Finally
Part 4 of a Johnlock fanfiction. Please give credit to McCol Iles (on Instagram believeinsherlock_cumberbatch) Inspired by the many pictures, edits and sayings on Instagram.
I wanna say it out loud My darling I'm falling in love with you
I don't wanna try and hide it
I wanna let it all out
So that you know
What you do to my life
The way you make it better
Don't wanna let it go
Want to let it go
There's something colliding in my heart
Love has got me now
My darling, I'm falling
~Chris Mann- Falling
"You sure you'll be okay dear?"
"Yes, thank you Mrs. Hudson. I think its time to get back, got to go back some time don't I?" John was talking slowly into his phone, trying to incorporate into his talk the heavy sadness that had finally left him after a month of sorrow. He must have done an admirable job, for he could hear Mrs. Hudson begin to tear up on the other line.
"I miss him too, you know, in my own way. It's crazy, but sometimes I swear that I can hear the violin playing one of his invented tunes through the night. But, I guess, old ears, old memories. It gets a bit tedious, I'll tell you that." She said, sniffling a bit. "Well, I suppose you need to get back to work, don't you? Ill let you go then. Do you still have your key? I haven't turned the utilities off so that should be fine."
"Yes, thank you. You've been far too kind." John replied quickly. He wanted to finish with work so that he could return home, for he felt as though every minute away from it increased the chance that the night before had been a dream.
"Well, I know that he meant a lot to you. Probably more then you know, I think. You were always..." Mrs. Hudson seemed as though she had to stop herself from continuing, but he knew full well what she was going to say. "Well, I'm right there if you'll be needing me. Ill see you around I suppose?"
"Er, you know, seeing as it's just me I think Ill be okay. Um, Ill call you." John said in a tangle of words. He felt the need to keep the reason of his return a secret and if she or anyone made the discovery of it... the thought made him feel uneasy.
"You'll be wanting your privacy then, dear?"
"Yes please, Mrs. Hudson."
"No worries dear, anything you need." She cooed in a motherly tone. It struck John in the most peculiar way so he quickly said goodbye as to avoid any real emotion from seeping out and destroying the very steady and strong façade he had been creating. Pulling the mobile away from his ear he clicked the 'end' button and tossed it onto the desk before leaning back into his chair, covering his face with his hands and heaving a strained sigh, the sleepless nights of the past month truly taking their toll. But it wasn't just that, and he knew it, but it's what he told himself.
A knock sounded at the door of his small makeshift office, making him jerk back to reality, dropping his hands off of his face and beckon the person inside.
"Come in." He called roughly, clearing his throat. The door squeezed open and the face of the hospital manager, Janet, peered in. She had a kind, young face though she had to be at least in her forties.
"How are you..." she started. "Jesus, John, you look awful!" Her face was wide with surprise as she took in his face. It was true, he really did look awful.
For the past month John had been enveloped in deep sorrow and had thrown himself into his work here, probably being the best worker they had ever had, but he had been neglecting his basic needs of food and sleep. He had always kept a cheery look about him to cover up his drained, pained face, for smiles filled his hollow cheeks and widening his eyes hid the bags under them. But Janet had caught him off guard and now his face hung gauntly and the sleepless nights and lack of nutrition obvious in the deep half moons under his eyes and tight face. She shook her head at him.
"I don't know how any of us haven't seen this! Wow, we must have been working you to the bone! Go home and get some sleep, we'll see you next week." she said loudly but still in a soft manner. John creased his brow and leaned forward, masking his rush of sudden excitement of the thought of going home early.
"But I said I'd be here for the half day and-" he began. Janet flicked her hand at him dismissively; a movement that made the aching for him increase, for it was very Sherlock-esque.
"No, I insist. We can function just perfectly without you, you know? You just make our lives easier. Sure, we'll miss you, but you deserve the break, so go home to whoever it is that loves you and get some sleep." She told John with a firm and happy air to her. Her comment about 'go home to whoever it is that loves you' caught John, making a lump form in his throat and his heart beat faster. He straightened up and stared at the wall beside Janet plainly, trying to collect himself. At this time, Janet had realized what it was that she had said and she made a movement to get near to John to console him, but he resumed his happy mask, staring her in the face, stopping her in her tracks. He did not want to be touched right now; for his emotions were a roller coaster and he did not know where they would go if anyone laid even a finger on him.
"Thank you, Janet, I will do that. If you need me, you'll text, okay? Don't you think that I cant come in. I won't be too busy." The words came out of his mouth quickly before he could stop them. He wished he hadn't, for his meaning was the exact opposite. He would not want to come in, and for the busy part, well, he could dream, couldn't he? He breathed a sigh of relief when Janet spoke again.
"Oh, don't count on it Dr. Watson. We will be perfectly fine. I order you to go on your week break, and you know what, with all that over time you have done, it's a paid holiday. Thankfully, we can afford that. So, off you go then!" She said it with a smirk on her face as she looked at his stunned expression slowly turn into that of an excited little boy before he gathered himself into a professional stature again.
"Thank you Ms. McEwan. It's great to be surrounded by such good people."
"Yes, well after..." She looked away at this time, not continuing her sentence. But they both knew what it was about, and John was terribly thankful that she did not continue. An awkward silence filled the room before John got to his feet and reached for his cane, which was absent from its regular place. Bad news. He tried to shake it off, looking Janet in the face.
"Thank you, again. I guess Ill be going then."
"Yes, we'll see you next week then, I guess." She replied, attempting a small smile. John bent around his desk, leaning on it heavily, knowing that he could not walk without it. Janet had started to leave the room but stopped seeing that he was having troubles.
"Did you forget your cane?" She asked.
"Yeah, it would seem so." He shook his head, remembering how he felt leaving the flat that morning, but that feeling had left him and his limp was back in full swing. She looked at him quizzically.
"Well, wait there a minute, Ill get you something." She ducked out of the room, returning a minute later, holding a cane similar to his own.
"Well, thanks again Janet." He said, nodding and briefly looking her in the eyes before back down at his feet, putting the cane under him and leaning on it. He could feel Janet's eyes on him but he expected nothing of it, as many others had looked down on him in pity but none had or would ever act on it. But she did. She stepped towards him, putting her hand gently on his arm in warm comfort.
His head jerked up to meet her face, which was staring into his own eyes intently, full of sympathy and familiarity. Her approach intrigued John but the fact that she was acting on pity and a potential interest in him repelled John, however, he knew that he wasn't repulsed by just the idea of being pitied. He pursed his lips, the creases between his brow deepening, and reflexively leaned away from her touch. His response had obviously wounded Janet, sending a wave of confusion and hurt over her face. He looked away, avoiding her eyes though her hand still rested on his arm. He was embarrassed of what he felt, though he knew that she could not know what was going on in his mind. He did not long for her touch or any woman's touch.
This was a confusing and bizarre awareness: the knowledge that he did not long for the love of the opposite sex, the kiss and touch of a woman and though he may have wished that it wasn't true, these feelings, he could not deny them.
"Erm..." He could not find his tongue and simply stood there awkwardly. He cleared his throat audibly and looked down at the floor again. His desire to get away was clear in his tensed and uncomfortable posture as he leaned up against the borrowed cane, away from the hand of the hospital manager.
But it seemed as though Janet had not picked up on his body language in the way that it was intended, and she pressed further, clearly thinking that he was hurt and was calling out for help. Little did she know that he longed to be in the arms of someone who was believed to be six feet down in the ground.
She leaned in, deepening her gaze, her attraction to him obvious in her stance, the way she held her gaze and the angle of her head, which pulled his eyes back round to look at her again.
"I know that the past month has been hard for you, John. I hope that you know that we're here for you. You're part of this family now. Actually, I kind of think that you're more than family, really." When she said that, she lowered her eyes, but her fingers clenched lightly on John's arm. He knew where she was going with this and he did not want her to. But before he could make a movement away from her or utter a word, her head whipped up and looked at him from under her eyebrows in an attempt at a smoulder. It more struck John as a beat puppy, begging for attention of some sort.
"I get lonely too, sometimes. I lost a really good friend a few months back. It hurt but I... I think I'm over it, I think that I can move on now." John did not like how she was talking as though he was a child and had to be spoken to slowly to understand though her tone was terribly suggestive nonetheless. He straightened up as far as his cane permitted him, tensing and leaning backwards even more so. Somehow, Janet still did not pick on these signs and continued on.
"Would you like to go to lunch? I wouldn't mind getting to know you better, outside in the 'office' I mean. How about it? I know a great pace around the corner." She proposed. There wasn't even a pause before John angled towards her, narrowing his eyes and words rushed out of his mouth.
"Why would I eat if I'm not hungry?" He jerked away from her, wishing that he wasn't in the office, that he was on his way home to the flat and Sherlock. The thought of being attracted to a woman seemed foreign to him now, and the aspect of being in contact with someone he did not long to be with repulsed him.
"Well...Um..." his reaction had obviously hurt her but he could not bring himself to feel for her, despite her solid attempts at flirtation and comfort, he felt nothing close to attraction for her. "I really should be going. Tired." He mumbled unintelligibly. Janet dropped her hand and stepped back, plainly hurt and bewildered. She assessed him with concerned eyes before opening her mouth to speak.
"I'm sorry. I've made you uncomfortable. Its just, I've admired you for a while now and I know its unprofessional but... Well, I'm sorry." She turned away and reached for the door to leave.
"It's OK, Janet, really. I just don't think it's a good idea. I don't see you in that way." John said hurriedly.
"Well," she said "I guess we'll see you next week then."
"Yes, I guess you will." And with that, he squeezed past her, out the door and down the hospital hallway, to go home to the one who loved him; at least he hoped he did.
Sherlock paced up and down the flat madly, around and around, up and down the stairs. No one was home and he anxiously awaited the moment when someone would be, for that person was the one he had spent what seemed like an eternity missing. It was so bizarre, for Sherlock, to be overridden with emotion this way. It caused him to forget to look and observe the world around him at times, but he embraced the crazy roller coaster like he did with so many of his cases. He was now up in the main flat again, flying through the door and slamming it shut behind him. Throwing his head back to the ceiling he growled viciously, his features taking on a frenzied, angry state which matched his emotions perfectly.
He wished that he could grasp what it all meant, because for the first time in his life, he felt something worse than doubt: he felt uncertainty, the lack of knowledge. All he had was a belief that he was feeling, feeling things that he had never before experienced before, feelings that he believed impossible for him to have. He had forever avoided the sentiments that the ordinary people filled their lives with, but here it was, strangling him with loves infamous grip. He tried to fight against it, but he could feel his cold, defined logic and reasoning losing out. So, just once, he let it take over, letting himself experience the absurd ways that love contaminates the mind.
Sherlock circled around the flat in wild patterns, changing his direction on the turn of dime. He could not make head or tail of what he had experienced when finally John was back in his arms the night before, though he could suppose that they were akin to the poisonous kiss of love. He had always known that his emotions and feelings were an area that he had explored little of and knew next to nothing about, but he had always imagined that he had the idea of what went on inside that heart, but now he knew that he could deduce nothing about it.
He threw himself into his chair, his navy robe hanging about him wildly. He wore his purple dress shirt under it, tucked into his simple black trousers. He was completely and entirely bored, but he had no way of relieving himself from this little patch of hell. His hands went up to his hair, mussing it for about the hundredth time since John had left and growling again in angst. He stretched out lazily in the chair, his legs spreading out across the floor and slouching far back into it.
Laying there for a few minutes, his mind chasing thoughts frantically, he straightened up partially and spared a glance at the clock on the wall. Despite the thrice rewound hands and scratched face, it told him that it would be another three hours before he could have his John back. He dropped back in the sofa chair, sighing exasperatedly. He began to close his eyes, perhaps shut his mind off and try to relax, resist the urge to use his remaining storage of nicotine patches hiding in his skull. But then, he could hear it; a cab stop outside. It pulled up to the curb and its brakes squeed to a halt. Waiting, Sherlock could hear the cab door open and slam shut. He leapt from the chair and bounded to the window, looking out onto the street, his robe waving around crazily. He flung the curtain fully open and peered down on the street. And there he was, getting stiffly out from his cab: John. Sherlock's face split open with a wide grin as he flew back to the chair, yanking off his flowy housecoat and throwing it on the chair. He jumped up in the air gleefully, shouting with exuberance.
"Yes! Finally! At last!" The pained and uneven footsteps of John's made their way up the elderly, hollow steps, nearing the landing, on the landing, his obviously borrowed cane echoing heavily against the wooden floorboards. A dead calm washed over Sherlock but his excitement leaked out and as he stood there anxiously in the middle of the flat, unsure as what to do, he rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. John's hand rose up to grasp the door knob and rested there for a few seconds. During this pause, Sherlock began to fret. He had no idea why he was so anxious and why he should feel anything similar to this gut wrenching panic as to what he should do. He hands had hung limp at his sides and they started to fidget, unknowing to what he should do with them. After trying several positions in a flash, he settled for clasping them behind his back just as John twisted the handle and the door swung open. There he stood, his military style jacket covering his plaid shirt that hung loosely on his slender, thin frame. His hair was in its usual style though it was perhaps a bit crazed.
Agitated, longing for comfort. Sleepless night, accompanied by many before that. Lack of nutrition, obvious in the cheekbones and slightly sunken face. Worried, creased brow more dominant. Aged few years in the past month. Hardened perspective, lack of any kind of trust. Potential confrontation, possibly violent, verbal or otherwise. Pursed lips, concentrating. Concentrating on what..? His eyes, they convey the emotion of intensity, sadness... Love?
This was the first time Sherlock had been able to truly look at John and deduce him, and though it had only taken him mere seconds to total what John had been through, the trip had taken him an eon to realize that it was a truly possible thing that John felt the same as Sherlock did.
They stood there for what seemed like ages, simply staring at each other, drinking in the fact that the other was still there, that it was real, that they could touch the other and not be woken up from the dream. He still stood in the middle of the door of 221B, staring at Sherlock who was poised, waiting, hands behind his back and in that purple shirt that never failed to send shivers up and down his spine. It framed his body in a beautiful form, tucking in closely to his shapely waist, accentuating his broad upper body perfectly.
He could feel Sherlock studying him and he felt like an open book being read thoroughly by a loving and dedicated reader who had come back for another read. And he let him, glad to be examined again by the man who knew his every breath better than himself. He could sense his gaze settle on his lips, then his eyes. John looked into Sherlock's face and watched its deduction go through the stages. His brow knit together momentarily before realization spread blankly across his high lined forehead. He then closed those gems of eyes shut for what could have been no more than half a second before they snapped open again and they let go of their eternal mask to reveal his soul. Love and relief mixed with misery were painted on his eyes and face, his frame loosened, opening up to him, his hands dropping to his sides. He watched Sherlock's chest rise, the buttons straining against the movement and a shudder ripped through his torso. With that, Sherlock rocked forwards and closed the space between them. At the last moment he stretched his arms outwards to embrace John, gripping him as close to his body as was possible, resting his face in the crook of Johns shoulder. He reached his chin out before bringing it to nuzzle up against Sherlock's collarbone, closing his eyes, letting the beauty of the embrace spread over his being. All of the worry and stress seemed to fall off his body as he stood there in this mans embrace. And right then, the consciousness of the situation reached John and he finally knew and could acknowledge the truth: that the only human being he wished to be with was this man. A singular thought took over his mind, making him smile into Sherlock's chest: He was a Holmosexual. Without a warning of any sort, Sherlock brought his head up from the sanctuary of Johns shoulder and stepped away, gesturing for John to enter the room. As he limped in, Sherlock placed a long fingered hand on the door, closing it gently.
He pivoted on his cane to face Sherlock, possibly talk and tell him how he felt, but Sherlock was a mile ahead of him.
The moment John turned around to look at him, Sherlock was there, one hand reaching to cup his waist while the other moved up with back up to grasp his head, bringing it close. He paused for a heartbeat; letting the moment linger on their lips, paint the air scarlet. Then Sherlock leaned forwards, closing the minuscule gap and their lips met. Their lips moved together as though they were made for the other, at first with slow passion, then frenzied hunger. The flat melted away around them, no longer existing until it was just them in the world, the world full of nothing but their unspoken love. They were lost in each other, neither ever wanting to leave. They stayed there until they lost track of time, it occurred to John that he had dropped his cane and his hands were wrapped around Sherlock's slender build, but none of that mattered.
Finally, he pulled away, but just. He rested his swollen, wet lips on Sherlock's and spoke slowly.
"I don't want to love you but... I do. Sherlock, I really do." He could feel Sherlock smile against his lips before he picked up the kiss again, this time in a hunger and intensity that John could have never thought possible from anyone, let alone the man who had spent decades running from this emotion. He did not expect Sherlock to respond, and he honestly could have cared less if he did. But then, Sherlock slowed, letting the kiss linger on Johns lips until he had pulled away totally and he was looking into Johns eyes with a crazed earnestness, his adorable cupid's bow swollen with kissing. And then those lips spoke, spoke deep resonating words that could have filled a millennium with happiness.
"So this is love. Thank you for showing me just how resplendent it is." And just then, without even saying the words, Sherlock had shouted the three syllables John had forever longed to hear.
'I love you.'
"Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side... I imagine John Watson thinks love is a mystery to me, but the chemistry is very simple and very destructive… This is your heart and you should never let it rule your head... I always thought love was a dangerous disadvantage... Thank you for the final proof."
"Gahhh!" Sherlock shot up right in his bed, sheets tangled around his legs and torso. His inside out shirt was damp with sweat and he panted heavily, his hair a crazy mess and his eyes wide.
This dream was nothing new to Sherlock, for it was a reoccurring one from the past year that never failed to alarm him. And until this night, he had forever been unable to understand it. But now he did, clear as day. How could he have not seen it before?
'I've beaten you... Turns out your ordinary... Ordinary Sherlock...'
He gasped painfully as the voice hissed in his brain. He grabbed at his hair with clenched fists, squeezing his eyes shut, trying to press the memory from his head.
'Ordinary... Normal… You're on the side of the angels...'
A maddened growl burst from his lips and he released his fists, snatched the blankets and throwing them off of himself, swinging his legs off the bed and planted his feet on the floor. His shirt clung to him uncomfortably as it began to dry and his grey bottoms were shifted but he paid them no attention. Ignoring his robe he opened his door quietly and crept out into the flat, making his way towards John's room. He paused outside his door, listening to the flat breathe, hear John move in his bed, inhale and exhale loudly. Stealthily, Sherlock managed the door open until it gave him full view of the room. And there he lay, one hand resting on his chest, the other near his head, the sheets covering his body; the man who loved him back, the only man who truly knew who he was, the only one who sincerely cared about him. He was John, his John. A beam of light from the curtained window fell on John's torso, lighting his shirt that fitted him closely, showing his lightly muscled chest.
Sherlock stole into his room, each footstep landing lithely on the floorboards, gliding on the rug until he was at John's bedside, watching his chest rise and fall rhythmically, peacefully. And for once, Sherlock cherished the peaceful silence, listening to John live. A smile caressed Sherlock's lips and he sunk to the floor, rocking back onto he balls of his feet. He reached out his hand, resting it on John's bed near his body. He drank in the fact that this dream was real, that the man who lay there finally acknowledged that he was enchanted by Sherlock, that this man could love Sherlock the way he loved him. The bliss shuddered through his body.
John moved suddenly, the hand that had been lying on his own chest shifted, falling to his side, near to touching Sherlock's. Sherlock stopped his own breathing, tensed. He waited a few heartbeats before he extended his fingers, lightly grazing John's hand, feeling his warmth under his touch. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply.
Quickly, he swung back onto his feet, spun on the spot and glided out of the room. As he reached the door, pulling it closed behind him, he spared a glance back through the mostly closed door. There was the man who saved him, and his only wish was that he could do the same.
With that, he closed the door delicately, listening for the ensuring click of the door to tell him that he had left without a trace and his midnight visit would exist to no one but himself. A peaceful calm had swept over him as he strolled back to his room, opened the door and sat back down on his bed, staring at his darkened wall. Breathing deeply he tried to organize his thoughts which were muddled with sleep deprivation and his dream. Finally he collapsed backwards on his bed letting a dreamless sleep take him with the thought of Johns touch and how, for once, the peace wasn't so hateful at all.
The door clicked behind Sherlock and John slowly raised himself onto his elbows, smiling. He had been awoken by the click of the door opening, but he had not moved, allowing Sherlock to come in and crouch by his bedside. John had given no indication whatsoever that he was awake, though the fact that Sherlock was there in his room sent waves of joy through his body. He had dropped his hand off his chest in an offer to him, which after a few moments, Sherlock accepted, placing his fingertips on the back of his hand. Not soon after, he had strode out of the room, softly closing the door and heading off to his room again.
He looked over to his bedside table where his alarm clock read him the time in large red numbers: 3:21 am. He fell back into the bed, contemplating the midnight visit and what had caused it. Perhaps it was his own way of showing how he cared, for then again he had little experience in the area of expressing himself towards others in any emotional way. His mind raced with various possibilities and it would not turn off. Finally, after the thought of Sherlock hoping he would awake and then he could talk, and just what would he talk about, danced through Johns mind, he tried to fall back asleep. But after several minutes of tossing and turning, his brain refusing to stop its many trains of thought, he bolted upright, staring across his familiar room. There on the back of his door was one of Sherlock's scarves, one of navy and light blue stripes. He remembered when Sherlock had come barging into his room with him many months ago, rambling on about a case they had just solved.
John just sat there, smiling amusedly as he watched Sherlock's enthusiasm about how the man had managed to murder a woman with ice and poison, leaving nothing but a clue that no one had seen except for Sherlock: that the murder had left the patio door ajar, leading to evidence and information so plentiful it made even Anderson feel dumb.
"Can you believe them John?" he said, tugging off his scarf expertly before tossing it on the dresser, which fell to the floor. "Missing something as big as that? Seriously, even Anderson could have managed to look off that balcony and seen it! So oblivious! It was the Van coon murder all over again!"
John had simply smiled dully and shook his head as Sherlock shrugged off his long coat and hung it over his arm.
"Well, they are idiots, aren't they? You said so yourself, practically everyone is. Shouldn't be so surprised that they missed things like that."
He sighed heavily before grudgingly agreeing with John.
"Tea?" he asked.
"Yes, of course." John relied. Sherlock had turned on his heel and marched off towards the kitchen, throwing the coat on the table chair. John stayed behind in his room, hanging up his coat behind his door. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed the fallen scarf, picked it up and hung it up beside the coat before leaving to listen to Sherlock rant on and on about the case until it finally bored him. It doesn't take much to bore Sherlock, so before long he was itching for a new case, and not too soon after he was rewarded with the case that made his career as well as felled it: The Reichenbach.
The smile slipped from Johns face and his mind stopped for a few seconds before memories from that case flew through his mind before they ended up on Sherlock's eyes wide and lifeless, his face smeared with blood people pulling him away from the only friend he had ever really had.
Sickness spread through him, and he squeezed his eyes against the images, pressing his hands against his face as though he wished to pluck the memory from his brain entirely. The pictures eventually faded away and he took a deep breath before releasing it shakily, refusing to think about that day. Leaning over his bed to the alarm clock, he hit the radio which began to quietly play music, a hopeful attempt to calm him. A new tune played through the invisible speaker. He had come in at the beginning of the song and it began to lull him, the electronic, ethereal sound comforting him. It soon began to change, and the man started to sing.
"Aren't you somethin' to admire, cause your shine is somethin' like a mirror
And I can't help but notice, you reflect in this heart of mine
If you ever feel alone and the glare makes me hard to find
Just know that I'm always parallell on the other side"
John stopped his heavy breathing, listening to this bizarrely beautiful song. The melody of the song changed, and the chorus poured through the radio.
"Cause with your hand in my hand and a pocket full of soul
I can tell you there's no place we couldn't go
Just put your hand on the glass, I'll be tryin' to pull you through
You just gotta be strong
Cause I don't wanna lose you now
I'm lookin' right at the other half of me
The vacancy that sat in my heart
Is a space that now you hold
Show me how to fight for now
And I'll tell you baby, it was easy
Comin' back into you once I figured it out
You were right here all along
It's like you're my mirror
My mirror staring back at me
I couldn't get any bigger
With anyone else beside of me
And now it's clear as this promise
That we're making two reflections into one
Cause it's like you're my mirror
My mirror staring back at me, staring back at me"
John fell back into his bed, letting the song take him away, and with every word, Sherlock's face beamed at him. He dozed off in bliss, dreaming of the man who had given him his life back, and no matter how difficult he had made living for him, he had given him a life worth living.
