*Another huge thanks to all my readers and followers, and especially reviewers. With that last chapter, this story hit over 1,000 viewers, which filled me with indescribable joy. as a result, this chapter practically vomited itself out of my head onto paper. Just goes to show how a helpful review and readers boost my urgency to write. :)*
John was falling. Falling through the air, just as Sherlock had a year ago. He didn't remember jumping, or even being on a roof. He just had the sensation that he had been falling for quite some time. He was glad he was falling. He had lived long enough without Sherlock, and simply could not take it anymore. He knew he had made the decision, he just couldn't remember going through with it, until this point.
It didn't feel at all like he expected it though. He expected a sharp, cold, unforgiving wind to be billowing around him, pushed to the limits by the speed of his fall. He expected expected his stomach to fly up his throat as gravity temporarily lost its affects during the free fall time. He expected his hair to whipping around him, everything around him to be a blur into a swirl of depressing blues and greys as he speed downwards. He expected to feel a goodbye.
This was practically the polar opposite of what he expected. The breeze was warm and comforting around him. It wasn't hot, just comfortable. It seemed to cradle him as delicately as a mother cradles her newborn, and as tenderly as a lover holds his partner. It seemed to cushion him from the demons that haunted him at every turn his life took. The world around him seemed to blaze in many different hues of red and pink and orange and yellow. He had a warm feeling in his stomach that radiated outwards to warm his insides. He felt as if he were floating gently down. He was quite enjoying this, and could understand why Sherlock had chosen this way. He was glad he had followed in his best friend's foot steps.
His fall seemed to take a good while, but John knew it couldn't have been more than a few seconds. He knew adrenaline was flooding his body, causing his reaction time to speed up, which would account for this miscalculation. Suddenly, he hit something solid. The expected to feel the rough slap of his body on the concrete, and a sharp snap as his skin and bones broke. He envisioned his blood seeping out of the broken fortress that was his body. He expected everything to snap to black as his neurons were destroyed by the crushing weight of his impact.
However, John's landing was quite soft, despite the solidity of his landing pad. He felt no pain, no brokenness. He felt utterly whole. He could feel something encircling him, something strangely like a pair of arms engulfing him.
Oh God, he thought I can't even die properly, who would even want to hold me now?
However, the engulfing presence continued to hold him and keep him warm. Someone was there and still loved John Hamish Watson, and for that, John was extremely happy. A slight pressure along his jaw line jolted him out of his dream.
Sherlock gazed down at John, who had fallen asleep in Sherlock's embrace. He could have laid here for copious amount of time, just holding John. He could brave the boredom that came with idleness, as long as he knew he was making John happy. Sherlock had never thought this way before the fall, but after last night, after he saw how taxing his actions had been on John (despite the fact that they had most certainly saved his life), he had deduced that the best way to make it up to John would be to do what made John happy, not what made himself happy. Sherlock was learning. He would learn for John.
The usually emotionless man took a second to gently caress John's face. This caused the older man to stir from his sleep. As his eyes fluttered open, Sherlock beamed down at him, eagerly awaiting the wide grin that would surely spread across his face when he saw Sherlock. He knew John had missed him, and after last night, he had no doubt that John would willingly, gladly even, accept him back into his life.
But when John registered his surroundings, Sherlock saw a range of emotions splash across his face that had been totally unexpected. Surprise came first, causing a delicate pink flush to rise to John's cheeks and the muscles in John's brow to squeeze up. Surprise lingered a second until confusion reared its ugly head. The flush on the cheeks ripened to a light strawberry color, and eyes widened. The mouth popped open into a gentle 'O'. But confusion didn't stay long, as anger came quickly a second after it, and retained its place on John's countenance. He flushed even deeper red than before, and his whole faced tightened up. A fist also swung up from th depths of under the covers, and caught Sherlock squarely in the cheek.
"You complete ARSE!" John shouted at him, clamoring to get out of the bed "I waited for a whole year, telling myself you were dead! I couldn't let you go, I was ready to DIE for you, die like you! And here you just come romping back into this apartment like you never left! Don't you have any regards for anyone but yourself? You could have..sent me a text, left a clue, ANYTHING to let me know you were alive. But NO, the great Sherlock Holmes couldn't be bothered to do something so simple like that.." John continued on his tirade for a good thirty minuted befor sputtering to a stop when he had nearly worked himself into tears.
Sherlock quietly took the verbal abuse. He waited on the bed for John to burn himself out. Although, it did worry him, seeing the different shades of red John's face turned as he ranted. At one point, Sherlock was sure e was about to pass out from lack of oxygen, but when he had made a movement to interrupt, John just started speaking louder and more aggressively. Finally, Sherlock sensed that John had let out most of his steam, and proceeded to intercede.
"John,"Sherlock calmly said as he propelled himself off the bed to grab John by the shoulders, "John, listen to m. I am going to explain everything to you, but you must. calm. down." He steered John to the bed and plopped him down. The he began to explain. He started from the very first of the pip clues, and talked for a good hour, detailing everything that had happened, and how he and Molly had plotted to trick Moriarty and his men into thinking that Sherlock had actually died.
As he talked, John's body began to relax, as Sherlock's soothing baritone voice soothed him with the tale of how Sherlock had beat Moriarty, and had acted so selflessly to save John's life. John could hardly believe that Sherlock, a man who, aside from his brother Mycroft, was the most apathetic person on the planet, had given up the life he know and was comfortable with for John...and and Lestrade. John's head was spinning from all this new and seemingly impossible information.
John stood up and walked to Sherlock. He placed his hand under the taller man's chin, and moved it so he could see the cheek that he had so brutally punched earlier. He regretted his bitter act.
"How does that feel?" he asked meekly. He gently touched the cheek where he could see bruises start to form. Sherlock winced at the touch.
Shit. John cursed silently to himself, feeling evidence of a possible fracture in the zygomatic arch. A pity, considering how wonderful Sherlock's cheekbone's are. John mentally shook himself for thinking that. Where did that come from? I am not gay!
Sherlock reveled in the sensation of John's hand on his face, even if it did hurt from where John had punched him earlier. He slowly leaned in closer until John's face was less that an inch away.
John was taken aback by Sherlock's sudden proximity to his face. What the bloody hell-?