Here I Am

by indeerah

Sherlock and John consider their lives without the other after Sherlock's fall. The two are both painfully aware of the undertone their relationship had, but sometimes it's not so easy to just show up after three years and say, here I am. - Kind of a corny summary but give it a shot? I have nice spelling and grammar so there's that.

2. In Which John Breaks

It was on days like this that John hurt the most. Holidays, Sherlock's birthday, the anniversary of his jump—John handled those just fine, with his typical quiet determination. But days like this—the soft rain, the perfect silence, as if all of London felt like staying in with tea and a good book—these just dug their claws into his heart and stayed put. He couldn't stand the peace. It brought his mind back to the old apartment and the soft lulls in action they would find themselves in between cases. These were the days that John could almost feel Sherlock there, just there in his comfy, worn armchair, just there moving behind him in the kitchen, just there humming quietly to himself at his microscope. He felt like a child, small, lost and alone on these days—irrationally inconsolable, the pain beat ceaselessly upon him.

It was on one of these days that he felt an uncharacteristic spark of anger, a sharp push from behind that had him stumbling out of this grave he'd been in since Sherlock jumped. Since Sherlock left him here, knowing full well that John's life would never be the same. The anger ran through him like fire, all the injustices, big and small, felt over the past few years pricking at him like needles. Why was it fair that he had to remain alone and broken—John the bachelor, the sad little tin soldier, forced to be steadfast and stoic and passive—why was it fair? Especially when Sherlock got to—

John knew he wasn't supposed to entertain that idea. His therapist had done everything she could to suppress this idea, this silly little hope. But it remained. He knew Sherlock was somewhere out there. And it pissed him the fuck off. Spying that stupid Union Jack pillow from the old flat, John let his rage flow as he bellowed and ripped its seams. It fell flatly to the floor. Not good enough—the mug on the counter would be much more satisfactory, he thought briefly, before the small room was filled with sounds of smashing china and clattering books and pens and shoes and anything within reach. By the time his anger had left abated, he was hot and panting as sobs burst through his chest.