Prompt 22: Alive
Smut warning
Three years exactly. It had been one thousand and ninety five days, each one both blurring into the next in an endless stream of the mundane and lasting for what felt like decades. Sherlock Holmes was a dead man walking, quite literally, while John Watson was simply a man who may as well have been dead who walked anyway. After day one - because suddenly dates and times no longer had meaning aside from when they occurred in regards to the fall - John could no longer call 221b his home, because the one thing that had made it so was now gone. He had moved back to the bedsit against the wishes of one Mrs Hudson who attempted to convince him that staying was the best option, but concluded that he was always welcome to go back and promising not to move anything unless it was in danger of decomposition. She had cried when he left. He had'nt, there were no tears spare, he was saving them for the night, when he could once again see the man he loved in all his glory. People always said that the first day of anything is the most difficult, because it's new and terrifying. This was not the case for John. The worst day was the first anniversary, when he realised he had an eternity of days like this before him, and he would be facing them alone.
It felt wrong that the earth was still turning, the sun still shone, people were born and smiling and happy, life kept going even though his whole world had stopped. People would not remain sympathetic forever, this much he knew, so he got up every morning and went to work at the clinic, made mindless small talk, smiled and laughed in all the right places because he was fine, declining offers of drinks and dinner and coffee and chats from Molly and Lestrade in favour of Harry who knew exactly what was going on. He'd work and do the shopping and go back to his flat and stare at the telly and go to bed, trying fruitlessly to sleep for more than an hour at a time. He'd lost more than he'd care to admit at St Barts, yet the annual pilgrimage continued on the anniversary regardless of his personal hatred of the place.
Sherlock was exhausted. The past three years of his life after death had been a whirlwind of travel and espionage, dark nights and hiding places. He had not been in London since that last day, but there were few places he hadn't been. Every continent had hosted his cold fury and brutal determination, case after case solved in a nonstop reel, until the only things left keeping him standing were the puzzle and John. He had a new name amongst the criminal underworld for a time, Angel of death they called him. He had managed not to kill anyone personally, but once they were in custody he was not responsible for what happened to them. All he did was find, incriminate, drug and drag to the authorities. No names, no face to face meetings, just a knock on the door and an unconscious person on the ground with a large file of evidence strapped to their chest. He had come to be grateful for his foresight as without the help of the homeless network worldwide he would have died, or relapsed long ago. Their kindness to him was greater than people would find anywhere else, and he would not be quick to forget that. He wandered down the Thames, glad that people were so utterly ordinary and unobservant for if they were not, they would have seen a corpse returned from the grave. Against his better judgement he had kept the curls, John had liked them and he could just about see, even now, his calloused hands running through them. With the ultimate defeat of Moran it was time to go home. He had one final stop to make before he could see John again, and he was not exactly looking forward to it, but then again he never had.
He took out his lock pick and jimmied the window of Mycroft's Diogenes office open. Sitting in his chair, facing the window, Sherlock couldn't help but remember the last time he'd been in an office. At least this time the man he was expecting might be even slightly pleased to see him. Eventually the door opened and Mycroft strode in, phone pressed to his ear. "No, military action would frankly be a show of weakness that we cannot afford to ma-" he stuttered, eyes widening as he took in the sight of his dead brother in his chair. "ke. Call Jamal, ask him for the fifth list. He'll understand. Good day." Sherlock waited. "Brother." Mycroft flinched slightly at the term, he had not been called that for a good few years, it sounded unfamiliar to him now. "Sherlock.
I take it there's an explanation? Or is suicide another phase of yours?" He instilled all the venom he could spare into his words, because for once in his life Mycroft was not going to pretend everything was ok. "Moriarty. 3 snipers trained on those closest to me: Lestrade, Mrs Hudson and John. It was my life or theirs, and he shot himself so I had no way of stopping their death but to jump. I saw most of it coming, and prepared accordingly. Some well positioned overhangs,homeless men on bikes, blood from myself distributed by more homeless. Even you know how to conceal a pulse. Molly Hooper simply opened the back door and let me leave. I travelled the world, taking down Moriarty's web one strand at a time and I finished just yesterday. Now I'm back." Mycroft sat down, poured himself a drink. "Do you have any concept of... And the Hooper girl of all people I mean... Humpf." Sherlock arched a brow, this was not like Mycroft at all, but he remained silent because there was definitely a point to all the ramblings.
"There are two things about this whole scenario I cannot seem to wrap my head around. The first being that you did not ask for my assistance because quite frankly you would have finished much faster if you had and the second, foolish though it is, is that you couldn't spare the time to let John Watson know you were alive, because he is not, not really. Hasn't been since your little stunt actually. Left Baker street, holed up for three weeks, reappeared a grey little man with nothing to lose and nothing to take. Introverted, only meets his sister, whom he detests, because her wife, a Clara Oswald, died soon after you in childbirth and they can empathise with each other. I cannot say I possess any strong feelings in favour of Dr Watson, but even I am left with nothing when I try to figure out how on Earth you would do this to him. Keeping him safe is an excuse that worked for maybe a year. He has been safe for at least two. You know it, I know it. That begs the question why you hid yourself for so long, if not for fear of how he would react? Ah. So that's it then." Mycroft sipped his whiskey. Was he pleased to see Sherlock? Of course. The guilt of feeding Moriarty the information that led to his death had been consuming him and now that Sherlock was alive he could let that go. At least it was something. Sherlock bowed his head. "Fear. How very plebeian of me I know. It was not a choice I wanted to face and in ignoring it, I chose to leave John in the dark. It is not something I am proud of Mycroft." A snort caused him to look up and he suddenly found himself buried in a three piece suit with Mycroft's arms around him. They had not hugged since infancy. Sherlock wrapped his arms around Mycroft in return, feeling as soothed as he had the last time they had hugged, which was when he was three. "I am glad that you're back Sherlock. It was quite dull on my cctv without you around. Now go to John, he's in that awful bedsit on bakers walk. I wouldn't worry too much, he is still smitten with you." An awkward pat on the back and Sherlock was up and running out the door and down the road because he was Sherlock Holmes and he refused to be afraid.
He only slowed when the door of John's room got in his way. He could hear him, pottering about inside, the distinct sounds of a kettle boiling and a tea spoon clinking off a mug reinforcing the fact that this was real. Subtlety was probably the best approach and so he knocked sharply on the door. "Go away please, I'm not interested" "John?" Mug clattered to the floor. "Sherlock?" "Open the door John. Please." Two quick steps and suddenly door swung open, revealing one to the other. Seconds, an eternity, passed between them, growing and writhing in their unbroken gaze. "John I-" Sherlock was cut off abruptly by John, who flew at him and pressed their lips together, like Sherlock was the only thing he needed to breathe. Sherlock pulled John to him and ran his hands up and down his body, once again mapping it. "I don't know" John whispered between kisses "whether to kick you into next week" his mouth ravaged Sherlock's "Or have a mental breakdown because you're alive." Lips and tongue traced his jaw and followed it down to his neck. "I can explain it all John I - oh" John held a finger to his lips. "Tomorrow you will be telling me everything about all of this and I will see if you deserve a good kicking or not. Right now though, I need to see all of you. I missed you so much Sherlock, And I'm going to show you exactly how much if you close the door." Sherlock pulled the door shut and waited, watching John smile deviously. "Strip and get on the bed" Sherlock did as he was told, not ashamed of the new scars he had accrued over the years. He planted himself on John's bed and looked up for his next instruction. "Good, now put your hands over your head, just like that, okay, I'm going to cuff them up there, and now your legs exactly!" He didn't bother asking why exactly John had these handcuffs but it was probably above board.
When Sherlock was trussed up and could barely move, John evened the field and got undressed too, slithering against his body to reach his ear and savouring the small gasp of surprised pleasure that ensued. "I missed your life more than I wanted my own when I got shot you know." Say nothing, Sherlock knew how this worked. John grinned and slid back down to Sherlock's legs, gently circling a finger around his entrance before pushing in with two. With uncanny precision he crooked his fingers and brushed his prostate, cancelling out the hint of pain with sparks of pleasure, over and over until he was leaking over both of them and desperate for friction of any kind, wishing he could stroke himself just so there'd be some relief. "Please John ugh please" John withdrew his hand and lifted Sherlock's hips "I always love it when you're polite" he grunted, sliding into him gently at first, giving him time to adjust to this sensation again. As soon as he could feel that he was ready, John thrust hard into him, fast and rough, taking him apart. All he could do was moan and writhe and try to move in rhythm with John. Precum ran down his thighs and made them both slightly stickier than they already were, he watched John's face, emotions flying across it, changing every passing moment . He was already close. "John! I'm oh God" Sherlock closed his eyes and prepared for the onslaught that this declaration used to incur, but it didn't come. He was left feeling empty as John pulled out of him and he opened his eyes, incredibly confused. His face was an image of every emotion under the sun as he leaned back on his knees and clambered off the bed. "You know how you miss the feeling of me inside of you right now? Amplify that by about two million and you have how much I missed you, you utter bastard. I can't believe you did that! Not a single word, or sign, not even a whisper! It's a good thing" John whispered, turning back around "That I am not as cruel to you as you are to me." Slowly he unlocked the cuffs and lay on the bed, kissing Sherlock softly while he finished both of them off with a few strokes. They were pressed chest to chest, Sherlock resting his head on John's. "I am so glad you're alive Sherlock." Sherlock planted a kiss on his head. "So am I John, so am I."
A/N that just got way longer then I had anticipated it would be... Over compensating for the shortness of the last chapter? A little. Alive is such a broad prompt though I mean come on a lot has to happen! I was going to let John just leave Sherlock hanging for a while there but then I thought it was a bit too ooc. Almost half way through!