A\N: So, angst and happiness in this chapter. To be honest I don't remember writing a lick of this as I was writing this, I was so blank while typing that I now just realized that my fingers hurt like a mofo. Listening to Someday by Nickelback (So many childhood memories) and I think that's one of the reasons I zoned out. Whateves, right? xD Hope you like, and R & R please! X3
Dear John
Chapter Three: Reunion
~oOo~
Third Person POV
It was October fourteenth, approximately seven months after John had died, when Ms. Hudson ran up the stairs in a fury of something Sherlock could only describe as shock.
Sherlock thought the woman tripped at least once or twice on her way up. Anyway, Sherlock basically ignored her and instead, he flipped through some miscellaneous channels on the telly because he knew John used to always complain about him not watching any of his favorite shows with him – which Sherlock was sure he now watched each of them at least four times.
"Sherlock! Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock, you have to look at this, Dear!" The elder woman shouted as she practically bulldozered her was over to the couch. Sherlock didn't even glance at her, yet he continued to spoon some of the very last bits of ice cream at the bottom of the carton and stared at the screen, almost in a trance.
"What is it, Ms. Hudson? Didn't I tell you I don't wish to visit the cinema?" Sherlock sighed and lolled his head back, placing his vanilla ice cream to the side. The dark-haired figure then moved the blanket that was wrapped around him so he could pick at his oldest nicotine patch, because it was more or less peeling away and Sherlock was gradually getting very annoyed with it.
"Oh no, of course not Dear! I got your message perfectly clear the sixth time! Anyway, I think you're really going to want to read this." The elder woman shuffled over to his free hand and practically stuffed the piece of paper into his palm. Sherlock didn't react.
"Ms. Hudson, I honestly doubt –."
"Sherlock, this is something you are really going to wish to read. You will regret it the rest of your life if you do not." Ms. Hudson said cryptically, which caused Sherlock to give her a sidelong glance, almost unbelieving.
"Then you read it to me." Sherlock said as he locked his gaze back onto the telly.
A small hum to the side of him caused Sherlock to drag his tired, jagged gaze back to the woman. "You won't want me to."
Sherlock narrowed his eyes and furthermore glanced down at his palm in wonder, not knowing what was wrapped within the confines of the envelope. However, feeling as if his nostalgic mind needed at least something to feed off of, Sherlock ended up sighing and taking his right hand from under the cloth to grasp the paper. "What is it?" He questioned as he narrowed his blurry eyes at the small words that were stamped within the blankness of the form that came from wood.
Ms. Hudson stayed silent as Sherlock decided against reading the return address on the envelope, instead deciding to rip the letter open with some of the strength he tucked deep inside of him just in case he actually needed it. As the first layer of paper descended off of what Sherlock really needed, the former consulting detective decided to flick open the inferior sheet that was folded twice in an almost classically old format.
That was exactly when Sherlock laid eyes on something he was subconsciously hoping for – a whole, now, seven months.
Sherlock, I am alive.
Nothing more, nothing less.
It was written horribly and there were blood stains where it seemed like John's wrist had been writing, but it was there nonetheless. Sherlock, for the first time in three months, began to shake again, his eye wide and shocked. And all of a sudden, everything that made Sherlock, well, Sherlock, bounced back into his body, his heart, his soul, and that made him stand instantly and snap for the envelope. At this he glanced at the return address this time and, to his utmost surprise, it had come from a hospital about an hour's drive from his apartment.
St. Landis. A war hospital. Or, at least, that's what Sherlock always called them. He more or less thought that was what General's and Commandants did when they got tired of people who didn't listen to them – always stuck them in there saying that their 'injuries' were pure accidental and caused from war – which was what John told him, obviously. And when John told him about those places, Sherlock made sure to note that in the back of his mind right before John had left two years ago to make sure that John didn't end up in a place like that.
And now it seemed like Sherlock had a rescue mission in the midst.
Take that, Lestrade.
~oOo~
Mycroft had given him a car. He, too, had read the letter once Sherlock had called him in on 'urgent business' in that demanding tone he hadn't used since John had been presumed dead, and had immediately called one of his men to drive Sherlock to the hospital. If it hadn't been so short notice, the dark-haired man was sure the other would have called a helicopter or something to get out to him.
Mycroft didn't follow him, though, when he had gotten into the car with whoever it was driving in the front to get to St. Landis. Despite everything, Mycroft really was an amazing older brother. Though he would never admit that aloud. Maybe. Maybe, he would now have to tell Mycroft once this was all over and John was safely back in his arms. This time, though, Mycroft would have to suffice with a 'Thank you,' in a text message.
The drive had been horrible. For the whole hour, Sherlock was forced to listen to his, albeit, favorite music, he preferred the silence where as he could once more think again. Trees and highway passed by at an almost alarming pace, but if it got him there faster the blue-eyes man would most definitely not complain. The sun had moved approximately three degrees as well and about 2.5 million leaves had fallen within the first twenty five minutes, which made Sherlock realize just how easily things die off every year.
But John was not dead.
He wasn't dead.
He was alive.
He was safe.
He was able to write him.
After seven months.
After seven months? What had happened? Was John unable to write or something? Were people watching him? Was it even right to come?
He would come anyway. For John, he would go anywhere.
The rest of the way he didn't think about anything other than John's face. He thought about John' smile, John's laugh, John's frown and smirk and grin and confused face – all those different emotions that played off whenever he was feeling something different or weird. How John would yell at him and tell him to stop doing what he was doing because he was either going to blow up 221B Baker Street altogether or end up killing himself. How John would smile and lean up on his tippy-toes to peck him on the lips, telling him he wouldn't want to be with anyone other than Sherlock.
He never understood why John thought like that, because he certainly wasn't relationship material, but god did he wanted to hear that again. He wanted to feel John again. John was his light, and he needed that light to balance out his darkness. He needed John's hair to make him feel like he wasn't such a dark being with his own dark curls. He needed John's warm eyes to balance out his own confused, ice cold ones, and he needed John's small, compact, muscled body to even out his own lanky, imperfect one.
He needed John more than he needed air. Air may keep him alive, but John…oh god, John did everything for him.
There was something in John that he couldn't understand, even if he felt the same way. Trust. How did John trust him? Sherlock led him to his death almost every day of his life, but by god if John didn't always follow faithfully and without question. Why did he do that? Sherlock was most definitely not sure. John was truly a bloody enigma.
Maybe there would be something wrong with John when Sherlock saw him next. Maybe he would be missing a leg, a tongue, an arm or a finger, but that wouldn't make John any less perfect than he already was. Sherlock didn't mind, he knew he didn't. He was still John. Talking or not talking. Leg or no leg. Arm or no arm. Finger or no finger.
He was still John, and he was alive.
~oOo~
Sherlock didn't bother with the elevator as he rushed up the stairs towards the room that would forever be imprinted within the recesses of his mind. 366. The room number was 366. John was in there. Oh god, John was in there.
His feet pumped harder than he ever thought was possible. People gave him strange looks at he passed but he didn't mind, and others, mostly doctors, blatantly ignored him. They probably saw this often. Anyway, Sherlock weaved in and out of the people, his curls bouncing dutifully on his head as he scanned the are around him. The stairs faded in his peripheral vision quickly. 366. Where the bloody hell was 366?
327….332….341…350.
355…
360…
362…
366.
The door was open. Sherlock stood outside it for a second, panting and trying to regain his breath. Was John inside of there? Was he awake – or asleep? Was John flat-lining at this very moment, or was he wearing that goofy grin that he always was when he knew he was right?
Sherlock sighed and took a step forward into the room. He felt the coldness almost immediately – 62.2 degrees, like it was always in hospitals so people didn't get even more sick by wallowing in their own sweat. And then his eyes locked on it.
John.
He was alive. Albeit, he looked horrible, but Sherlock couldn't even begin to care at that moment because for god sake, he was alive. He was alive.
John was sleeping as well, so Sherlock did the best he could to keep his steps silent and the chair quiet as he moved to sit next to his lover that he thought was dead. Even breaths cascaded in and out of the man, his body still scrunched up in pain. All his body parts still seemed to be intact, though, which was a good thing. However, he also saw that John was stuck inside a machine he had never really seen before – it was bending his leg back and forth and Sherlock was awed by the small piece of machinery.
There was a tag. CPM, it said. Sherlock wasn't sure what it stood for, but if he knew the injury that John had he was sure he would be able to tell what it was. There also was what Sherlock knew was an ice machine – a cooler that was attached to a hose which was attached to an ice pack that was wrapped around John's knee. Sherlock was sure there was a large incision under the ice pack due to the necessity of the machine and the coldness.
John had a large cut also – down his left eye, ending right under the length of his nose. It curved out a little bit, so, knife. Judging from the side, the man was probably behind him and John moved out of the way just in time, or else he would have been impaled by the sharp object.
A brace on his left wrist, as well, was what Sherlock noticed next. Most likely just a sprain from falling with difficulty.
Miscellaneous cuts also roamed around John's body, most would scar but some would not. Sherlock didn't mind. John was perfect just being imperfect.
Ah. And then Sherlock noticed it.
There were also two bullet wrappings. One was near the scarred tissue of the old wound, and the other was on Watson's thigh. Both properly bandaged, of course. Sherlock shivered, knowing that John was more or less stricken about each and every wound he had gotten. However, something was off. Something was….John's stomach was altogether bandaged, there was nothing really seen by Sherlock, so did that mean more wounds?
Wouldn't the wounds have already healed?
It had been….What was it? Six, seven, eight months since John had been in action? Everything would have most likely been a scar by then, so that meant that John had gotten these wounds from somewhere else. If he had, why hadn't John spoken to him first?
There were so many questions swirling in his head, he didn't notice the fluttering of his lovers eyes.
Did someone capture John and torture him? That explained the lacerations. Was John unable to contact him if held captive? If so, who was holding him? Sherlock was sure John didn't have many enemies at all. Sherlock did, though. Was someone trying to get to him? Did he not notice the signs? Did he make John suffer? Should he have been looking even more for his lover? Did he give up too soon?
Oh god, he gave up too soon. What if John didn't think he loved him? What if John lost all hope in him….Oh god, what if John didn't love him anymore? What would Sherlock do? He didn't know, he didn't bloody know if he could live knowing that.
"Sherlock."
The small voice, the unmistakable small voice that Sherlock knew as John's, drifted through the air and paused any other question Sherlock's quick mind could ponder over the next few seconds. He blinked, lids sliding uncomfortably over his eyes, as he was now met with the warmth that forever balanced him out.
Sherlock couldn't speak. For once, his mouth was screwed shut, too dry to part at this very moment.
Before he was able to stop them, the dark-haired crash course felt the first tear slide down his cheeks. John's face, although screwed up with pain, softened. The blonde slipped a small, sad smile upon his features, and Sherlock could do nothing but bite his lips in agony. He could taste the copper in his mouth, but Sherlock continued to gnaw on the flesh as if it was his lifeboat.
"Sherlock, I missed you." John whispered, his voice rasped. Had he been properly speaking? Had he been properly cared for? "I love you."
Sherlock bowed his head as he silently sopped, feeling alone and helpless for the millionth time in his months of agony. His now hollowed cheeks burned with both shame and fear. He hoped this wasn't a dream, god, he hoped John was really sitting in front of him, speaking to him like the he always would when trying to comfort Sherlock.
"Oh, John…." Sherlock could only murmur as their gazes locked again. The tall man sniffled and tried to contain his feelings within the next few moments. "I love you, John. I missed you too. Oh god, I thought you were dead, I thought –."
"Shhh, Sherlock. I know, I'm sorry, and I will explain everything when you are feeling better. However, you look bloody horrible. You need to eat something, to drink something." John said, as if he already knew that Sherlock was trying to starve himself to death. Sherlock shook his head.
"No. No, I don't want to get up. I don't want to leave you."
John sighed, but he complied. Sherlock didn't know if John just pitied him or wished for his comfort as well. Could be both. Though, since his mind hurt too much for deducing so quickly after he promised to shut his mind down from doing such, he decided that those questions could wait for a while. He just wanted to talk with John right now. Hear his voice.
Sherlock lifted his hand and wrapped it securely around his lover's uninjured hand, offering his touch to calm the two of them down. Oh, did it feel wonderful. John's warm skin finally mingling with his again, like it always would during the night or walking around town, a touch that Sherlock had missed for god knows how long.
Just then, Sherlock shivered. He could still feel Lestrade on him. He trembled. He thought that….He thought that he would never be able to feel John again. And now he was here. Some things were just too overwhelming at the moment, especially for a man who didn't know how to sort or conceal his feelings.
"Sherlock? Sherlock, what's wrong?" The injured man asked as he gripped his lovers hand slightly tighter, also offering his comfort. Sherlock knew he felt him trembling.
"…I…I just….I thought that I would never be able to feel you again. You were gone, John, and I was such a bloody wreck that I couldn't even function anymore. I tried to die – oh, I tried to die so many times, and Mycroft's men always stopped me, but I couldn't help feeling alone. Everyone visited me at least once. Mycroft did our bills and paid for our flat, he made me eat, he watched over me like we were little again, and Lestrade….Oh god, Lestrade…."
"Quiet, Sherlock. It doesn't matter right now. You can tell me some other –."
"N-No!" Sherlock cut off his lover through his silent tears. "I thought that I would never be able to feel you again, and Lestrade, he….He pushed himself on me! He pinned me to the couch and he kissed me, and I couldn't feel you anymore! I was so alone! He offered his – his services, to forget about you, and I was so bloody furious…."
John's face turned stone cold as Sherlock spoke. Desperately, Sherlock continued. "John. John, are you mad at me? I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to – I didn't mean to lose your touch, and –."
"No, Sherlock. I'm not mad at you. I could never – no, well, I could, but not for this. Never for this. I'm the one that should be sorry." John murmured, so quiet that Sherlock almost couldn't hear. He shook this off as John apologizing about his absence, but somewhere deep inside of his stomach Sherlock was sure there was a double meaning.
"No, never, John. Just….God, I missed you."
"I missed you too, Sherlock. But I'm here, any you're here." John squeezed his hand again and offered a smile. "Welcome home."
"Home…." Sherlock muttered in response. It had been a while since that word fell from his lips with meaning.
The dark-haired man smiled.
Yes. Yes, he was indeed home.
