Dear John,
I owe you a thousand apologies. One for every day I haven't told you I'm alive. One for every day I haven't asked you to join me. And one for every nightmare you had because of me. This probably means that I owe you 1,095 apologies, but I sincerely hope that you weren't haunted by nightmares every night.
I don't know what I did to deserve your friendship. It is the one mystery I was never able to solve, but please know that I'm thankful for every second in your presence. You made me a better man.
A man who would have jumped from a rooftop for his friends – even without the plan securing his survival. You were right – friends protect people. And what I did was to protect you. You and Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. I endangered you all by caring about you. This is what makes caring a disadvantage, but somehow I find myself not resenting it. Even if I have lost the most valuable thing I had – your friendship – I believe it was worth dying.
I'm aware that I caused you great pain by dying and by not telling. Maybe I shouldn't ask for forgiveness, but please allow me one more time to take advantage of your caring soul.
I would be entirely grateful if you could one day talk to me again.
Sincerely yours
Sherlock Holmes
John Watson was a stubborn man. It was one of the reasons he had survived in Afghanistan when he had lain in a pool of his own blood asking any deity who might listen to him "Please god, let me live." He had been too stubborn to die. It was one of the reasons he had refrained from suicide – once after his return from the war and once after Sherlock's death.
His stubbornness had helped him living with Sherlock, through the insane times of the other man's boredom or his experiments. It kept them both grounded, because he refused joining in the whirlwind, reminding the detective of social necessities and regular meals.
And his stubbornness was the reason why he was back again on the graveyard in the dim light of the early evening. He wasn't afraid of ghosts or the dead, having seen the battlefields of Afghanistan and London as Mycroft had once so eloquently named them. And he had his own demons to fight with.
He stood once again in front of the black stone with the golden letters. Normally when he made a decision he went with it until the end. Normally. Was there ever a moment when his life had been normal with Sherlock?
Standing in front of an empty grave was one proof of it. The other man had always been exceptional. John had read the letter several times. It was strange reading those praising words from Sherlock who normally appeared so cold and detached. But it healed some of the bleeding wounds of his soul and he knew the others would disappear with time.
He remembered the injured Sherlock at the hospital. Sherlock had looked fragile, frighteningly thin and dark shadows under his eyes. He wasn't taking care of himself. Well, he had never been particularly good at taking care of himself, but obviously he was now neglecting his body's needs entirely.
The small line of blood on the side of his face had made him look even more vulnerable. This may be the case because this reminded him of the last time John had seen blood on the pale face. The image of Sherlock's lifeless body on the pavement had popped up for one second, before he dismissed it.
But the most terrifying thing had been Sherlock's desperate apology. The Sherlock he remembered wasn't fragile, wasn't vulnerable, didn't apologise and certainly wasn't desperate. But the man in front of him had been clearly afraid of John's reaction. John had hurt the detective; he hadn't thought he would be able to do so.
It was a strange sensation – an odd mixture of relief and regret. He was relieved that their friendship hadn't been as one-sided as he had feared in the last weeks. It was the final proof that Sherlock cared, that he wasn't a machine, that he really was the most human being John had ever known. And as a human being he would be hurt. There was a time when John had wanted to hurt the madman, making him feel how it had been for him. It seemed that he had succeeded without really intending to. He had only intended to guard himself from further pain.
It was time to make another decision. John stared at his image on the stone. This time there was no other figure joining him, but he remembered the feeling. The shock, the joy, warm arms embracing him, holding him. With a last glance he turned, leaving the graveyard.
Sherlock gazed through the lens of the microscope before exchanging the slide.
"Thank you Jo… Molly."
He felt Molly still for a moment before she continued to prepare the slides. They had worked in silence for the past hour, which was something Sherlock was thankful for. He could have easily analysed the soil samples in Baker Street, but working in the empty flat had lost its appeal. Working at St. Bart's with the assistance of Molly resembled some kind of normalcy, some kind of 'before'. And Mrs Hudson was happy that he didn't destroy any furniture.
The first meeting with Molly had been awkward. Sherlock hadn't been sure how she would react, but when she attempted a hug, he hugged her back.
"You are alive." She had sounded relieved, had looked at him with watery eyes, before she released him, stepped back and tried to look calm.
"What do you need?" Realising the last time she had asked him this, she blushed. "I mean today. You probably don't want to fake your death again." She had tried to fake a laugh, before closing her mouth.
That was the moment when he had wondered if he should do something more, offer her something more than a hug, but she had seemed fine with the situation. And so he had simply asked for access to the lab. From that on both of them slipped back in their old routines, although he had stopped his usual remarks. It was a relief that at least something in his life had been easy to fix.
"I could talk to him."
Sherlock looked up, eying her carefully. He had learnt that she was far more observant than he had given her credit for. Maybe her infatuation with him had impaired the judgement; it was hard to evaluate someone correctly when every look could be misinterpreted. He had taken advantage of that, too, but he hadn't paid her enough attention to learn more about Molly Hooper. Another mistake not to make again.
There was no need to play dumb, they both knew who 'him' was. His mind easily provided him with pictures from the afternoon – John evaluating him, John stitching him up, John letting his doctor mode slip. He still hadn't received an answer if the doctor could forgive him, but he had decided not to ask for one. He could live without the knowledge, he was afraid knowing the answer would be much harder. And he had promised John to stay away from him. Admittedly he had broken this promise, but it was hardly his fault that NHS regulations were regarded more important than keeping promises. As far as he could see there was nothing that could be done at the moment, so what would Molly do? He was curious.
"Why would you talk to him?"
"Explain everything. Apologise."
"There is no need for you to apologise", he pointed out. She had helped him; she had done so on his suggestion. It had been his plan all along. Everything that happened was clearly Sherlock's fault. Why would she feel the need to apologise?
"There is. He was so sad, so hurt. And I could have helped with that. I should have helped with that." He heard the regret in her voice. Molly hadn't a cruel bone in her body, of course she would care. How had he managed to surround himself with so many caring people? How had they found him? He asked himself briefly, before returning his attention to Molly.
"Then everything would have been in vain. You don't have to apologise, Molly. Your actions saved him. My actions hurt him."
"But …" Sherlock interrupted her. "No, Molly. You have done enough."
For a moment Molly looked as if she wanted to say something more, but then she simply nodded.
"I … I get more slides."
Sherlock watched her leaving the lab. He wasn't sure he had talked her out of the idea to talk with John, but he hoped so. The detective had no idea how John would react to Molly. He had been so angry when he learnt that Molly had helped, so it was probably for the best if a meeting of those two could be avoided as long as possible. This could be quite difficult since both of them had the tendency to do what they thought to be right. Well, there was nothing he could do at the moment.
He turned back again to his microscope, concentrating on the samples at hand and barring any thoughts about the mess in his personal life. Taking another slide and adding more notes to his description of the experiment, he wondered what took Molly so long. Ah, there was the lab door. He didn't looked up, when he registered the familiar footsteps. It took him a moment before his brain realised that something was wrong. This wasn't Molly.
He glanced up. John. John who eyed him carefully, looking at the plaster on his forehead, looking at his arm. The bandage was covered by clothes. It had been only some hours since he had seen him the last time, but something had changed. John appeared nervous, but at the same time calmer, more settled, almost as he had been before everything. Sherlock waited, unsure what to say. They stared at each other, their eyes locking – grey eyes meeting blue ones.
After what felt like an eternity, John stated to speak:
"I make tea when I need to calm myself. I nag other people about their eating and sleeping habits. I shoot bloody awful cabbies. And sometimes I don't talk to my best friend."
Sherlock could only stare. What did this mean? Could it be … He didn't dare to move, he had no idea what John wanted him to do.
The doctor had looked at him expectantly, grimacing when it became obvious that Sherlock wouldn't answer.
"Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other", he explained.
John was reliving their first meeting, their first meeting in this lab. When Mike had introduced them. Did this mean John would come back? Sherlock didn't dare to believe it, watching the other man carefully when he checked:
"You want to come back." It sounded more like a question than he intented.
"Yes. I want to come back." John sounded sure. There was nothing insecure about him, even the initial nervousness had disappeared.
Slowly Sherlock allowed a smile to appear. Somehow the world seemed brighter than before. When he saw John's left hand massaging his neck, his caution returned. There was more.
"Listen, Sherlock, um, I'm sorry about what I said. I should have talked to you before. And I should have read your letter earlier. But you had hurt me."
"You have torn the letter." It was an accusation and it was a declaration of hurt. Sherlock saw the regret in John's eyes, but finding the paper shreds had been devastating.
"I taped it." As a proof he held up a piece of paper. It had been clearly torn apart and neatly fixed. "And I've read it." He paused for a moment. "I accept your apology if you accept mine. Just one thing, Sherlock. Promise me one thing: Don't you ever leave me again."
John apologised to him. It didn't seem right, Sherlock had hurt him before. But he wouldn't argue with John about something like that. Not when the other man had decided to forgive him.
"I will not leave you again." Sherlock intended to keep this promise, but the last days had taken their toll. "Can I ask the same of you?"
John looked surprised but then he simply nodded: "Yes."
For a long time Sherlock could only look at John, their eyes meeting each other. He felt himself smile again. And when he saw a similar smile on the other man, his own grew. Finally, finally, everything would go back to 'normal'.
"Dinner?" He asked.
"Starving."
AN: Okay, that was it. The whole thing turned out a lot more angstier and darker than I anticipated, but there is only so much I could do. I will put this story on complete, although I think there will be an epilogue (or maybe even a sequel). As for now, thank you for reading.