#post reichenbach

How hard do you think he's gripped onto that pack of cigarettes?

In honour of the episode dropping tonight(/tomorrow) I drew my first comic! Full strip below :)

This WIP - working title: Odysseus Returns - is inspired by @calaisreno's fic His Husband where Mary proposes she and John go on holiday to Greece. I don't often bring bloody Mary into my fics, but needs must. Don't worry, though, this is a post Reichenbach fix-it fic...

Excerpt:

Eighteen months. It’s been eighteen months since he watched his best friend, his lover, his Sherlock jump off the roof of Barts hospital. There was no warning; no chance for John to prevent it. He must believe that if he shall be able to remain relatively sane. His heart still twists painfully as the image of a falling Sherlock Holmes intrudes his mind (relentlessly, even now).

“John!”

Mary’s voice is brimming with impatience. Apparently, he hasn’t paid attention to what she’s been saying. Again. Honestly, he fails to understand why she’s still here.

“Sorry. What was that?”

He keeps his tone polite, trying, but failing to insert some warmth into his voice.

“I asked if your passport is still valid.”

“Oh. I…I dunno. Can’t remember the last time…”

He trails off because he does know when he last used it. On his way home from Afghanistan. Mere weeks before he met Sherlock. He swallows around the lump in his throat.

“How is it still there after all this time?”

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Tagging some moots who might be interested (tell me if you want to be tagged or removed)

"Brother, do be careful," a distant, tinny representation of Mycroft's voice crackles in his earpiece. "And stay warm."

Sherlock snorts but doesn't answer. This is fucking Siberia, for god's sake.

Thousands and thousands of pounds worth of specialized clothing wrap around Sherlock's too-thin body, allowing him the few minutes he has to sit hunched, behind a wall. Waiting.

Unfortunately, The Spider and his connections loved a dramatic backdrop even more than he did.

In the quiet beneath howling winds, Sherlock adjusts the fabric around his eyes and pulls something from his coat pocket.

A rectangular, metal lighter. Flip top.

Probably one of the worst things he can have on him right now, thermodynamically speaking, but he's kept it on his person, no matter the job or country for 19 months.

The inscription etched into one side simply reads John's initials, JHW. Given to him by his sister Harry, as one of those "technically useful but personally irrelevant enough to be offputting" sort of gifts. That's what John had told him years ago anyway, when he used it to help light one of Sherlock's very rarely enjoyed cigarettes as per Mycroft's "allowance".

Sherlock strokes a thumb across the inscription, now worn, and the perfect image of John's smile comes to his mind. He hasn't seen it in 19 months but remembers every single line. He traces the image in his mind and closes the lighter protectively into his palm.

Soon, he would be able to return home. Only a few more jobs, he tells himself. Then he can come home.

Sherlock carefully exhales into the fabrics surrounding his mouth and nose and puts the lighter away.

My conductor of light, he thinks, referring with pleasure to both the lighter itself and its original owner.

John waking up in cold sweat every night terrified with his dreams replaying the fall, of Sherlock disappearing. It's not just the Reichenbach fall now though that plagues him, lately it started to morph into Sherlock dying in every manner of death.

He's only ever able to calm down after going to Sherlock's door, putting his ear against the door focusing in on him softly breathing in his sleep because he still isn't sure if Sherlock coming back wasn't all just a dream. He could just open the door to see but the weight of witnessing a dead Sherlock in his nightmares to then opening the door to be met with Sherlock's empty room would be too much.

The morning he prepared two cups of tea instead of one.

The afternoon he came back from grocery shopping and realised he doesn’t have to place all the food so carefully not to touch the body parts in the fridge.

The night he could’ve slept through because no one was playing violin at 3 AM anymore but couldn’t get himself to even close his eyes as he feared that he might forget how Sherlock’s sharp gaze felt.

John could never truly understand how much he meant to Sherlock.

The night he thought all he could do with his brilliant brain was to vanish for years and endure not only physical but psychological pain of John’s absence.

The dawn he tried to tell John what his funny brain has come up with but didn’t find anyone by his side.

The morning he knew he could come back to London for the first time in years and the first thing popped up in his mind was to see John.

They both ridiculously underestimate their significance to the other.

John isn’t with Sherlock only because of the adrenaline he feels. He’s there also for the serotonin he feels listening to Wagner played by the delicate yet passionate fingers of the consulting detective.

Sherlock isn’t with John because of the sweet words he gives like “brilliant”. He’s there also for the scolding words like “Stop” that calm him down (occasionally).

Us over at Fawx & Stallion: