Thank you all, once more.
Enjoy.
We Keep Falling
Nine
Sherlock didn't show up again that night.
John didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed. Again.
Relieved, he told himself, and nonetheless continued tossing and turning in his bed.
Sherlock's words kept echoing in his head, his coughing kept ringing in his ears, and the more he thought about this meeting, about Sherlock's appearance and behaviour, the more his restlessness and uneasiness increased.
Help me, Sherlock had said. Had apologised, repeatedly, had attempted to explain everything, and…
And John hadn't let him. As soon as he had heard that Moriarty was dead, everything had seemed so obvious, he had just lost all patience, all resolve to listen to Sherlock.
Keep you safe. Snipers.
Keep you safe.
Sherlock had wanted to talk to him, did apparently have an explanation, in his opinion. Sherlock always had an explanation, for everything, never did anything without a reason.
A reason.
Acting, it had to have been acting, his coughing, his apparent weakness. Acting… it couldn't be, though. The worst was, John knew it wasn't, knew, deep in his heart, that Sherlock had to be ill, in need of… in need of a friend, probably.
Three years. Sherlock had left him for three years, had let him believe that he was dead, had betrayed him, and lied to him.
"Damn it," John muttered under his breath.
Sherlock still was his friend, he still cared for that idiot, he couldn't help it, not now, when he was finally able to see past his anger.
They needed to talk. If just for John's own sake.
Groaning, John reached for his phone and dialled, dialled a number he still knew by heart.
He would never find out if he didn't give Sherlock the chance to explain.
"The number you called…"
Of course. How could he have expected Sherlock to still have the same phone number? John didn't even know what had happened to Sherlock's phone after…
Greg, he could call Greg.
Mrs Hudson, Molly, Mycroft… He hadn't talked to Mycroft since… since the funeral.
A quick glance at his clock put an end to all thoughts of calling anyone. Quarter to four in the night.
Massaging his aching temple, John haphazardly put his mobile back to the bedside table and threw himself back into his pillows.
He managed to drag himself to work the next day, having found no sleep at all, despite the sleeping pill.
Dragged himself to work, diagnosed people, subconsciously waiting for Sherlock's face to appear and beg him for forgiveness once more, attempt another explanation. He knocked over three people in his haste to turn somebody around, somebody with curly dark hair - and to find out seconds later that he didn't even remotely look like Sherlock.
Too tanned, too stout, too small.
It was fine, John tried to tell himself, still ignoring all the calls Rose was giving him. He wondered when she finally would get the hint and realise that it was over.
Over.
Continued sitting in his office, behind his desk, supposed to listen to people's problems, supposed to help them, to be a doctor, when all he could think about was how he had sent his friend - friend, still - away. Had sent him away, for the second time, when Sherlock had begged him for help. When Sherlock had come to John of all people, to apologise, to try to explain.
Smiling faintly, barely registering what he was doing, he handed a medication prescription to the woman sitting opposite of him, attempting to force his stiff lips into a smile.
Sherlock, on the concrete in front of Bart's. Mourning him, grief, the feeling of loss, missing his bloody best friend. Visiting his grave, pleading for one more miracle.
John's hand started trembling as soon as he recalled that moment.
One more miracle.
He had been given his miracle, hadn't he? Sherlock was back, was alive, had come back.
Had left, yes, of course, for three years, but…
Alive.
The woman opposite of him asked him something. John simply nodded, not paying attention whether it was a suitable reaction or whether he had just confirmed something that was clearly wrong.
For God's sake.
He had spent three years with missing Sherlock, missing that bloody idiot because he had thought him dead, and…
Missing him.
He bloody missed Sherlock. Still did, even after everything he knew. Missed him, missed his best friend, because that was what they were. Had been. Were. Best friends.
And Sherlock hadn't looked too well, even in the dim light of only one street lamp.
"Damn it," John cursed under his breath and jumped up from his chair.
He still cared for that bloody man, and he would be damned if he let get Sherlock away now so easily.
Greg Lestrade found himself on his phone while his team was busy with arresting a man they had been after for a few weeks, found himself on the phone without actually knowing what he was doing.
"John?" he asked in disbelief, taking a few steps away from Donavan next to him. "What's wrong?"
"Greg." John sounded breathless. "You seen Sherlock lately?"
"What? John," Greg attempted to cut him off rather awkwardly. "I'm a bit busy here."
"Sherlock," John's voice repeated, not paying any attention to what Greg had interjected. "He came to you, didn't he? Have you seen him?"
Once more, Greg didn't know what to answer. "What? John, what are you on about? He…"
"Sherlock wanted to talk to me yesterday, came to my flat, and I sent him away," John explained hastily, almost too fast for Greg's surprised brain to follow. "I think…"
"Yeah?" Greg interrupted, watching two members of his team shove their criminal into a police car. "You want to tell me he deserved it?"
Funnily enough, John hesitated for a moment. "Yes," he then agreed. Greg already felt a slight smirk spread on his face when John went on: "Greg, I think I might have made a mistake."
"Mistake? Why?" he asked, simultaneously gesturing at Donavan to get into their car. Mistake?
"Because I sent him away!" John suddenly snapped, almost impatiently. "You saw him, too, didn't you? Listen, he came to me for help, and he's sick, and…"
"John," Greg interrupted him, approaching the car and Donavan. God, the paperwork to do would be awful. "Don't you think, you know... he can take care of himself? After everything… you know?"
After everything. Greg didn't even want to imagine how John had to feel.
Christ. Coffee, he was going to need some coffee later. Coffee, or another cigarette?
John sighed on the other end of the line. "I don't know," he eventually answered. "It's just… You haven't seen him? Got any phone number?"
Phone number? Why should he… Something in John's voice, however, made him stop for a moment.
He's sick, John had said.
"Yeah, he wasn't looking well," Greg muttered, more to himself, and only afterwards remembered John's question. "No, heard nothing of him. Sorry, John."
John remained silent for a while.
"John?" Greg enquired carefully. "You alright?"
"What, yeah," John replied distractedly. "Listen, Greg, if you… if you see him, would you… call me?"
Something about John's words. Cigarette, definitely, later, Greg decided, opening the door of the car with his free hand, but still hesitating outside. "You sure you're alright?" he wanted to know.
"Yeah," John simply repeated.
"And Sherlock?" Greg added, as quietly as possible.
This time, John didn't answer.
Sherlock didn't know where he was. Didn't know where he was, or why he was here, or where he had wanted to go.
Dizzy, so dizzy, everything moving around him, the walls next to him, the bright sky, the…
His eyes closed, involuntarily.
Cold, so cold. Shivering, he was shivering, his arms were already around his torso, curled up as much as possible, but… but it was no use.
Cold, why was it so cold? It shouldn't…
Pain exploded in his intestines as coughs rattled in his lungs, leaving him gasping for breath.
Where was he, where… were they still after him, where was John, where…
He could feel nothing but the cold, disrupted by the pain, covered by the cold.
Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you thought.