost every night for the past two years, the last ebbing piece of Sherlock, and was almost prepared to let go, let Sherlock's memory finally be free
when Sherlock waltzed into his life again and wanted to pretend everything was completely fine.
He ran his other hand over the soft fabric, and gently rubbed his fingers on the dried blood. John wasn't mad at Sherlock, not really.
Well, he was, of course, the sodding prick had left him without a second thought, but he was even more mad at himself. He was mad, because he was so happy.
For two years he drove himself to the brink of death, and more than once threatened to push himself over the edge and now Sherlock was back, and John finally thought everything was going to be okay again.
John was stupid and clearly never learnt to stop touching burning things if he didn't want to get burnt.
He knew by now that loving Sherlock was an exercise in insanity, because Sherlock didn't love anything or anyone but himself, but he loved Sherlock.
It was true, what he'd said continuously, to everyone.
He wasn't gay.
But, John Watson was bisexual, and resented the idea that sexuality was a polarising gay or straight scenario, and therefore never corrected them, angry that they never considered it an option.
But this, what John felt, it went deeper than sex. Sure, Sherlock was attractive, albeit unconventionally, but he fell in love with Sherlock in the details.
The foggy mornings Sherlock used to leave absurdly early to get John's favourite pastries from the bakery he liked, just to play it off as Mrs Hudson overstocking her pantry.
The way when he was working he'd fall asleep by the fireplace, and it was the only time he ever snored, light and gentle, a beautiful sight to behold.
John fell in love with Sherlock silently, knowing that Sherlock would never love John back, even if he was capable of such a thing, his mind far too brilliant and complex to hold affection for a battered army Doctor.
But even John had to admit this was cruel. He knew he wasn't everything to Sherlock, but he thought the time they'd spent together meant something, even as friends, and it cut him to the bone that Sherlock had treated him like a throwaway toy.
Sherlock had decided to give John some space, so when he came home, back to the now infamous 221b, hours had passed, which Sherlock was about to find out wasn't a very good idea.
As soon as he stepped into the lounge, the scent of whiskey and stale cigarettes hit him like a wall.
John was sprawled across Sherlocks armchair, empty beer bottles bleeding dregs into the carpet, and a half empty whiskey bottle currently being cradled in his lap. At the closing of the door, John spoke.
"Ahh, the greatest Herlock Sholmes, perpetual genius and well-known cockhead! Please, go on. Start cluing looks you tall asshat. Tell me what you see!"
John put the whiskey bottle on the side, golden liquid sloshing up the sides. John stood, and stumbled, but regained his balance, staggering upright, stock still, like a soldier.
"John, I don't think this is a –"
"Oh no, come on now! What is it you used to say? The game is on!"
"I don't want to-"
"I'm giving you a case, Sherlock! Solve it!"
"You're drunk."
"Smart." John's eyes narrowed. "And why do you think I'm drunk, Sherlock?"
"Because of me. Because I left."
"Oh no. No Sherlock. I'm not drinking because you left, I'm drinking because you came back."
John turned and took another swig from the whiskey bottle, before throwing it into the empty, unlit fire. The bottle smashed, loudly.
It was nothing compared to how hard Sherlocks heart seemed to be beating. Everything seemed to be humming, around him, all too much and nothing all at once.
Six beer bottles, one whiskey, half drunk. Johns pupils are dilated, he's staggering slowly and his reflexes are delayed. Pain tolerance increased going by the fact he hasn't noticed that he cut his hand when he threw the bottle. Soft carpets, unlikely to concuss self on the floor. Best course of action, subdue and placate, get him into bed.
Sherlock ignored the skipped heartbeat at the thought of putting John into bed for the second night in a row.
"Would you like me to leave again, then?"
He asked, moving like a serpent towards the fireplace. Next to the fireplace gave him the best angle to subdue John physically, if it came to that.
He was still drunk, but he was an army doctor, and he could really break all Sherlocks bones whilst naming them. John scoffed and supressed a wave of nausea that followed. He hiccoughed quietly to himself.
"That would be the easy option, wouldn't it? If you just fuck right off to whatever hole you came from."
Sherlock couldn't hide the pain of Johns comments, and they stung like a stab wound to the heart. That was saying something, considering he'd been stabbed. Not in the heart, but still.
Hurt spread across his face like waves, each ripple painfully betraying the realization that he'd hurt John Hamish Watson, the good army doctor, the nicest and purest man he'd ever known.
"No, of course I don't want you to go again."
John stumbled into the kitchen now, knocking over a cup on the table. He mumbled something about eggs, and grabbed a frying pan from the cupboard, turned the gas on, and Sherlock followed him, turning the gas off and putting the frying pan back in the cupboard.
"If you like John, I can have my transport out of the country organised by the end of the hou-"
"The problem isn't that I want you to leave, you daft sod! It's that I never want you to go again! What don't you understand? I want you to never be allowed out of my sight, never straying far from me every again."
John had migrated back into the lounge, and after his testimony, was stood, staring aloof into the fireplace.
The grey mist of his memories descended onto him, and Sherlock worried that John had gone into a place where no one could reach him.
"Then why are you like this?" Sherlock probed, hoping to ground him back to earth, back to 221B, back to him.
"Because you will." He answered almost immediately, urgency betrayed in his voice. His knuckles where now white, and he was clutching onto the fireplace for dear life.
"I will?"
"You. Will. Leave. You walked back in, like nothing had happened, like you never left. You had no idea how much it hurt and how much it still kills me, and you will do it all again, because you didn't fucking care the first time and you won't care the next. My emotions mean nothing to you!"
He boomed, accusatorily. He refused to look at Sherlock, resolve strengthening and anger bubbling away to form the resolute steel he knew he had to be.
"The worst thing is you don't even know how bad it hurts, because you're Sherlock Holmes, consulting fucking detective. You observe, but you never see! You never once see because you're too busy convincing everyone else how utterly clever and exceedingly obnoxious you are!"
He said nothing, though he was swaying gently from side to side, alcohol lulling him into calm, fire ignited in his belly dousing out.
"John. I'm not leaving. Not again, not ever. I'm back for good. It's okay now."
The atmosphere changed. Sherlocks voice changed, and it was now softer, gentle, all traces of the cocky all-knowing bastard he seemed to be, gone.
"Liar." Sherlock placed a gentle hand on Johns shoulder, calm yet strong. He didn't seem to want to let go either, and John seemed calm under Sherlocks guiding hand.
"I'm not lying John. I left to keep you," He faltered.
"You all, safe. John, I took two years to dismantle Moriarty's network, to destroy everything he had ever even thought to create, so he couldn't harm you anymore. I am home. I'm not going to leave London ever again. It's my home. It's my place. Nothing will tear me from it again."
John let out a sigh he seemed to have been holding for too long. He relaxed against Sherlocks touch, gently and then leant into him, drink swaying him into Sherlocks arms, toppling over.
Sherlock caught him and dropped him gently into his armchair.
All hostility faded away, and it was instead replaced with a gentle, wrought out sobbing, Johns shoulders bobbing and his chest retching.
"There there" Said Sherlock, mimicking something he saw his mother do once, and pulled John into a hug, patting him on the back.
"I'm a failure…ju-just like Harry." John choked out between sobs, and kicked, sending an empty beer bottle flying.
"Only I'm not like her, because she's all sober and pious now and looks on me down like I'm one of the great afflicted."
"John, your reasonable response to traumatic stimulus, like many, is to get so blindingly drunk that the hangover the next day is physical pain overcompensation for emotional turmoil. Nothing is wrong with you, and you're not a drunk. Drunk, yes. A drunk, no."
John looked up at him, puppy eyes and all. Tears that pricked at the corners of his eyes now flowed freely, across his cheeks and down his neck.
"Plus, you know Harry's sobriety is a total lie. It was written all over her in that restaurant. The way she parted her hair, third set crease of her dress, bitten nails." Sherlocks self assured and all-knowing attitude and tone was back.
"Really?" John asked tentatively. Sherlock let go of John and sat back into his own armchair.
"Yeah. Plus, I saw the empty travel size's in her purse."
John erupted into laughter, powerful and guttural, chuckles peppered with sobs. He wiped the tears from his cheeks and snorted.
Sherlock chuckled along with him. He was glad to see John smiling, laughing again and happy, such a stark difference from moments before.
Johns laughter died down, and he stared into the empty, unlit fire, at the whiskey bottle shards.
"You, really wont leave again? You won't go?" He asked.
"Not at all John. You're my best friend." Sherlock replied.
Sherlock saw something change at that moment inside John, and he wasn't sure why. He looked defeated.
John clenched his fists into the soft sofa armchairs, his jaw tensed, and his chest rose and fell just a little quicker.
John furrowed his brow, and those tears from before threatened to pour from his eyes again. John was too drunk to control himself now.
With the alcohol in his belly, head seemingly filled with cotton and marbles, emotions threatening to spill from his mouth, unable to fully comprehend the complexities of this conversation.
Somewhere, he would have to remember in the morning that Harry wasn't sober, and that he'd need to reach out and offer his half-hearted, duty bound support.
But he was struck by the overwhelming heartbreak thudding like bricks into his chest. He wasn't sure which was worst, Sherlocks 'death', his return, the threat of the only man he ever loved leaving again, or being bound into a friendship would never be enough for him.
Heartachingly, John would take it. He'd take everything he was given because he loved Sherlock and being friends with him was leagues better than life alone.
Still, it was nothing but a shadow, a glimpse of what John really wanted, what he craved. John laughed, hollow, empty like his soul.
John had resigned himself to meaningless, nothing, empty, and now having a glass half full was not enough and too much all at once. He was bone dry, in a drought, and drowning from the overflow of his emotions.
John stood. He limped and swayed, hobbling along out of the room, down the corridor.
He laughed again, and Sherlock went after him, tentatively, unsure of what was happening next.
John said one word, which seared into Sherlocks chest and filled him with confusion, back still turned, almost refusing to look at the man that held him in his hand and threatened to squeeze.
One word, and he disappeared his bedroom, door shutting so quietly and gently Sherlock barely heard the click.
Friend.
