Disclaimer: Sherlock, along with its characters, location, etc. are the property of BBC and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I do not own them, though I definitely wouldn't mind being on a first name basis with Benedict Cumberbatch ;)

Summary: Sherlock returns to Baker Street after taking down Moriarty's network to find John sitting in his chair with a gun to his head. Sherlock talks John out of suicide and explains how important he is, especially to him. OOC John, since I don't think he would consider committing suicide. Sherlock's probably a bit OOC as well. Lots of angst. One-Shot. Mild language warning.

A/N: This is my first Sherlock fic, so bear with me. I've only ever written Harry Potter fics, so if this is trash I apologize. If you like it, please review and let me know!

…..

I Heard You

…

He'd had enough.

John Watson, the army doctor, best friend to the one and only consulting detective, boyfriend to the lovely Mary Morsten, had had enough.

He didn't want to live without Sherlock anymore.

Sure, he loved Mary, but she wasn't Sherlock. He wanted his best friend back.

Yet again, he had woken up at three in the morning from a nightmare, and again, it involved Sherlock's suicide. He couldn't take it anymore.

He quietly climbed out of bed, careful not to wake Mary, and made his way to the bathroom.

He looked in the mirror, noticing the bags under his eyes, and his frankly ridiculous moustache. He had grown it to try to distance himself from his life with Sherlock, but it wasn't working.

Now that he had decided to reunite with Sherlock, he no longer needed it. He slapped some shaving cream on his upper lip and shaved the damned thing off. Honestly, he didn't know why he had kept it for so long.

He quietly packed up his things around the flat, still being careful not to wake Mary. He didn't want to hurt her, but he couldn't be with her anymore. She deserved better.

He didn't have many things, just a few clothes, his phone charger, and his handgun. He put everything in a small backpack and slung it over his shoulder. He pulled out a pad of paper and wrote Mary a note.

Mary, I'm sorry, but we can't be together anymore. I'm broken, and you deserve so much better. I wish you all the best, you deserve it. Please don't think I didn't love you. I did, with all my heart. But I realize my life for the past two years was just a distraction from the thought of Sherlock, and I can't live with that anymore. I need to make a life in which I don't have to distract myself from the thought of my best friend. I'm so, so sorry. Love, John.

He quietly placed the note on his pillow and looked down at his beloved girlfriend, sleeping soundly. He brushed his hand over her hair and softly kissed her forehead, still making sure not to wake her.

He sighed and walked out of the flat and hailed a taxi, refusing to turn back.

"You're out early. Where to?" the cabby asked.

"Yes, well, much to do today. Baker Street please." John replied. He felt the cold of his handgun seeping through the cloth of the backpack, and knew right then what he was going to do.

…..

"What do you mean he's not at Baker Street anymore?" Sherlock asked Mycroft.

"He's moved on, brother mine." Mycroft replied, shuffling through some papers on his desk.

"I'll just met up with him later. I must get back to Baker Street. Goodbye Mycroft."

"Yes, yes, have fun."

Sherlock swept out of the office and onto the street. He wasn't far from Baker Street and he didn't feel like riding in a taxi, so he walked. He loved the feeling of the breeze through his hair. Oh, how he had missed London. He was so glad to be back. He couldn't wait to see John again, he had missed his best friend more than he thought he would. He was happy he would finally get to see him again.

He kept walking under the glow of the streetlamps, content with the day. He had no idea what he would be getting himself into.

…..

John quietly paid the cabby and made his way to the door. He hadn't been here in months, he probably owed Mrs. Hudson a visit. But she would no doubt be sleeping now, so he used his key to get inside and made his way upstairs without making any detours.

He silently opened the door to 221B and made his way into the dusty flat. Apparently, Mrs. Hudson still had not come in here to clean. She still desperately missed Sherlock.

John looked around at the room, noticing all the little things he had forgotten. The skull on the mantel. The smiley face on the wall, surrounded by bullet holes. Yes, this was the perfect place to do it. He sat in his chair and pulled out his handgun, twisting the silencer onto it so he wouldn't wake Mrs. Hudson.

He breathed in. He would finally get to see Sherlock again.

…..

Sherlock waltzed up to the door of 221B and unlocked it, not caring if he woke Mrs. Hudson. She would be glad to see him anyway. He walked up the stairs and made his way to the door of his flat, barely noticing in was ajar before he made his way inside. He quietly pushed it open and looked around.

What he saw nearly paralyzed him.

John was sitting in his chair, tears streaming down his face, with his handgun to his temple.

"John?!" Sherlock nearly yelled.

John turned, shaking his head when he sees Sherlock.

"No, you're dead. I haven't even done it yet, I can't be seeing you." John's hand shook as he tightened his grip on the gun.

"John, I'm not dead. I didn't die. I'm here. I'm alive." Sherlock rushed forward, careful not to get to close to John, in case he pulled the trigger if he got too close.

"I saw you jump off Bart's hospital. I saw your body." John voice cracked, and he redoubled his grip on the gun, his finger tight on the trigger.

"I had to do that. Moriarty was going to kill you, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson if I didn't jump. But I'm alive, John, I didn't die." Sherlock felt tears stinging his eyes. He held out his hand for John to touch.

John shook his head again. "You're dead." His finger tightened on the trigger. "I'm doing this to see you again."

Sherlock was moved. He didn't know he meant that much to John. It was taking all his willpower not to lunge forward and rip the gun from John's hand and hug him tightly.

"John, I'm right here. And I promise, I'm not going anywhere." Sherlock was trying desperately to sound reassuring, but he was inwardly pleading with John to understand.

"You've been dead for two years." John still had not let go of the gun.

"I had to fake my death so I could go and take down Moriarty's network. I couldn't tell you. I desperately wanted to, John. I wanted to tell you so you would know, so you wouldn't hurt. But I couldn't. I'm so, so sorry. But please, don't do this. I'm here, John. I don't want to lose you." Sherlock pleaded.

"I lost you for two fucking years, Sherlock!" John nearly yelled. "I asked you for one more miracle. I asked you not to be dead."

"I heard you."

John looked into Sherlock's eyes and he knew. He knew his best friend hadn't died. He knew he had desperately wanted to tell him where he had gone. And he knew that Sherlock couldn't handle seeing his best friend shoot himself in the head.

And honestly, he had Sherlock back. He didn't want to die anymore.

Jon shakily pulled the gun away from his temple and set it on the stand beside his chair. He buried his face in his hands and cried harder than he had in a long time.

Sherlock sighed in relief before slowly moving closer to John. He knelt in front of his chair and touched his knee.

"John?"

John continued to cry into his hands.

Sherlock reached up with his free hand and cupped the back of John's head, gently pulling him forward so his head was resting on his shoulder.

John continued to sob.

"John, I cannot explain how terribly sorry I am. I never wanted to hurt you. You're my best friend, I never wanted to leave you with the hurt I caused you. I'm so very sorry." Sherlock explained. He stood and pulled John to his feet. It was easier to hold someone when you were standing.

Once they were both standing, Sherlock enveloped John in a very tight hug. John's face was pressed into his chest, and he could feel his shirt getting wet. But he didn't care. Sherlock felt John's hands leave his face, and felt his arms wrap around him. He was still sobbing.

Sherlock rubbed circles on John back while he continued to explain.

"You have no idea how much you mean to me, John. I never had a best friend before I met you. You mean the world to me, honest. I don't know what I would do if I lost you. It probably would have taken me less than two years to contemplate suicide. I never should have done that to you."

John sniffed. "I missed you so much, Sherlock." He cried into Sherlock's chest. It was muffled, but Sherlock understood.

"I know. I'm so sorry. I missed you too, but at least I knew you were alive. I'm so, so sorry." Now that he no longer feared for John's life, Sherlock was openly crying. He was devastated that he had caused John so much pain. "I love you, you know that right?"

John could feel tears hitting his hair and he tightened his grip on Sherlock. Now that he was back, John was determined not to let him go.

"I love you too, Sherlock. I'm sorry you walked in on…that. I shouldn't have let your death get to me like that, but I just couldn't move on. I missed you so much." John's face was still buried in Sherlock's chest.

"It's okay." Sherlock whispered.

"It's not okay." John sobbed.

Sherlock thought for a second before responding, tightening his grip on John even more while he did so.

"No, but it is what it is."