Sorry for the significant delay, but here's the final chapter. Enjoy.
The pain in John's hand dulled with each shot he took, an angry purple bruise forming across his knuckles as his hand rested on the sticky bar top. To the least, John knew he had a hairline fracture or two, and he couldn't help but wince as he placed the bag of ice back over it to try and quail some of the edema already forming.
The anger still remained dormant below the surface, his eyes narrowed as he swallowed down another shot of strong liquor, a sting in the back of his throat only momentarily taking his mind off of the pain in his hand as he slams the glass back down on the bar top, causing the bartender to glare at him from several feet away.
John signals for another drink, but the bartender looks at the row of empty shot glasses in front of him and shakes his head, turning his attentions back to the woman ordering several mixed drinks for the group of ladies she's with.
Being cut off doesn't help John's mood any as he curses under his breath and pushes himself away from the bar, throwing down enough money to cover the nine shots that are now coursing through his system, his vision swimming and his gait unsteady as he loosens his grip from the bar and stumbles towards the exit.
The cold air hitting his face causes him to stumble more so than the alcohol, and he manages to steady himself with one hand against the wall, his knees almost buckling under him as he cries out and curses loudly, quickly shifting his weight and pulling his injured hand back to his chest as if it had just made contact with Sherlock's jaw again.
"Sherlock?"
The word is just above a whisper, being carried away with the wind as John suddenly takes a step back, almost as if he's afraid of the man in front of him. When Sherlock moves forward, he takes another step back, feeling the presence of the black marble headstone brushing against his pant leg.
"John-"
"You're dead. You jumped, there was blood. You're not here right now."
The alcohol is finally getting to him, or at least that's the only explanation John can come up with as he reaches his hand behind him, feeling the cold stone, trying to bring himself back to reality.
"John, I am very much here right now. It was my only option, leaving. I had to get rid of Moria-" his voice is cut off by the choked 'no' escaping John's lips repeatedly, his eyes squeezing closed as he shakes his head, as if it can get rid of the man standing inches in front of him.
"No, Sherlock."
The memory replays in John's head as he finds himself stumbling down the street, the alcohol coursing through his system making the cold air tolerable, his focus blurred as to where he's going.
"John."
The feel of a hand on John's jacket forces his eyes to suddenly snap open as he pushes Sherlock away from him, the detective stumbling back several steps as he's caught off guard by the movement.
"Get away from me, don't touch me!"
The words are choked and angry, John's hands sliding down to his knees as he leans over, trying to catch his breath, trying to contain the pain that is aching within his chest. The touch of Sherlock's hand against his jacket was very much real, John thinks as he almost feels it burning into his skin, feeling the warmth of life spreading from the spot.
He feels trapped, between the headstone and the being of Sherlock Holmes, a shadow lingering over him as his once dear friend, the man who changed the course of his life, stands in front of him, the shadow getting steadily closer, taking another dangerous chance to approach the doctor.
This time when he touches John, the older man allows the anger rising up in him to take control, his fist clenched tight as he stands up straight, crying out in pain as he feels a crack in his knuckles with their contact against Sherlock's face, the detective stumbling back and losing his balance as he falls to the ground.
Sherlock holds his face while John holds his hand, feeling on the verge of collapse as his respirations are speeding out of control, his heart palpitating in his chest as he stumbles past Sherlock, the detective making no effort to stop him as he feels the blood drain from his nose and past his lips.
John's respirations increase just replaying in his head the events that happened at the cemetery, and he feels like his vision is almost swimming as he finally stumbles to a stop, only slightly surprised to find that he's stopped right in front of 221B, the knocker on the door angled slightly.
He contemplates only for a second on whether or not he should pay Sherlock a visit, knowing that there is a possibility that he might take another swing at the detective, but it's a risk he's willing to take as he climbs the steps, the flat quiet with the night, the door unlocked as John reaches the top of the stairs.
Not much has changed in his formal living space as he stands in the kitchen, noticing the absence of dust on Sherlock's lab equipment. As he continues to look around he comes to the conclusion that Mrs. Hudson must have continued to dust throughout the flat despite the absence of the detective and his blogger, and for a moment he feels a twinge of guilt for not coming by more often to check on the old landlady.
The more he walks through the flat, the more he feels himself sobering up, the fingers of his uninjured hand gently grazing over familiar items as he passes by them. The material of his favorite chair is rough but perfect as usual, the desk littered with books and papers, the union jack pillow tossed lazily on the couch. The case of Sherlock's violin sits open on the table between the detective and blogger's chairs, and a faint sound emits from the strings of the instrument as fingers glide over them, sending a chill down John's spine.
He knows Sherlock was here, the violin tucked safely away in its closed case next to Sherlock's chair the last time he came by the flat, and he finds himself turning towards the detective's room, the door cracked open slightly as John makes his way down the hallway, unknowingly trying to remain quiet.
The light from the street lamps outside cast across the room and the figure laying in the bed, and John can't help but feel himself tense up ever so slightly, trying hard to keep the anger to a minimum, feeling the searing pain in his hand as he clutches it into a fist at his side.
Sherlock lay on his side under the sheets, facing John with his eyes closed and oblivious to the visitor that has found his way into his room. It doesn't take much light for John to see the bruise that has formed across the side of Sherlock's face, a slight hint of swelling noted around the eye socket as movement underneath the eyelid signals Sherlock is dreaming, the slight twitching movement of his body telling John it isn't exactly a pleasant dream.
He begins to wonder why he came here, the sight of the man who lied to him for so long, the man who put him through so much pain, laying there in front of him, sleeping as if nothing happened. He wants to scream, wants to hit him again and again, try to show Sherlock what the pain felt like every day for the past two years, the unrelenting punch in the gut every time the detective's name was mentioned, every time he passed by Baker Street. He wants Sherlock just to not be there, because that was an emotion he could understand, an emotion he could cope with, albeit with the assistance of alcohol.
This emotion, however, this divided line between anger and relief, between wanting to hit the man and hug the man, it's an emotion that John doesn't know how to handle, how to react to, how to tolerate. The frustration builds in him, tears welling up in his eyes as he tries to separate the feelings, tries to understand the situation, but finally he knows that it won't help, rubbing his uninjured hand over his face before turning back to the door, stopping mid stride when he hears the faint sound of his name being called.
He pauses, frozen in the spot momentarily before slowly turning back to the bed, the pained look on Sherlock's face registering as the detective pulls himself into a sitting position, his back straighter than usual, a slight wince pulling at the edges of his lips and burning in his eyes. It looks much more than just the pain caused by the injury to his face, but John remains oblivious to the truth hidden underneath Sherlock's shirt, faint traces of blood staining the back of the dark material from the wounds opened when John knocked him to the ground hours before.
Sherlock makes no mention of it, feeling now that he deserves pain much worse than what he's experiencing, realizing just how effected John has become by his departure two years ago. He figured the doctor would be happy to know he was alive, but in his vast inability to understand certain social cues, Sherlock overlooked the fact that perhaps John would view his faked death as a betrayal to their friendship.
"It appears that perhaps I should have handled coming back a little differently."
The words are quiet, John allowing himself to look into the detectives eyes as he speaks, and he can't help but let a pained laugh escape from deep within him, disbelief clouding his face.
"Coming back? You think you could have handled coming back differently?!" His tone is incredulous, the anger that he was doing so well at controlling starting to boil up again as he takes a step towards Sherlock, the detective's mouth opening slightly, realizing that perhaps he might have said the wrong thing yet again.
"John, what I meant was-"
"No, Sherlock, just shut up. You bloody left and went trapsing around the world while I stayed here, alone. I tried, I tried so hard to accept why you did it, why you would kill yourself when you could have just talked to me, but then I realized I was fooling myself. I knew why you did it, it was in front of me the whole time. You never take anyone else's feelings into consideration, we're all just a bunch of morons to you, a bunch of idiots. We don't compare to the intellect of the great Sherlock Holmes, but you know what? We survived, we all made it without you. That says something about us, that says something about you."
John's lungs heave in his chest, his voice suddenly sober as he stands mere feet from the man he has mourned for over two years, the man that took everything with him the day he jumped off the roof of St. Barts.
"I hate you." The words hold anger, a hint of malice, but his eyes are soft as he stares at the head of curls he has missed so much, Sherlock's eyes downcast to the floor as he whispers "I know". The words are followed by silence, John closing his eyes, trying to fight the tears that escape despite his great efforts. He feels the anger slowly begin to drain from his body as the silence is suddenly broken by the faintest of sounds, cloth moving, and he opens his eyes to see that Sherlock has crawled back into the bed, curled on his side with knees drawn to his chest, back facing John.
"You should have told me." The sound of defeat is present in John's voice as he steps closer to the bed, his shadow spreading over Sherlock as another faint "I know" escapes from the detective's lips.
John stands silent, staring at Sherlock's back, looking for something else to say, but he suddenly feels too tired, too emotionally drained to fight anymore. He wants to keep hating the detective, for the pain and anguish he has put him through, but instead he finds himself circling around to the other side of the bed, kneeling in front of Sherlock until the detective's only option is to look at him.
Tears stain the cheeks of the younger man, and John can't help but reach out and wipe them away with the pads of his thumbs, continuing to hold Sherlock's face in his hands even after his cheeks are dry, ignoring the pain that's burning from his injured hand and spreading up his arm.
"I missed you."
"I know."
The moment is comfortable as they stare at each other, words barely above a whisper, Sherlock's hand reaching out to grab the wrist of John's uninjured hand, holding onto him as if he's afraid that he will leave him. He waits for John to say something else, wants to hear his voice until he no longer has the ability to hear, but the air stays silent between them until Sherlock finally breaks it, closing his eyes briefly before staring into those of the man in front of him.
"I love you."
John pulls his hand from Sherlock's grasp and stands up, the detective closing his eyes before he feels the blanket over him shift and finds the bed sinking in front of him, his eyes coming to meet John as the doctor lays down inches from him, his hand returning to Sherlock's cheek.
"I know."
El Fin