Hi, I'm not sure I'm happy with this chapter but it's the best i could do :) I hope you enjoy it.
John tried to squash down the glimmer of hope that rose in his chest as he heard the questioning voice. No john, he's dead. This is in your head; you just want him to be alive. He waited for a moment, wanting to hear it again. This would be the last thing he heard and he wanted it to be Sherlock's beautiful voice reverberating through his ears one last time.
He close his eyes when nothing else came, only a horrible silence that filled the flat. Huh, well I guess it was just my imagination. He was feeling disappointed when he pushed the gun to his temple a bit firmer. This was it; the last sight he would ever see would be his bedroom window with the curtain blowing around in the strong winds. He really should have closed the window.
He took a deep breath in, his chest sticking out as he straightened his back. The safety was off and he was ready, he was no longer going to be alone, left with only his thoughts. It was going to end and he was going to be better. He needed to do this.
Didn't he?
He paused as he asked himself that, did he want to die. He wanted to stop feeling like this and he saw this as the only way out, he thought logically.
He was still contemplating when he heard heavy footsteps coming up the stairs, towards his room. They were quick and purposeful, showing that whoever this was knew what he was here for. It was a matter of moments before his bedroom door was whipped open that he managed to hide the gun away in his bedside table. He didn't want to be caught.
He stared at the doorway which was being vacated by a tall imposing figure, dressed in dark colours. His large coat was so familiar and his curls were a mass around his head, sticking out in all directions. And his eyes… they were just like he remembered, both in the colour and the way they looked through you, as though he could see into your mind.
They gazed at each other, both of them hardly taking a breath until John found himself whispering breathlessly "Sherlock…" His voice was unsteady and he couldn't stop shaking. He needed Sherlock. This… This couldn't be real. Could it?
He didn't know he was crying until the tears dripped onto his hand, making him look down at the wet track that was dragged down his palm. Neither of them moved. They were frozen in place. John shut his eyes suddenly with a pained expression. Am I dead, did I do it? Or have I finally lost it? Because he can't be real. His breath came out in a puff and he looked up at Sherlock with a tentative expression, so scared that this would all vanish, that he would wake up like he'd done so many times before screaming and crying all while trying so hard to hold onto the memory of his best friend- his partner- in the light of day.
It was then that Sherlock moved forward, lowering to his knees in front of him. He took John's hand in his as he leaned his forehead on the army doctor's knee. "I'm so, so sorry. John, please, I did it to save you," His voice was watery as he begged "Please, Moriarty was going to kill you unless I died. I had to make the snipers think I was dead" These words were barely heard by the man.
"Why did you stay away?" His voice was so soft, it was hard for Sherlock to hear him but he did. He raised his head, to watch John in silence for a small while.
"I needed to deal with his men," His voice was harsh as he spoke of Moriarty. John understood at once. He didn't need to hear more and if he was completely honest, he didn't want to. Sherlock had reasons; he had very valid reasons though that didn't lessen the hurt John was feeling. He was so wounded by this detective, yet the only one who could comfort him was in front of him wearing his big coat with the blue scarf.
"I thought you were dead. Three years," The words were painful for him to choke out "I was so alone," At those words, Sherlock dived up. In a second, he was holding John in his arms with his body heat radiating onto the shorter man.
It was so hard for him. He was so scared. Will I just wake up and Sherlock will be gone? He didn't know how he could live through that. This was the first time he had dreamt of Sherlock coming back, it was always the jump.
In all of this, the only feeling he could sum up was either joy at his return or furious rage at his abandonment. He knew it wasn't like that but it hurt so badly. He had to get it out.
"You left me! You could have contacted me, told me that you weren't dead! I went through three years of this, of blaming myself because I couldn't save you. I hated myself because I wasn't a good enough friend to help you." He shouted, almost screaming at the detective who had leant back on his knees.
His face hadn't moved, he had kept it expressionless. Some of the fight evaporated at the way Sherlock was just letting him shout at him without so much as a retort. It was even more painful to be angry at him. He wanted to be angry, well, he didn't but that was what is expected after this betrayal. He wasn't angry though, he was so happy. Happy that his best friend is alive, happy that he has another chance to be with him. No, this wasn't a betrayal. This was to save him.
He knew other people would be so outraged; they would kick and scream but the only thing John wanted to do in that moment was lie back on the bed with this man and cuddle up. He was always tired after these nights; the depression being at its worst.
The worst thing about this is that he didn't harbour anything but love for this man. Occasionally there was the utter frustration but you can't expect anything else with Sherlock Holmes. He let out a sigh, most of the tension leaving his body and let himself smile at the detective that was watching him with doe eyes. "I'm tired; do you want to just sleep for now?" He asked on a yawn and stretched out his arms, wincing as a click came from his shoulder and a stab of pain shot down his arm.
He would give anything to see the look of pure relief but hesitance that was evident all over the detective again. It was probably the most adorable thing he'd ever seen. It melted his heart and he found himself beaming at the startled man. Sherlock had been expecting screaming, to be kicked out of the flat, anything but this. He wasn't complaining though as he tried to excuse himself to change into his own clothes.
John panicked as he tried to leave "No! Stay," He did blush at the outburst but he was afraid that if he let Sherlock out of his sight, he would disappear. Luckily, the detective only smiled.
"Could I borrow some of your clothes?" John was pretty sure he'd never tire of that deep voice. There was a fluttering in his stomach as he nodded, gesturing to the drawers. His eyes followed the man wandering around his bedroom, a small smile on his lips.
His gaze only wavered when Sherlock began to strip, the bruises and scars covering his body were too much but John made himself look. They covered most of him, from his shoulders down to his calf. There were some that he was pretty sure come from torture. He had to blink back tears thinking about what that man must have gone through trying to take down Moriarty's empire.
This was all briefly forgotten when the man in question looked up from pulling on a pair of socks, flashing a smile he reserved only for his love, John. He made his way to the bed but paused before pulling back the covers on his side to press a chaste kiss to John's lips. It was amazing, John had missed this man so much and here he was.
Sherlock had been withdrawing but John grabbed his newly dawned white t-shirt and dragged him down so their lips met once again, this kiss rougher this time. A tongue traced Sherlock's lips, asking for entrance and soon their tongues were dancing. They finally tore apart when a loud moan escaped John's throat.
They were both breathing heavily and they rested their foreheads together "Not tonight, we both need sleep" Sherlock murmured against John's mouth. He did pull back, but not before capturing John's bottom lip between his teeth gently, sucking at it before finally leaning back. Next, he was rushing around the bed to his side, almost jumping in and grinning at John before the doctor entered the double bed at a slower pace.
"Goodnight, Sherlock," john had a small smile as he turned on his side, facing away from Sherlock.
He took in a small breath as a pair of strong arms wrapped around him from behind, the body heat of the detective radiating onto his back. He felt the man press a kiss to his neck, murmuring a small "Goodnight, John. I love you."
In all of this, he had managed to block out the gun that sat in his bedside drawers. He could explain it if Sherlock found it, the detective didn't need to know the real reason for its place there, he told himself.
He felt the steady breathing of Sherlock behind him, already fast asleep.
Yes, tonight's turned into a good night.