Doctor John Hamish Watson was not a genius. His registered IQ was not as high as that of Sherlock Holmes, or even comparable to it, and he didn't see things in every single scuffle or stain a person might be wearing upon their uniform. John wasn't stupid, though, either. One did not get through medical school being an incompetent, and neither had John.
He knew by sight when a bone was broken, or a wound was fatal. He knew (most of the time) when a person was lying, and he definitely knew when he was being followed.
Since the third day of his friendship with Mr. Sherlock Holmes of 221b Baker Street, John had been ever aware of the security cameras, secret agents, and dark SUVs that followed the two friends around on their every insane case, but this was different.
Mycroft's cars weren't the only vehicles that stalked him, and dark men in sunglasses who were SO not conspicuous weren't the only people he spotted trailing him. John took to triple locking his doors once again at night for the first time since the death of the only man he'd ever call a best friend.
Two and a half years was long, but not long enough to forget, apparently. Every raised or furrowed brow. Every quirking smile or sarcastic smirk. The quiet laugh and the loud, musical, unstoppable one. John remembered it all, trapped there in the front of his brain. Sometimes it twisted there so furiously it gave him a headache, but he reminded himself that it was nothing compared to the pain Sherlock had felt right before…
A knock sounded at his door, startling John Watson out of his depressing thoughts. He looked around, uncomfortable at the prospect of visitors, even after nearly two years living in the flat. His flat wasn't quite visitor-worthy. Indeed, it was hardly even tenant-worthy, if one was willing to split hairs. John had met Greg at the inspector's flat, and Molly and Stamford at the hospital. He'd never actually let anyone visit his flat before, or even given anyone his new address.
Mycroft had apparently waited long enough and opened the door himself, stepping in swiftly and closing the door behind him. John actually wasn't surprised: it had probably taken three seconds (maybe four) for Mycroft to find his new address. The government official turned back to John and smiled slightly, leaning his umbrella against the wall and folding his hands slowly as though approaching a frightened animal.
"I fear you're being trailed, John," he mentioned conversationally.
"Yes, I know."
Mycroft hesitated before adding, "By people other than my own."
"I know that, too."
"Good, then…" Mycroft shifted uncomfortably, "May I sit?"
John nodded quickly and Mycroft moved quickly to sit across from the doctor on the couch. He'd come for a reason, they both knew.
"Things have… come up…" Mycroft began slowly, "both presently and in the past. Sherlock-" he attempted to ignore the flinch from the doctor, "Sherlock knew, witnessed, and even did certain… things… and you were not made aware of them."
"Why are you here, Mycroft?"
His tone was so broken, so soft, that Mycroft looked away.
"I'm here, Doctor Watson, to issue you a warning."
The eyebrow arched.
"If any - any - such deeds come to light… know, please, just one thing. Sherlock kept secrets from you, but it was because he cared. He didn't want to cause you pain, put you in danger, or make you worry."
It had been two days later that John had gotten a sudden longing for familiarity. He called off work and took the long way around the city, making his way on foot to the location of his old lodgings. He forced Mycroft's words around in his head the entire journey, contemplating every meaning they could hold, and was still very much at a loss when he arrived at the destination.
They key came from his pocket, but to his surprise, the door was unlocked. He stepped in and shed his coat and gloves before making his way carefully up the stairs. He turned the corner into the sitting room and his heart stopped at the memories that flooded his mind. Now he remembered why he didn't come here anymore.
The door at the bottom of the stairs opened again and John stiffened on his way down the hallway, freezing completely. He heard voices, and ones he didn't recognize, at that. He turned to seek their owners, but instead, the door to the late Sherlock Holmes' bedroom slipped open and a hand reached out, grasping John's arm and drawing him into the room.
The grip of the other on John was tight, unrelenting, and a second hand promptly covered his mouth, forcing him to be silent, even as his heart thudded in his ears. He heard the voices again, talking quickly as they moved things around. They came close to the door and his captor moved them both behind the door before it opened and the intruder stepped in. A moment later, there was a sickening shot, a shout of pain, and the lights flickered on.
The captor was gone, John was trembling, and on the floor lay the dead body of Colonel Sebastian Moran.
Greg Lestrade had arrived shortly, but John was unarmed and trembling more than he would have been had he killed the man. Lestrade had taken down John's story, put his notebook away, and embraced the other man.
"It seems you have a guardian angel, John."
That night at home, John was turning it over in his head again. He knew that scent. He knew that breathing. He knew those hands. Mycroft's words were making a bit more sense, now. A knock on the door was perfect timing to startle him again.
John set his cup down on the coffee table and stood with a sigh. He moved to the door and then paused, considering. A moment later he flung the door open, grabbed the wrist of the visitor and drew him inside. The door was closed a second after that and, blinking in the dim glow of the fluorescent light, was Sherlock Holmes.
Even though he'd expected it, John was trapped in a minor state of shock. The tears still trapped just behind his eyes were fighting to be free, but first…
John's eyes raked over the world's only consulting detective: his dark-rimmed eyes from lack of sleep, his scarred arms and stiff stance from obvious pain, and his ridiculous Belstaff that he wore rain or shine, streaked with dirt and blood. John's fingers ran over Sherlock's too-thin wrists, broken at one point in the past year, bruised by what appeared to be ropes. He felt every single bone and joint under the translucent skin.
The next line came so gently, and so sorrow-filled that even Sherlock's stone heart clenched as John questioned, "Good Lord, Sherlock. Have you eaten since the day you-" he paused before, for lack of better words, "died?"
Sherlock released his breathy chuckle.
"I missed you too, John."
John stared up at the miracle in front of him, his strong military stance faltering. The half sob that had been growing in his chest since that morning broke and John's arms went up and and around Sherlock's neck. He felt the hand rest on his shoulder, actually holding him close, heard the voice in his ear whisper, "I'm so sorry…" and he buried his face even deeper into the soft coat.
John was well on his way to exhaustion, Sherlock knew. He himself wasn't strong at that moment, but he knew he was stronger than the doctor clinging to him, and so he stayed still, his hand gently moving back and forth over John's shoulder. John was leaning more and more into him until Sherlock finally stepped forward, moving both of them to the couch. He carefully maneuvered away from John and slipped out of his coat before settling onto the coach. John followed a moment later, resting against the back of the sofa and breathing deeply. Sherlock silently commended him for holding his composure, but a moment later, John was reaching over and grasping his wrist, searching for a pulse.
It only took Sherlock a moment to let out a sigh, pull his wrist out of the doctor's tight grip, and open his arms again murmuring, "Oh, come on…"
John fell asleep there that night, curled up against his friend and listening to his heart, which beat every ounce of regret twice on its way from the body to the brain. It had been necessary, what he'd done. Absolutely necessary… but he hated himself for having hurt this person who clung to him as a child would cling to its parent after a nightmare.
Sherlock himself finally fell asleep just before the clock struck three, and there they stayed for the next two hours. It was John who bolted upright, his breathing harsh and skipping every few moments. His fingers stumbled painfully over Sherlock's wrists, begging for something that resembled a pulse, but before he found it, Sherlock was awake.
"John…" he murmured quietly, "Calm down, John."
John's arms went around Sherlock's waist and he seemed to calm, shuddering still as he leaned against the detective. Sherlock reached over and grabbed his coat to cover the doctor with.
"Are you alright?" he asked at last, looking down at the blond head. "You alright, John?"
"I missed you…" John murmured as way of explanation. Sherlock shifted closer, wondering briefly where this willingness to be close had come from. He knew a moment later.
"I missed you too, Dear John," Sherlock whispered, touching his forehead down to John's soft hair. "I missed you more than you'll every know."