Fionna dared me to write a post-Reichenbach Johnlock fic.
It had been exactly one year, two weeks, and four days since Sherlock fell from the roof of St. Bart’s.
Exactly one year, two weeks, and four days since John lost his best friend.
He didn’t really know what kept him here, in Baker Street, now that Sherlock was gone. He had tried to rationalize it—to keep Ms. Hudson company, he couldn’t afford another flat, changing his mailing address would be too difficult—but no matter what excuse he could make, he knew that there was something deeper. Something in his mind—his heart—kept him from leaving. His fingers tapped numbly on his mug, steam rising from the brown brew within. He was alone with his thoughts, Mrs. Hudson having gone off to run errands. Thinking of this, he looked up at the clock. She had left ten minutes ago, but it had felt like an hour. He had yet to get used to this slow-moving life without Sherlock. Each second that ticked past was a painful reminder of how dreadfully alone he had become.
He had given up on girlfriends while Sherlock was.. While he was alive. He hated that. He hated having to think that. While he was alive. Was alive. Was. “Damn it.” He stood from the armchair, leaving the mug on the side table, and began to pace. Back and forth, back and forth. His eyes wandered the room, each object carrying a painful memory. He stopped in front of the fireplace, his gaze resting upon the skull. Sherlock had said once that John was a replacement for it—not in so many words, but the basis of the statement was, indeed, that. Come to think of it—had he ever touched that skull? His arm, as if acting on its own, slowly came to it, his fingers brushing against the bone softly.
He stood there in silence for a long, long time.
John was jolted from his trance by the sound of the door opening. He removed his fingers from the skull, turning to go and greet—“Mrs. Hudson!” He stopped. What was that? It sounded awfully like—“Mrs. Hudson, are you here?”
John bolted out of the parlor, standing at the top of the stairs. There stood the infamous, the arrogant, the very certainly dead, Sherlock Holmes, who was seemingly unaware that John still remained in 221B. Without thinking, he stomped down the stairs, the noise of his footfalls catching the brunette’s attention. “John? I didn’t think you’d sti—“ John’s fist connected with Sherlock’s jaw, not letting him complete his statement. Taken aback, the detective stumbled backwards, a black gloved hand placed against the side of his face, as he slid slightly down the wall. John remained in the same place, staring down at this.. this man, who assumed he could simply waltz back into his life as if it was nothing.
Tears welled up into his eyes, and he collapsed, wrapping his arms around Sherlock, unable to control himself any longer. He had missed this bigheaded, brilliant sociopath. All was silent in the stairwell, save for John’s sobs. Sherlock removed his hand from his face and placed it to John’s head, an awkward attempt at comforting the former army doctor. “I’m sorry, John.” “That’s all you can say? Sorry?!” John pulled himself from Sherlock—a bit regretfully, the detective noted—and looked down at him once again. “I sat here, alone, in this damned flat, for a year! I gave up on girlfriends, I gave up on jobs—It’s a small wonder Mrs. Hudson didn’t kick me out, so pathetic I was, and all you have to say is sorry?!”
“It wasn’t my choice to leave you!” Sherlock stood and approached John—a bit hastily, it seems, for the blonde was now pressing himself to the opposing wall. “I had to protect you, John! I finally had something in my life worth protecting, and by God, I was not going to lose it.” Silence once again fell upon the flat, as the two stared at each other, each fuming with anger—not at each other, but themselves. John broke the heated glare, his eyes travelling to his shoes. “I missed you.”
Sherlock grasped his chin, tilting the blonde’s face back up to his. “I noticed.”
Their lips met in a slow, somewhat awkward kiss—neither knew who had leaned in, or what had prompted them to do so, but it had begun and neither of them were keen to stop it. Sherlock stepped forward, further pressing John to the wall, his hand moving from his chin to the side of his face, almost caressing it. John nearly melted, nearly lost his face to this—but no, he wouldn’t. He had more questions to ask, more anger to vent, and possibly even more punches to throw. He pulled away from Sherlock, breathing a bit heavily. “You—“ “John. I know what I did was.. not good, but I’m here now. It’s done. I’m not dead, I’m very much alive and very much enjoying what’s occurring between us at this point in time. Now, if you would like to continue, I think we would be much more comfortable in my room—if not, I could walk out and disappear from your life as I did previously.”
John pushed past Sherlock and hastily strode into his bedroom, the detective barely containing a smile as he closed the door behind them.
