A/N: Hm, well, I haven't updated since Thursday. I haven't had much time to write, so you get this drabble thing. :I Enjoy.
EDIT/: Well, then - this was supposed to be up yesterday, but ff(dot)net decided to be a dick and malfunction on me. So here it is again, for real this time; sorry if you all received update spam, dear Story Alerters. (Is that the term...?)

Word Count: 828-ish

Paring(s): Sherlock/John, although brotherly love with Mycroft and Sherlock also makes a cameo, and references to John/Molly.

Warning(s): spoilers for TRF, angst, possible suicide triggers. Kind-of-almost-half-way-fluff. Mild violence. And schizophrenia, I guess, if that's even a warning.

On Having a Heart and the Perception of Time

They say time flies when you're having fun. Sherlock had examined this saying, found that it didn't apply to him, and deleted it.

As far as best friends go, Sherlock met John late in his life, him being in his thirties and John just over forty. They didn't even know one another that long following their initial bond due to Complications. But Sherlock felt that he'd known the good doctor forever, his simple smile and understanding eyes finding their way into even the darkest rooms in Sherlock's mind palace. Sherlock knows that it's an irrational sentiment, but he can't imagine life without him. It's John that makes him live, makes him care, makes him want to be something Good. If James Moriarty was right about one thing, it was this: John is his heart. Perhaps he always has been, somehow, even when they were strangers; it's an odd thought, but it feels right all the same. Sherlock likes to think that, maybe, that's love.

Sherlock doesn't tell John this for several reasons. Mostly, it's because he's almost certain John feels the same way. Had Sherlock been the more selfish sort (and had a bit more trust in his own capacity for feelings) he would've taken advantage of this deduction. But he knows John likes women and he knows he still likes the idea of settling down with one and having a mundane, happy family and growing old and retiring somewhere nice. Sherlock can't see himself ever being able to give John these things; he keeps his feelings to himself. Still the days of being with John are easily the best of Sherlock's life.

For Sherlock, time flew by when he was the most miserable.

He hadn't expected to be miserable. It was a case, after all, a splendidly complicated case. He had expected to enjoy picking Moriarty's web apart. And yet, as he stands on the roof, the tears are real and his chest burns like Hell and even though he knows it's not The End John doesn't know and Sherlock didn't anticipate feeling like half of him had been ripped off of him walking away from his own funeral. Three years – the longest case Sherlock had ever taken on – goes by in a blur of blood, fire, and chaos; Sherlock feels nothing. Had he felt nothing before John? Had it been so bad? Sherlock can't remember, but now that John had filled that space in his chest it feels far emptier once he isn't there anymore.

Three years, and he contacts Mycroft. His brother is uncharacteristically hysterical when they meet and Sherlock stands, stunned to silence, and let's Mycroft hold him and kiss his face and half-sob half-laugh; for a moment, they were those children again, dazed and overwhelmed in that giant empty house. Even though Sherlock feels cold and disjointed he realizes on a basic level that it's nice to know that Mycroft loves him still.

Once all is calmed and composure is regained, Mycroft brings him up: John. Sherlock feels even number.

John had been hit hard. He'd started hallucinating first, talking to the Sherlock who was not there. Occasionally, it was not just Sherlock he spoke to but Irene and, sometimes, even Jim – he would have dinner with ghosts, smiling and making tea and, occasionally, crying until he couldn't breathe. Then, there had been a suicide attempt, or almost – Lestrade had burst down the door when Mycroft had looked at his cameras and found John laying out rows of pills. More than enough. John had sworn he hadn't been trying anything, that he wouldn't ever, but he was hospitalized none the less when he started arguing with the Sherlock who wasn't there. Then, suddenly, last year he'd gotten better, and he met a girl named Mary. She's very nice and sweet and mundanely adventurous and probably John will propose to her sometime soon because what else is there to want?

Sherlock feels selfish for it – is selfish for it – but as he stands there at 221B, he isn't sure which part of the story is making him nauseous. Because none of that sounds like his John, his good doctor who was always there with his simple smile and understanding eyes and that's who he needed to open that door. The idea that John might not be there, that it might be some new version of John that Sherlock wasn't there to help mold, that doesn't care to have Sherlock back, is horrifying. For once in his life, Sherlock wants to turn and run, to live out his life not knowing. But Sherlock knocks anyway.

When John punches him in the face Sherlock sobs and he thinks, Oh, thank God. Because it's still his John, no matter what happens next. And what happens next is this: John sobs with him, calls him a bastard, and hugs him near hard enough to crack his ribs. And everything after that, too.

Reviews would be really nice.

Also, and I don't mean this in terms of my reviewers by any means, but my e-mail inbox has been oddly void of ff(dot)net messages. Is there a reason for this lack of updates, or are all the WIP stories I adore simply not progressing by complete coincidence? Maybe I have a problem...