Chapter 2
A soft ringing seemed to fill the room with how quiet the place was, all simple actions put to a halt. His breath was held, and his eyes were closed. 'It's simple,' he thought. 'Just pull the trigger.' John's fingertip squeezed the black trigger slowly, mind fully set and prepared for the shot that was soon to come. 'For Sherlock. For my friend.'
And that was the last thought that came to his brain before it happened. Before he heard the click... Of a light switch in the corridor behind him turn up. The muscles in John's hand froze along with the trigger that was pulled halfway to his fate. He stood facing the black and white designed wall with the old spray painted smiley face full of bullet holes from Sherlock, yellow light spilling into the room from the hallway behind him. No one spoke. Mrs. Hudson was not home, and John would have heard her enter the door if she had arrived early. He dared to open his brown eyes slowly, hand instantly going loose and dropping the silver gun wrapped in his fingers with a buckling clank of it colliding with the floor once he saw the shadow casted on the wall in front of him coming from who was standing behind. A perfect silhouette of the curly, tousled locks for hair and his broad set shoulders, not to mention the turned up collar he could spot out clearly that was slightly bulged on the sides which only meant the man could have been wearing a scarf.
"Sherlock..." He choked out hoarsely, unable to move where he was standing to even see if it was true. Still, the man did not speak. The shadow seemed to grow larger as the sound of proceeding footsteps broke the quiet atmosphere and Sherlock stepped up to John, hands placed in his pockets as he spoke to him over his shoulder in his usual deep tone the doctor had missed so much.
"...Sorry." Was the only thing Sherlock could manage to say, or even think up. So many questions and needed explanations shot through John's brain at that moment. Could he have killed himself, and he was with Sherlock now? That had to be it... Despite the overpowering urge to begin firing off with questions, John kept his mouth closed. He was still taking everything in. Slowly, one of Sherlock's pale hands raised to rest lightly on John's shoulder, squeezing lightly to make sure he was actually there himself. John hadn't been the only one who felt the dark emptiness of the others absence. Except for in Sherlock's situation, he knew John had been alive and safe. John had to live with thinking his best friend was dead, and Sherlock knew what he had put him through. The bloke just attempted to kill himself for god's sake! He never wanted it to go that far...
John found the strength to pick up his feet and slowly turn around to face the taller, dark haired man, cheeks tear stained and eyes hurt as they widened. "You.. You bleeding bastard!" John shouted before quickly bringing his arms around Sherlock's middle tightly, fingers twisting into the back of his trench coat as he hid his face in the others maroon button down shirt. Sherlock squeezed his eyes closed and sighed as he wrapped his arms around John's shoulders slowly, chin resting down on top of his sandy blonde hair. Neither of them felt the urge to pull away from the other, so they stayed in that position, arms wrapped all around one another and their bodies pressed close.