Inspired by a post on Tumblr - a gif as well as the comment, which shows Benedict in another movie/role hugging someone, and it looks distinctly like John and Sherlock, but I don't think I would have seen Sherlock and John without the comment.

Rated T


Solitude felt welcoming when you were able to match it with emptiness inside your heart. One year ago he had taken up to long walks through endless fields and forests, striding along, aimlessly, until tiredness would force him to return home. Life moved on, the world moved on, and so did he - pretended to, made himself believe the same. Only in these moments, these hours when his feet carried him further away from a truth and a loneliness he could never escape, he allowed himself to acknowledge that in some way, he'd always remain and never leave behind what he knew he needed to.

The sun had gone to sleep already, dived into her nightly home below the horizon, and left the world under a glowing blue but somehow darkened sky, in this weird condition they called twilight and he had never quite understood.

It was quiet, so quiet; no wind howled and no bird sang; not even the rustling sounds his shoes made on the grass he heard. All his ears picked up where his own thoughts, whirling around in and outside his head, in a thousand voices, talking, crying, screaming, laughing, whispering. But listen he only did to one. Just one. One so familiar, one missed so much. He recalled it; he knew he mustn't forget it. It was all he still had; all that was left.

He'd been walking for hours again; passing through London's streets until grey beneath his feet changed to green, until noises of streets and people muted down, until the deceitful warmth of the city gave way to the blunt cold of nature. Out here, nothing would disturb him; out here, no one would try and break through the walls of memories he build up around him in moments when the pain of his loss became unbearable.

Nothing was supposed to meet him in these moments when he sought comfort in the past.

And yet, this very evening, a figure standing there, right in the middle of the field he was walking through, caused him to freeze in his step. He wanted to turn around and head away - and then he wanted to run, just run - to the stranger who was no stranger at all.

"You're here," he heard himself say, a shocked and confused sound, raw and barely above a whisper.

"Yes. But I'll be gone again soon." The voice washed over him like a warm shower after a day out in the cold rain, soothing and warming him.

Sherlock looked different. Gone was the familiar perfectly tailored suit, the always-perfect appearance; he was wearing a leather jacket and jeans, and stubble spoke of at least two or three days without shaving. He looked tired, concerned, worried; there was this old sadness, but also a new kind he hadn't seen yet.

"I miss y-," he forced out, but his voice failed him before all words had passed his lips, and he rubbed his face in frustration.

"I'm sorry. I never realized-" He had never heard Sherlock be so unsure of his own words; it was a novelty he would have appreciated a year or two ago, but that now filled him with dread and fear.

He couldn't look at his friend then; even when he felt his hands on his shoulders, and this light shake, this plea for acknowledgment. But he couldn't. The hand from his face roamed to his neck, rubbing it nervously; scared of an answer to his next question, an answer he maybe wouldn't like.

"Will you come back to me?"

But there was no answer. No verbal one, at least. Instead, Sherlock pulled him into a tight embrace, and even though it was yet another novelty, it was one he could relish in. He clung to his friend when his long arms wrapped around his shaking body, and suppressed every sob that demanded freedom from his choked throat.

He knew Sherlock would leave again - but he, he would never have to let go again.