There wasn't much John was certain of when his pounding head faded back into consciousness. He had had the strangest dream the night before. The most vivid, calming dream he'd ever had. Rubbing his hand against his tired eyes, it took him all of three seconds to realize he was not waking up in his own bed. Shooting his eyes open and looking around himself he gathered he was in a dingy old flat, where he'd went to pick up the cat. Mary's sister must have thought him too intoxicated to send home and let him crash on her couch. He sighed and leaned up, a tremendous feeling of embarrassment sinking in. He hated being intoxicated around people- especially strangers- and yet he constantly allowed it to happen.
As he swung his legs over the side of the couch he gathered that the room was empty besides him. Not even a cat in sight. He was sure he'd be getting an angry call from Mary any time soon, and he was in dire need of some aspirin and water. John could practically hear his bones creaking as he stood up, feeling 20 years older than he was. Sliding his feet into his loafers and smoothing down his shirt and hair, he figured he should find whoever it was that owned the house and apologize for being such a drunk. If there was any inhabitants. It looked as if no one had been there in years.
His mind couldn't help replaying his dream over and over as he wandered in search of a toilet first (he did consume copious amount of liquid the night before). His chest tightened at how he'll never get that feeling, not really. That feeling of connection, of his love healing rather than hurting him. He'd never feel that impeccable warmth, and the last image he'd ever get of Sherlock would always be a broken, bloody body. He shivered and squeezed his eyes shut as he found his way into a bathroom.
That kiss, those arms, it was all so realistic. He wanted it more than life itself, wanted it more than he could possibly fathom. This whole time he knew he longed from Sherlock, realized his heart calling out to him. But after experiencing what felt was a real embrace from the man, he would never be able to go back. Never be able to stop hurting. John was beginning to get angry, the usual frustration at how unfair it all was returning. Mary got her happy ending, so did everyone else on the goddamn planet, except him. No, stop, he told himself. There was no point in heading down that path again, it could never possibly fix anything.
After washing his hands, he rinsed his face with some cold water and without thinking took a swig of the mouthwash that was sitting next to the sink, to clear the sour taste of booze left in his mouth. Some past John wouldn't have done something so rude, but he didn't care much about simple formalities these days.
Attempting to keep his mind blank, he walked back into where he had slept in order to tidy up pillows and fold the blanket. At least Mary's sister seemed as kind as Mary was and provided him with all that. He stopped his movement, however, when he saw a tray of breakfast has been set out. His favorite: tea with toast, sausage, and eggs over-easy. He stared at it for a second before looking around confused.
"It's been a long time, John," a deathly familiar deep voice startled him into turning around. He saw him, the same ghost from the night before. The same ghost from a life before.
Sherlock heard a sleepy groan from the room over and his already tense heart dropped further down into his stomach.
Why had he stayed? Why hadn't he ran? He was afforded the perfect escape route through John's drunken passing out, and yet he couldn't leave the room for hours after John had passed out. He had simply stood above him, staring terrified down at John's sleeping form.
Maybe if John hadn't so passionately given himself wholly over to instinct and kissed him without a second thought Sherlock would have left. Maybe if he didn't still feel the leftover heat where John fingers had lingered against his skin, as if the doctor had burned him, Sherlock would have ran. And maybe if it hadn't felt so incredibly right dropping his own defensive wall only for a flamed second to return John's passion breath for breath, he wouldn't have looked back. But John did kiss him without reserve, and it caught him on fire and he let it happen. And now all he could do was wait all night for John to wake up and attempt to hold onto whatever shred of dignity he deserved as he attempted to go back in time.
When he heard the bathroom door shut, Sherlock made his way into the sleeping room with the breakfast he'd prepared for John. The doctor might as well put some food in his stomach before Sherlock turned his world upside-down. He stood closer to the bathroom door, and expected John to see him right away, to attack him with a million question that must have surfaced in his mind after he found out he was still alive. Sherlock hadn't expected John to walk right past him unseeing, with his brow furrowed and mind somewhere else.
Now he had to get his attention. What was he supposed to say? 'Mornin John, how'd you sleep?' They had hardly spoke that way to each other when they lived together. He opened his mouth to speak and hoped that it didn't sound too shaky. These were the first real words he would utter to John in 3 years, and a great knot had found it's way into his chest making it hard for him to speak.
"It's been a long time," he managed, when he eventually opened his mouth.
The doctor spun around, obviously startled by Sherlock's presence. Their eyes met and Sherlock felt all his nerves standing inflamed and on edge. His mind raced in streams of unstoppable deductions, faster than any thought he'd had before.
This was it. This was sober John seeing him, receiving the ultimate power for destroying him.
After a few long, pulsing seconds, John closed his eyes and shook his head.
"I've seriously got to stop drinking," he mumbled to himself before opening his eyes again.
Still there.
"I'm not a hallucination, John." Sherlock quickly corrected.
John immediately shivered at the deep intonation, unable to stand how readily his body reacted to Sherlock. He reached out and leaned a hand against the wall he was standing near for support, craning his head down and squeezing his eyes shut.
"John, I-" Sherlock began, rather desperately, before John threw up a hand to silence him. John couldn't bare to hear any more of that voice which had been painfully silent for years. It would be too much and he feared what he would do.
It took John a moment, letting his thoughts cloud and smash into each other as he tried to muddle through what exactly was happening.
He raised his eyes in confusion back to Sherlock who stood anxiety still.
He just looked at him, really looked. Studied him, waiting for him to disappear, for his edges to blur, for something. This wasn't possible. Yet Sherlock remained, obviously trying very hard to keep the explosion of words from erupting.
"Sherlock," he said quietly, watching the way the detective's eyes closed slightly hearing his name spoken.
John shook his head slowly back and forth, swallowing hard.
He didn't know what to feel, what to think.
"How?" John meekly asked, finally meeting his eyes again.
The how was loaded with meaning: how was he alive? How could he stay away for so long? How could all of the pain John's felt for the past 3 years be over what seemed like a lie? How was he even able to breath standing in the same room as Sherlock?
Sherlock seemed to hear every question John asked in just one word, and his heart swelled with shame.
"...I had too..." Sherlock began but trailed off. He felt it was a lame excuse and couldn't think of any of the million words buzzing around his brain to complete his sentence. He had to what? Protect himself? Put himself before his best friend?
Where was that carefully practiced speech he'd obsessively gone over for the past few days? There were no words he could say to fix this, and standing before John's broken heart silenced any attempt he could have made.
John stayed quiet, an unreadable stare glued to Sherlock's.
"No, you didn't." He finally said.
Sherlock didn't respond, he heard the passion behind the quiet utterance and knew there would be more to follow. This was his punishment, to hear John's retaliation. So for once in his life he shut up and waited for someone else to speak.
"You didn't have to leave, to- to die." John's voice was gaining a broken sort of strength. His had no idea what he was feeling: an odd cocktail of familiar misery, heating abandonment, and undeniable relief sharper than any breath of air ever could taste.
"You had me, Sherlock, you didn't have to go...why? Whatever threat he posed to you, you had me, did that honestly mean nothing to you?" He couldn't hid the pain in his voice, nor did he want to.
Yet beside his raising voice and pain, he was moving closer to Sherlock, almost against his own will. His body practically gravitated as he spoke each pointed word.
"This whole time? Really? This whole time fucking time you've been up and walking around and you didn't even think to drop me a phone call? While I've been what? Crying at a bloody empty grave?" Sherlock closed his eyes.
"Well that's fantastic, isn't it?" He asked, now standing just a few feet away, "Why couldn't you tell me, Sherlock? Why couldn't you just let me know," his voice was getting quieter as it broke on his words. He felt like a hurt child, abandoned. He wasn't angry Sherlock lied, he was hurt that he stayed dead.
"John, I-" Sherlock couldn't help but try to explain, if only to comfort John.
"I don't want to hear your fucking explanations, Sherlock." he spat at him. John now stood right in front of Sherlock, fighting the opposing dragons in his chest of adoration and betrayal.
"I don't want to fucking hear why you left me. I don't want your deductions. I don't want your voice in my head. And I don't fucking want to need you."
Before he knew what he was doing, John shoved Sherlock violently back into the wall. His lips were on quickly on Sherlock's, his damn of pain unable to hold back the pure solace he felt watching Sherlock breath. He didn't care if Sherlock didn't want to kiss him, or if it would be weird. He wasn't worried about any of that, all he needed was to feel Sherlock in every way possible before any of this became too real.
It was a need, straight from the base of his being that lead his actions. John clenched his hands around those curls and felt Sherlock's arms wrap just as tightly around his waist, pinning him as close as possible. He found trouble forming thoughts as he got lost in the feel of Sherlock lips meshing needy against his own. Soft swipes of tongue gently gliding along his bottom lip or against his own tongue here and there, proving Sherlock just as desperate for this connection. There was heat and a desire for increased intimacy, but that was marginally overwhelmed by the simple need for closeness. A romantic, slow, physical touch. Lust wrapped beneath deep layers of untouched love. John felt his hands run down Sherlock's neck and he desperately breathed in Sherlock's breath, swallowing anything he had to give him. On of Sherlock's hands went to John's, the other grasping at the small of his back.
Sherlock's own mind began to stutter, allowing rushing pleasure and need to over come any painfully loud thoughts. There was just him, and John, and John's mouth on his and his teeth gently pulling at his bottom lip. It was a pure second of no fear or loneliness, just complete embrace.
But against all odds and after what seemed like hours, John's conscious quickly plummeted back to reality. Where it crashed painfully into his chest. He pulled away just as violently as he had crashed into Sherlock, to put some much need, not wanted, space between them. He close his eyes against the grimace that was growing on his face.
Sherlock was alive.
Sherlock was alive this whole time and didn't come back.
Sherlock didn't come back for him.
Sherlock hadn't wanted anything to do with him for three years.
Sherlock had left him alone.
John was frozen in his pain, breathing deeply. Sherlock stood before him, dazed from the kiss and utterly unsure of what to do. To say that he was a novice at any type of romantic intimacy would be the understatement of the year. He could practically feel John's growing distress, felt the tension as delicate as glass between them, but had absolutely no idea what to do with it.
"John-" He attempted but was once again silenced.
"Don't," Watson's voice was barely a whisper but it held all the command in the room. He couldn't take that voice. That damn voice.
"I-I had to. To save your life, I-"
John bitterly snorted, cutting Sherlock off and breaking his heart. This was the aggression he feared.
"Save me? Really?" John asked, braving raising his eyes to meet the other man's.
"You far from saved me, Sherlock. You-fuck..you..." John trailed off and shook his head, unable to find the words to explain just how black his life had become, "...you ended me."
Silence breathed a wall wider than three years between them and yet neither of them looked away from each other.
Sherlock wanted to reach out and touch every line of John's face. To hold him and feel every ounce of warmth from his body. He wanted to tell him things he'd never felt the need to tell anyone before; to tell him how strong he was, how brave, how unbelievably mesmerizing. How he needed John. How he illuminated all the darkness in Sherlock's being.
But he didn't know how to say that and as each second passed of his silence he felt John slipping further and further away. No! No, dammit, no! It cannot happen like this. He would find the words. He'd make John see all the complex equations that kept him away. He would never have to be alone again. He would finally have John back and he'd be able to breath at last and sleep in a quiet room and the hollowness in his chest wold stop its ceaseless pressure and he'd have John and the world would be back on its axis and-
John took a step backwards and Sherlock struggled to grab at water.
John backed further still. He might have said something, and then all sudden Sherlock stood alone in the room, staring at the empty spot where John had stood.
"Look at me. I'm afraid, John. Afraid." "Sherlock..." "I've always been able to keep myself distant. Divorce myself from feelings. But you see, body's betraying me. Interesting, yes? Emotions... grit on the lens, the fly in the ointment."