#SherlockLove💜

by Holmesianlove

A huge thank you to @helloliriels for the stunning cover art created for #FTH2026 I will post a chapter each day (there are 14)  AO3 link below as well. Let me know if you want to be tagged for updates!

Chapter 2 - Making Acquaintances

When I awoke I was told that I suffered an enteric fever and had been unconscious for three weeks. A soldier had brought me in from the battlefield and somehow, I had miraculously healed. I was sent home to London. Home is such a subjective word for it, though, with no family, and a pension barely worthy to live off. Adding to that an injury which made it impossible to work, I almost longed to have died in the war, or perhaps to have been sent back to be killed properly to have ended the emptiness that festered inside. For many days upon my return, I wandered aimlessly, finding myself hopelessly drawn back to establishments. Somehow, I thought if I could achieve that state of mind I had been in the night before I first travelled to war, I might find that stranger again, that face with the magic eyes. Maybe I could somehow conjure him up from somewhere. I knew it was a ridiculous fantasy, for no matter how many times I tried, I was left feeling empty, helpless and alone. 

Well, perhaps not alone. There was always something strange. I constantly felt like I was being observed. However, when I turned, there was never anyone behind me. It seemed paranoia had been a gift I had returned with also. The only relief I found from it was at the end of a bottle. When I had the coin spare I would find myself at a variety of taverns in the town, it mattered not which ones. I spent many early hours limping about the London streets, stumbling aimlessly, alone with no purpose, feeling helpless. For what was a soldier with no mission, a surgeon with no patients, a man with no family meant to do with his life? I was utterly useless on this earth now. 

It was on one particular night, as I bumbled about, that I was to come upon an attack in a nearby alleyway. I heard a scuffle and some loud grunting. I looked down into the dimly lit, narrow space to see a group of people, all in dark clothing. It was hard to tell how many were there, or what was the cause of the commotion. Was it a strange lover’s tryst? Was it a mugging? A murder? Should I involve myself at all? My soldier’s instinct, boredom and if I was honest, the fact that I had no desire to live made me move forward, faster than I had anticipated. I dropped my cane and rushed into the alley.

“You there? What are you about? Do you need assistance?” I called, as I moved toward the noise. 

The shuffling instantly stopped, the huddle froze, but no faces appeared.

“I say, do you need help?” I tried again.

I heard whispering and suddenly the group dispersed. One body remained on the ground, unmoving. Another collapsed back and three pushed past me, as they took off at an alarming speed. I knew I wouldn’t be able to catch them; not in my state of injury and drink. I rushed forward to observe a lady who was pale and somewhat beyond help and a man in a weakened state. I saw familiar dark curls and as he turned his head to look at me, I knew at once.

“It’s you,” I gasped as he closed his light eyes and let his head drop back to the ground.

Chapter 3 tomorrow…

Thank you to all my lovely supporters who have read my writing before. Please let me know if you want me to remove you before the next part! Or let me know if you'd like to be tagged!

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by Holmesianlove

A huge thank you to @helloliriels for the stunning cover art created for #FTH2026 to go with this story. Our fandom is so lucky to have artists of this calibre! BIG LOVE TO YOU!

I will post a chapter each day (there are 14) and they will also go up on AO3 as well.

I hope you enjoy!

Chapter 1 - Obsession

The first time I encountered him was the night before I deployed. Whisky-laden and uneasy, my judgement was no doubt questionable, but even then, there was no mistaking the colour of those eyes. In the dim, flickering candle light, I somehow instinctively recognised they were the wildest blue-green hue like the sea right before a storm takes hold. I’d seen nothing like them before. They seemed to bore a hole right through the centre of my chest and took hold in my brain at the very same time. How it was possible I could not tell you. I was transfixed, reminded instantly of my last visit to my grandmother’s home in Aberdeen, when I would sit on the rocky hill, watching the ships as they were tossed about in rough seas, bringing the soldiers home from battle. Back when my own dreams of becoming a soldier first took hold. I could not have invented those eyes in my own imagination. As they glared through me from across the bar, my heart leapt in my chest as if he was controlling the very rhythm of my atria and ventricles. He drew me to him, urging me closer. Yet, before I could even get off my stool to move, he had vanished just as if he had never been there. 

Time to go to bed, Watson, I admonished myself. At the time, I assumed it was the drink that was responsible for the strange encounter. 

The rock-hard mattress upstairs in my pub lodgings were not in any way conducive to sleeping but it was all my meagre coin could afford me before boarding the ship to head off to battle and I put the strange occurrence out of my mind.

The second time we crossed paths was on the battlefield. When I was shot in fact. In the midst of the Second Anglo-Afghan War, at the Battle of Maiwand, as I tended to the wounded. There I was, a surgeon trying to heal the injured, when I was shot by a bloody jezail bullet, right through the shoulder; or so the tale was recounted to me after the fact. One minute I was upright and the next, I was staring up at a sky, grey with clouds and surrounded by smoke, explosions and shouting. All muffled around me as my body processed the shock. I wasn’t sure how long I lay there but suddenly those eyes came swiftly into focus. Those sea-glass eyes, crazed with concern and fear, instantly above me. 

I’ve been told that pain and shock create the strangest of coping mechanisms. I have heard many an unusual tale from soldiers in their beds – parents or siblings that have visited from across the seas, long dead relatives, impossible visions that men recall with unmitigated seriousness. Of course none of it is true. I suspect whatever inebriated vision I had in that pub, manifested out of a fear of going to war, had visited me again as I lay bleeding out on the field awaiting my death. Probably my hippocampus - my younger self, remembering the proud desire for battle - invented him entirely to begin with. His dark, beautiful curls framing that pale perfect skin which made those eyes all the more alluring and those bowed lips... Lord, he was a magnificent sight. If I was dying, it wasn’t a bad way to leave this earth, that was for sure. My breathing slowed and I felt an incredible calm come over me that he had found me again. I closed my eyes and I was sure I felt a gentle, cold hand touch my cheek.

Chapter 2 tomorrow...

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@flashfictionfridayofficial

He should have known they’d be bright. The lights. The flashes felt like they burned into his retinas each time a new one exploded in front of him. He had expected all of it, anticipated it, but somehow, after yesterday, everything felt dull, grim. He had been walked into the Yard, escorted by his brother. Every movement was in slow motion. Even the sounds around him were muted; his brother’s voice instructing him, far away in the distance. All he could think of were the angry words and the steely glares John had given him. The feel of those gentle doctor’s hands wrapped around his throat. So angry. Not the response he had expected. The hurt, maybe, in those first moments. Had those been tears in his eyes? The whole thing had been altogether not the welcome home he had anticipated and he had a broken nose to prove it. But now he had to face the media. He knew it would be awful. But he had planned to do it with John Watson proudly by his side. That always gave him strength. Instead, he was alone and he felt very small and unsure of himself as the lights came up, making him squint. For a brief moment, behind the lights, he was sure he saw the outline of John Watson, at the back of the room, watching, but he knew that was his mind just wishing he was there. He had done the same thing in Serbia, to help him through the toughest of days. Not that he’d ever tell anyone that.

”Why did you fake your death, Sherlock?”

”Where have you been all this time?”

“Are you going to tell us how you did it?”

”Did the Queen help you?”

”Was Moriarty involved in this?”

”Will you be going back to solving crimes?”

He took a big breath and tried to get used to the bright lights and the flashes of the cameras and began to take the questions one by one as calmly as possible, ignoring the pain in his chest.

After an hour of grilling, Greg Lestrade thankfully, told the press that was the end and led him off the platform and out the door to his brother where he collapsed, uncharacteristically into the elder Holmes with a small whimper.

”He’s here,” Mycroft said quietly into his ear.

Sherlock looked up, instantly perking up.

”What?”

Mycroft gestured his head to a conference room down the corridor and Lestrade also nodded to confirm. He moved swiftly without hesitation and rounded the corner to find John inside one of the rooms pacing back and forth on the carpet mumbling to himself. When he saw Sherlock he stopped.

And Sherlock also stopped in the doorway, unsure whether to enter or not, but the instant relief he felt at just seeing his friend again was immense. John had shaved the moustache off and looked like he should again. He sighed loudly. ”You… shaved it off,” he said, kicking himself for saying anything.

John simply grunted, then paced a little bit more, clearly unsure where to start, then he stopped. “Are you… alright?” He finally said. “That was… brutal in there.”

”You saw?”

John nodded.

Sherlock took in a shuddering breath and released it. “It had to be done. One cannot simply return from the dead it seems without… consequences.”

”Sherlock…” John began hesitantly.

Sherlock shook his head, his brow creasing as he looked at his feet. “I’m… sorry John. I should have said that. Before anything else. I… that was the wrong way to go about it yesterday. I thought…”

John walked swiftly over and grabbed Sherlock into an unexpected hug, pulling him down hard against him, knocking the wind out of Sherlock’s lungs.

There were no words for a long time, just the sounds of John’s breathing which was heavy and jagged. Then he let go of Sherlock rather suddenly and stepped away as if the hug was too dangerous to continue. He looked at Sherlock, his eyes full of guilt. “I should not have attacked you. In truth I wasn’t entirely sure you were real. And then I was furious you let me grieve for so long and you seemed to be making light of it… but in reality I… I missed you so much.” His words came out in a choked sort of squeak and he shrugged, embarrassed at the admission. “I should have been there beside you today for that. Not hiding in a corner. You shouldn’t have done it alone.”

Sherlock put his hands in his pocket and nodded. “It did feel strange. Being in front of the lights like that without you.”

John nodded awkwardly. “It’s been a long time.”

”I suppose you… have… things to be going on with. My brother tells me you aren’t at Baker Street any more. You live with that woman now, who was at dinner? And you work at the clinic full time?”

John nodded slowly. “I… ah yes… I did.”

”Did?”

”She knows about you, Sherlock. It’s complicated. We don’t have to…”

Sherlock tilted his head. “I don’t understand.”

John smirked. “That’s usually my line.”

”Didn’t you have an engagement ring on the table last night?”

John blushed. “I was considering proposing to her. She has been a very supportive and loving partner and she has listened to me talk on and on about the loss of my great love and helped me through that.”

”Your… great… love?” Sherlock frowned and then his face changed as he realised.

”Yes,” John sighed and stepped closer. “I think perhaps you need me just about as much as I need you so I’m going to talk you down off the ledge this time…” He grabbed Sherock’s coat collars and pulled him closer. “What I really wanted to do yesterday? Instead of strangling you? Was this…” And he pulled Sherlock closer until their lips finally met and kissed him tenderly. “Welcome home,” he said gently with a smile.

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