Chapter Five

"John"

John was loath to admit it, but his arms were beginning to tire. The man he held was so deeply asleep he was absolutely limp, drooping in his lap. The dead weight of the younger man was oddly appealing though. John's legs were falling asleep, and his arms were starting to strain from holding Sherlock up, but he didn't care. Sherlock was in a state John hadn't seen him in before (while sober); naturally asleep and starting to snore. Little wisps of air kept fluttering on John's neck, tickling. He leaned his head forward a couple of degrees, his lips against Sherlock's warm neck, and breathed the smell of him in. It filled his lungs, burning him in an electric current to the tips of his toes.

"How is this real? He was dead, I saw him die. Smelled the blood in the cold wet air, felt the limpness of his arm muscles. Sherlock was dead. My world stopped. He was gone, and now he's here. I'm holding him. There was a hole in my life when he was gone. And now" John's thoughts were racing, spiraling. Caught in a loop between disbelief that he had Sherlock back, the man he held proof positive it wasn't a dream and the thought that he had no clue what to do next. His life had been on a new path, one he chose whole heartedly. He made the decision to pull himself out of the misery, pain and horror, and to try being a person again. To try to be himself again. It had been hard, almost as hard as the first few weeks after the Fall. Those weeks after Sherlock had left was nothing but a nightmare blur of indistinct memories. The funeral was the one thing he remembered clearly, and the plea he'd made to his best friend's grave. He had been ready to sell his soul, make any bargain, to have Sherlock back.

His grief had been too much to bear- he let his body keep him alive in the early days. Muscle memory of how to eat, sleep, get dressed all had been habit, and he let his mind and heart disengage. Let his body take over. He was just a passenger, uninterested in anything but breathing through the pain. Living was exhausting, and he couldn't remember how to exist without Sherlock Holmes.

He remembered one day the crushing immobility he had suffered walking up the stairs of 221B. It had caught him on the landing, and he was stuck. He couldn't go forward up the stairs, he couldn't make his legs move. The flat above was quiet, empty. Sherlock wasn't there, he would never be there again. His hands had begun to shake, and sweat broke out all over his body. His experience told him it was a panic attack, but he could do nothing to stop it. It was an epiphany of horrible consequence Sherlock was dead and he would never, ever be coming back. And so John Watson broke, like lightning splitting a tree he was ripped apart by forces he couldn't control. He had no idea how long he had stood there before he came back to his senses kneeling on the landing, stinking of sweat and fear. His mind was clear, he felt expunged of grief and despair. He knew it was still there, but his mind was free enough to realize that he had to leave. He couldn't stay here and survive. So he slowly, carefully pulled himself back together, and went to speak to Mrs. Hudson.

John snapped back from his memories. Dwelling on the bad times wasn't healthy. And now his universe was changed again. Sherlock Holmes was alive. Alive and in his arms. His Sherlock. His Sherlock.

John wondered at his willingness to hold Sherlock the way he was. The two of them had never been overly demonstrative, but neither had withdrawn from the occasional contact. Surprisingly enough, Sherlock had always been the one to initiate contact by grabbing his face and spinning him in circles, touching his shoulder or back to guide him through the dark chasing after baddies. For a man who claimed to abhor needing people, he would reach out and touch John without hesitation. As if he hadn't thought at all that John would mind. John had often wondered if Sherlock even noticed he was doing it. Casual touches, fingers skimming along his arm or the back of his hand. Standing so very close, eyes intent and focused on John's. John hadn't even noticed that he didn't mind! He hadn't noticed how he would orient himself in a room to always be in line of sight of Sherlock. How he would change his stance to keep himself between Sherlock and potential danger, or even how he would stand by Sherlock's side when confronted by angry suspects or idiotic police women. John had never noticed while Sherlock was still alive; after his death John had poured over his memories, and seen the truth. That when the rumors started about the two of them being an item, they had merely reflected the truth people were seeing in how Sherlock and John interacted together. In every sense of the word they had been a couple; full of unrealized potential. It had made John angry when he looked back at their time together angry that he hadn't seen how he was feeling, and angry that he didn't know what he would have done about it. John wasn't lying when he said he wasn't gay he had never been attracted to men before in his life. And then he had laughed at himself Sherlock Holmes was less of a man and more superhuman. Sherlock was so beyond the Commonality of Man that John didn't even think sexuality would stop how he felt about Sherlock. He knew he never noticed how other men looked, and that he was still attracted to women.

John shifted in the seat, his legs now fully asleep and tingling. His absence from work would be inexcusable if he stayed here any longer, and he wouldn't put it past Mycroft to get impatient and come back early. He didn't think that being in the same room as Mycroft Holmes was a good idea right now; he may not still be enraged as he had been at Sherlock, but he had no trouble staying mad at Mycroft Holmes. He knew that Mycroft would have talked Sherlock out of contacting him while he was gone, by spouting out that nonsense of "don't get involved". John gently lifted and twisted himself out from beneath the younger Holmes, laying him down on the couch cushions. He grabbed the blanket that still graced the back of his red armchair, and tossed it over the slumbering detective. Sherlock didn't even stir, so out was he.

John spied Sherlock's phone on the coffee table, and picked it up. He slid the screen open, and opened up a new text draft.

Mycroft will be here soon. -JW

Not knowing what else to say, he flipped screens to set up an alarm to go off 20 minutes from now. He figured that would give Sherlock time to compose himself before his brother came back. He went back to the text draft and put the mobile back down next to the tea. He would've written a note, but doing so in the apartment with Mycroft Holmes due to return was not a good idea. Rather not have Mycroft sniping at Sherlock about "love notes". Having found them together like Mycroft had was bad enough.

John took one last look around the flat he had once called home, finding that he still missed it. Now that Sherlock was back, the grief was dissipating, but hurt and confusion was taking its place. He felt like he was being pulled in two directions - to Mary and the future he had planned, and to this chaotic, exhilarating life with the man who slept before him. So strong was the urge to stay that John grew alarmed.

Feeling like he was skipping out early on a one night stand, John quickly turned and all but ran down the steps and out the front doors. Feeling like a coward, he hailed the first cab he saw. Giving the cabbie directions to his offices, he refused to look behind him at 221B. He may have removed himself from the flat, but he knew where his mind was going to be focused all day. He knew he wouldn't be able to stop thinking about his detective.