An Idea that Lived, a sherlock fanfic

A/N: I quickly wrote this fic as a way to help express the trauma I was feeling after Reichenbach, and I'm sure many of you can relate!

The texting idea, as well as another scene down the line, came from people's ideas on tumblr. Thank you tumblr community for helping the fangirl in me thrive, as if I needed any more encouragement.

This fic is quite short and to the point. Given more discipline I would have loved to expand on it. There is a lot of angst and tears, as well as bromance heavily bordering on slash. I only write slash fics, but I tried to reign it in a LITTLE BIT with this one. However, I am warning now that if a little bit of slash is not your thing, you might want to turn back.

Disclaimer: God I wish I owned the tiniest bit related to BBC's Sherlock.

An Idea that Lived

"It really bothers you."

"What?"

"What people say."

"Yes."

"About me, I don't understand, why would it upset you?"

John sat alone, always alone now, staring at the wall in front of him. His mind was empty, eyes vacant, the fingers of his right hand slowly twirling his mobile the only movement.

The day his best friend was buried, John had moved out of Baker Street. He had left most of his belongings behind, packing only what he could manage through watery eyes in the few minutes he had forced himself to remain in the flat.

He couldn't live there anymore, it was simple fact. Every second spent in that flat, he had felt Sherlock's presence, in the walls, in the living room, in the kitchen, in the discarded clothes on the floor. Every moment he spent there, he felt an uneasy energy as if his friend's eyes were burning holes into his back from the shadows.

Sherlock was dead, he knew that. But when he was at 221B Baker Street, where the place still smelled of him, bitter, horrible hope inevitably creeped into John's mind that maybe this was all a dream, that maybe somewhere out there Sherlock was still alive and would be coming home any minute –

So for the sake of self-preservation, and in an attempt to bring himself back to cold reality, John moved out.

It almost worked, for a little while. John found a small furnished studio on the other side of London, cheap, dreary, perfect. There were a few decorations hanging on the walls when he moved in, splashes of color that brightened the room up. He took them down on the first day.

There he had begun the slow process of healing, of accepting, and of gathering up the broken pieces of his life into something recognizable.

But soon enough he had realized that it was not going to be that easy. He never, never should have gone back to Baker Street, not even for one second, his belongings be damned. How could he have been so stupid as to go back to a place where Sherlock would have been, under any other circumstances, just around the corner, test tubes crashing in the kitchen, or books flying in the living room... Where his presence was still palpable, like he was right there...

"You can't kill an idea, can you. Not once it's made a home, there."

It had now been three years since then. Three years of emptiness, and nothing, nothing to hang on to except that nagging hope that Sherlock was still alive.

And then there was that little fact that they had never managed to recover Sherlock's mobile from Bart's rooftop.

John stopped twirling the phone in his hands and typed out a quick message before clicking send.

24 January 2015

Sherlock.

Just that one word. There was nothing else left to say. He had said it all, one text at a time, over the last three years.

At first he had sat and waited for a reply, every time. Weeks, months passed, and he tried to force himself to think of other things, yet still in the back of his mind he had waited for a reply, his hope marginally reigniting every time he sent a new text.

Then as the months turned into years, John stopped waiting, though he couldn't bring himself to stop sending those messages. It was part of his routine, except it meant so much more than that. Sending messages to Sherlock, even though there was nothing but silence on the other end, helped John not scream so much at night. That tiny spark of an idea was still nestled in John's mind. He had lost so much in his life, he wasn't about to lose that, too. The messages kept it alive, if just.

Shortly after, John got ready for bed. Gingerly he placed his mobile on his bedside table. It was the only thing even remotely connected to Sherlock that he possessed.

He turned out the lights and lay in bed, sleep gradually consuming him. Most nights he had nightmares, but there were blissful reprieves now and then when he dreamt of nothing. This night he had no dreams, no thoughts, nothing – a mirror of his waking life.

16 January 2012

Sherlock, stop this.

24 January 2012

Please, please don't be dead. For me.

02 February 2012

This is all my fault, Sherlock, I'm so sorry. Please come back now.

17 February 2012

I never should have left Bart's.

04 March 2012

You son of a bitch. You soulless machine... How could you do this to me?

15 March 2012

Who do you think you are?

01 April 2012

After everything we've been through together, how could you treat me like this? COME BACK, NOW!

13 April 2012

I don't know what to do, Sherlock.

12 May 2012

Please, I need some sign that you are alive. Anything.

27 May 2012

ANYTHING.

07 June 2012

I can't do this without you.

16 July 2012

Right, a deal. I promise I will NOT punch you in the face when you come back.

27 July 2012

But you HAVE to come back, or deal is off.

01 August 2012

Sherlock, you're out there, I know you are.

15 August 2012

You have to be out there.

6 September 2012

I just want to see you, once. Just once.

29 September 2012

You must be sick of these texts. Please let me see you once, then I will leave you alone if that's what you want.

10 October 2012

I'll do anything, Sherlock. Please just tell me you are alive.

22 October 2012

I miss your idiotic face.

04 November 2012

You always were a bloody idiot.

13 November2012

You're just ignoring these, aren't you. Fine.

01 December 2012

Sherlock, you changed my life.

21 December 2012

And I don't think you ever really knew. Not really.

13 January 2013

There were so many things I never said.

30 January 2013

You were never really the easiest person to talk to.

07 February 2013

You made me so angry, so many times.

18 February 2013

You made me so happy.

02 March 2013

Is that normal, amongst friends?

14 March 2013

Why am I asking you, you don't know anything about "ordinary" people.

05 April 2013

My psychiatrist says I should stop texting you.

29 April 2013

I should have taken your brother's advice all that time ago and fired her.

06 May 2013

I miss you, Sherlock.

12 May 2013

I have never known a better man.

23 June 2013

I wish you knew.

30 June 2013

So I'm telling you now. You are everything I was missing.

02 July 2013

EVERYTHING.

16 July 2013

It's funny, I thought we would grow old together.

24 August 2013

I don't need anyone else, Sherlock. Just you.

28 August 2013

So please, please come back.

08 September 2013

Saw Mrs. Hudson today. She said I didn't look well.

15 September 2013

Was going to go to work today. I think I'll stay in. Any crap telly recommendations?

26 October 2013

Cooked a nice meal today, on my own, using science. You'd be proud, really.

26 October 2013

Actually, come to dinner. I promise you'll like it.

02 November 2013

It's cold today. I hope you are dressed warm.

14 November 2013

I miss you, so much.

25 December 2013

Merry Christmas, dear friend.

01 January 2014

Happy New Year. Wish you were here.

10 January 2014

I know you're not a fraud, Sherlock.

18 February 2014

I never, ever questioned that.

25 February 2014

But sometimes I wonder if maybe you actually are... dead.

04 March 2014

Everyone tries really hard to convince me that you are.

11 March 2014

It's hard, being alone in this.

16 April 2014

Sometimes I do doubt that you are alive.

26 April 2014

And those days I hate myself, so much.

8 May 2014

How could I ever doubt you. HOW.

13 May 2014

It's so hard, Sherlock. I don't know how much more of this I can take.

21 June 2014

You are the most important person in my life.

07 July 2014

I know that's hard for you to understand.

28 July 2014

If you don't start replying to me soon, I really truly might embarrass myself.

13 August 2014

To hell with it all.

18 August 2014

I love you.

03 September 2014

I love you.

05 September 2014

I love you.

10 October 2014

Sherlock.

11 October 2014

I'm breaking.

12 November 2014

Sherlock.

25 November 2014

Sherlock.

02 December 2014

Sherlock.

24 January 2015

Sherlock.

24 January 2015

Come to Baker Street.

John awoke with a start to the beep of his mobile. He blindly reached for it and had to blink the sleep out of his eyes for the tiny screen in front of him to come into focus.

And then he saw it.

He blinked again, not comprehending. In a moment of panic he swerved around in the bed, peering into the darkness of his room, sure that someone was there watching him, laughing at their brilliant prank.

But there was no one. He looked again at the text.

Come to Baker Street.

"Oh my god," he said aloud, chest constricting, something inside of him that had long since been dead stirring back to life again.

Was this a trap? He looked at his watch. 4 o'clock in the morning. Who, other than Sherlock, could be enough of an inconsiderate idiot to text at this hour?

No one. No one but Sherlock.

"Oh, my god!" he said again a bit too loudly, taking in a shaky breath to try to steady himself. No, he must not jump to conclusions, he must not allow himself to believe... If this indeed was someone's cruel joke, his heart would not be able to take that disappointment. Not after everything.

There was no time to lose. John was going to find out what the hell was going on, and he was going to do it now.

He didn't bother responding to the text. He was never quite fast enough with that little phone anyway. He dressed in record time, stumbling out into the bitter January cold within minutes. After another few he managed to catch a cab in the deserted streets, barely managing to sputter the address at the driver through the constriction of his throat.

It was the longest cab ride of his life.

After what seemed like centuries, the cab turned a corner and was now two blocks from 221B.

"Wait!" John said, startling himself in his urgency. "Stop here, please." He decided to walk the remainder of the way to the flat. He needed the air.

He threw a few bills at the driver, climbed out of the cab, and looked ahead at where he knew the flat was. It was still dark, and he was far enough that he could just barely make out the shape of the door, far ahead.

He took a deep breath, then another, the cold air slightly burning his lungs.

He was terrified.

Head down, he put one foot in front of the other, then another, and began a steady walk toward 221B. Very shortly he was going to find out exactly who, or what, was waiting for him.

A short while later he was very nearly there. Subconsciously he slowed his pace, not sure if he was quite ready for whatever was to come.

"John."

The name was said so softly that John almost thought he had imagined it altogether, but he could see shoes just ahead where his eyes were still lowered to the ground. He froze where he stood and, very gradually, began to tremble.

The figure in front of him stepped closer. "John, please."

The doctor raised his eyes, slowly. First he glimpsed dark jeans, then a brown coat he didn't quite recognize, and then, his eyes connected with a pair of ice blue orbs that he knew so well, that pierced through the darkness and right into John, and suddenly his knees threatened to lose stability.

"Sher-" John breathed, no power left in his voice. He felt hot tears begin to stream down his face but was far beyond caring. "Sher..."

Just as his knees buckled, strong arms caught him around the waist and eased his collapse to the ground. John let himself be cradled, shamelessly wrapping his arms around Sherlock in return.

"Oh god Sherlock," he moaned somewhere into his friend's chest, not sure if his words were coming out coherent. "Why, why, why..."

"John," Sherlock whispered into his hair, silent tears in his voice. "Please, get up. I'll explain everything, but we need to get inside."

John's body refused to cooperate, remaining limp as Sherlock lifted him by the armpits and hauled him to a standing position. He wondered if, at this moment, at the culmination of three years of pain, he was finally and truly losing it. His eyes were open but he could barely see, only registering steady arms pulling him through the door and up the familiar stairs, round a bend before finally depositing him on the soft sofa he hadn't touched in years.

Suddenly the contact was gone, replaced by the sound of tea cups clattering in the kitchen and the electric kettle coming to a quick boil. A few moments later something warm was pressed into his hands, Sherlock's fingers briefly curling over his own to ensure he gripped the cup properly. It was tea. Good, old-fashioned English tea, with cream and sugar.

John sipped gingerly, impressed that the cup hadn't already dropped from his hands and onto the floor. Some ghost of his normal senses returned, comforted by the warm drink, enough for him to realize that he was sitting on the couch next to Sherlock, the other man turned toward him, one of his knees pressing lightly against his own. Carefully he placed the cup back in its saucer on the coffee table.

Suddenly Sherlock's face was just inches from his own, soft thumbs gently wiping the tears that John hadn't realized he was still shedding.

"I'm so sorry," Sherlock whispered, a raw emotion on his face that John had never seen before. "I had no choice, John, you must believe me."

"I hate you," John said, almost casually, quite on the verge of hysterics, just a slight crack in his voice betraying his true emotions. "I truly... truly despise you."

"I know," Sherlock said, the fingers of one hand now curled through John's hair. "I'll explain everything once you've gotten some rest."

"Three years, Sherlock," John spat, voice rising, though he made no move to disentangle himself from his friend's hands. "Are you going to tell me that it was necessary to ruin three years of my life?" He grabbed a fistful of Sherlock's jacket, not sure whether to pull him closer or throw him to the other side of the room. "Do you even know... Do you even know what I have been through?"

"Yes." Sherlock's voice was soft, tragic, a sharp contrast to John's accusatory tone. "I know everything."

Sherlock's hands left John's face and worked briefly on the fist gripping his jacket until it was free. Then, gingerly, warm arms wrapped around John and pulled him against his chest.

When John started sobbing, he felt an arm hook under his knees and lift his legs so they rested over Sherlock's lap. John let himself be cradled like that, much like a man might cradle a woman, and his body shook as every bottled up feeling unleashed itself in the form of never-ending tears onto Sherlock's chest.

John cried, and cried, not caring about the awkwardness that might ensue once the emotions passed. Sherlock stroked his hair, his back, murmured soothing nothings into his ear. God, how he missed that voice. How he missed... everything.

"I've missed you so much," he managed between miserable, raking sobs that threatened to tear his entire body apart.

A soft kiss was planted to the top of his head, lips lingering there just a moment. "I will never, never leave you again."

Suddenly a strange energy materialized between them, something new and undefinable. Sherlock placed a kiss to John's forehead, lips so warm and soft, the combination of it all, everything, making John's head spin. He closed his eyes.

God, all those texts he sent. Vaguely, in the back of his mind, he started to wonder if they would ever come up in conversation. Then a kiss was pressed to his nose and all further thoughts on the subject melted from his mind.

He opened his tired eyes and lifted his head from Sherlock's chest, meeting his piercing gaze, just a breath separating them now. He brought his hands up to cradle his friend's face, for the first time noticing the new lines creasing his forehead, and the deep, terrible exhaustion behind those blue eyes.

John wondered what he was supposed to do next. Their friendship was unconventional at the best of times, but now... something was different.

He settled for pulling Sherlock into an embrace once more, burying his face into the crook of his neck, whispering all those things he never got a chance to say before into the soft skin there. Sherlock in turn kissed his temple and told him it was all going to be fine, from now on, he would make up for all the pain, somehow.

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